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Annal of the Sun 455.
Maglor drifted half asleep, aware here and there that he lay propped up on pillows, that embers glowed orange in the hearth, that Maedhros paced. Once he woke to a sliver of light lancing through the cracked door, and to voices. Often he woke coughing. Then Maedhros crossed the room and sat down on a stool by the bed and waited. When the fit passed, he raised a cup of water sweetened with wine to Maglor’s mouth, and Maglor lifted his good arm and curled his fingers around Maedhros’s.
Eventually, he woke and thought to say, “The Gap.” Maedhros’s footsteps slowed. He said nothing, so Maglor knew it was lost. “My people,” he said dumbly, uselessly.
Maedhros drew close. “Some made it here with you. Some surely fled to Moryo.”
Some. Some. Maglor’s dazed mind conjured up torched farmsteads and the smell of burning flesh and wouldn’t give him the thoughts, the words, that he needed. His head ached, and his shoulder, and his mouth and throat. “But,” he said and didn’t know what came next.
“Russandol,” he said instead. Almost blindly he reached for Maedhros, and Maedhros leaned in until Maglor’s fingers found not him but his braid and hooked into it. If Maedhros spoke, Maglor didn’t hear.
He woke weeping. Again the door was cracked, and again the cool light of a crystal lamp streamed in, and hushed voices spoke of the Pass of Aglon and of Celegorm and Curufin. Maglor tried to stifle his tears, but Maedhros fell suddenly quiet. He said a few short words and slipped into the room, closing the door behind him.
Not sure whether he meant for the Gap or for weeping or for his pain and fear, Maglor said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” into the dark.
“Stars above, Cáno.” Maedhros halted at the end of the bed, a looming shadow. There’d been anger in his voice. Maglor went to wipe his face, but in his haste, he tried to raise the wrong hand, and pain like fire shot down his arm and left him gasping. His breath caught wrong in his throat. A fit of coughing seized him.
By the end of it, Maedhros stooped over him. No. Sat on the bed next to him. He smoothed Maglor’s hair away from his face.
“I’m sorry,” Maglor mumbled.
“Be quiet.”
“Tyelcormo. Curufinwë.”
Maedhros’s hand stilled. “You haven’t heard. They lost the Pass some days ago and fled west with their people. I’ve closed it, but there’s been no word from them.”
West lay ravaged Dorthonion and impenetrable Doriath and, in the narrow space between them, Nan Dungortheb. It was the worst news possible short of them being dead, and they might well be dead. So Maglor said, “Tyelcormo running off again. Bad as Ambarussar.”
Maedhros laughed, forced, and fell quiet. His hand remained a warm weight on Maglor’s head. The embers popped in the hearth. As Maglor drifted, Maedhros said, “I’m sorry. I’ve left the Pass for long enough. I’ll have to return soon.”
Maglor hummed, barely hearing. Maedhros sighed. His lips brushed against Maglor’s brow a moment before Maglor succumbed to sleep.
He woke and coughed and woke again, and eventually when he woke, a crystal lamp hung on the wall, throwing light over the room. At the fireplace stood Calaron, Maedhros’s chief healer, stoking the flames. Maglor stared at him for a while, then at the austere stone walls and at the yellow bedspread with its dozens of flowers in goldwork, exactly Fingon’s taste. He hadn’t realized before that he lay in Maedhros’s bedchamber.
“Maedhros?” he rasped.
“Gone to the Pass,” Calaron said, turning. “How do you feel, lord? Does your head trouble you?”
Maglor’s hand had risen to his brow without his noticing. He dropped it. The last time Maedhros had kissed him, he’d been laughing at some joke of Maglor’s, and he’d pulled Maglor in as if it were nothing and let him go just as easily. They’d been a day’s march west of Alqualondë.
Eight days passed before Maedhros rode through the gate of the fortress again. Maglor stood in the yard to meet him, squinting into the frigid wind as Maedhros handed his horse off to a servant and strode up to him. He looked Maglor up and down. “What news?”
Maglor gave Maedhros his own onceover. The curve of his cheeks betrayed how thin he’d become, and he held himself stiff as he always did when his back and shoulder were troubling him. A bruise bloomed purple across his jaw. Maglor jerked his head. “Inside,” he said and turned on his heel.
Inside, he blinked away lingering dizziness from the wind, and Maedhros tugged off his glove and cloak and said, “What news, Maglor?”
“Did my messenger reach you?”
“Yes.”
Maglor almost regretted it. The report of Caranthir and his people and a remnant of Maglor’s fleeing southwest across Gelion alive had been good news, and the only news he had. The delay felt nearly as damning as news of death, but still Maglor said, “I would’ve sent others, had I heard any more than that.”
Maedhros did not say Celegorm and Curufin’s names, nor Lalwen or Fingolfin’s, nor Fingon’s. Maglor read them in his face anyway. He thought of touching Maedhros and didn’t. To the servant who’d approached to help him with his outerwear, he said, “Send to the kitchens for wine and some of last night’s dinner. Have it brought to the Lord Maedhros’s private dining room.”
“Lord,” the servant said, tugging Maglor’s cloak from his shoulders.
Maedhros’s eyes dropped to Maglor’s left arm in its sling and darted up again, suddenly wary, as if Maglor might take offense. Some other time, Maglor would’ve laughed or said, “Relax. I’m not you.” As it was, he thought again of touching Maedhros, of reaching out and dragging him into a crushing embrace.
He almost did. The world was burning. Maedhros had kissed him.
But there was no need to burn it quicker. “What news from the Pass?” he said and began to walk, gesturing for Maedhros to fall in beside him.
Annal of the Sun 472.
Amras left in anger. Amrod left in—Maglor didn’t know.
He had always been the flightier of the twins, but he lingered in the tent after Amras stalked out and took Maedhros’s hand in both of his. Maedhros allowed him. “I understand,” Amrod said. “We’re not so different. Except I never had any hope, and you’ve only just lost it.”
“Pityo,” Maedhros said, the word bunched, more genuine emotion in it than in all the cruel words Amras had wrung out of him in the last half hour, than in all the words, cruel and kind and plain, Maglor had in the last month.
Amrod raised Maedhros’s hand to his mouth. Again Maedhros allowed him. Then Amrod turned and left the tent.
Maedhros slumped into his chair. In front of Maglor, he did not perform. With a souring stomach, Maglor told himself that Maedhros’s tolerance, his acceptance, of Amrod’s kindness had been a performance, too. “We don’t have much time. Get dressed,” he said sharply, because soon they would need to be seen saying goodbye to Amrod and Amras’s people as they left for a different land, and because he knew how his own kindness would be rewarded.
Annal of the Sun 5.
Findecáno lay on his side with his legs slung over Maitimo’s legs and his head tucked against Maitimo’s shoulder, his eyes shut. It was this, plus Maitimo’s gaze fixed on the ceiling, that allowed Macalaurë to pause in the doorway unseen. Findecáno was saying, “—for my sake.”
“For your sake?” Maitimo said.
“Yes. I mean it!” Findecáno stretched and settled again, sighing. His head turned a little so that he spoke into Maitimo’s undertunic when he said, “I’m nervous. Your people don’t know what to think of me, and I’m inevitably going to spend all night convincing them to think of me well. It would help if you were there.”
He was speaking of the small feast Macalaurë held every time the Moon parted from the Sun and grew full with the light of Telperion again, and of the singing and the dancing afterwards. For the first time, Maitimo was likely to be well enough to attend, but when Macalaurë had brought it up to him, he had hedged, saying, “Maybe. Maybe. It would be good for them to see me, wouldn’t it?” He’d laughed. “Except they might not like the work of carrying me in on a chair.”
Macalaurë had read embarrassment into that, and Findecáno had, too. They’d agreed that it would be best for Maitimo in the long run if he went. They had not agreed on this.
“Are you sure?” Maitimo said. “They might see me too thin and cradled in cushions, unable even to cut my own meat, and decide you’re to blame.”
Findecáno made a face. “You can learn to cut your own meat. I know of a woman who lost half an arm on the Ice and she—” He paused. “That’s not even what I meant. I meant it’ll steady me to be by your side, or if I’m drawn away, to look up and see you across the room. Because I like you and, dare I say it, I know you like me, too.”
“Ai, Astaldo,” Maitimo said, laughing a little, “daring indeed.” He plucked at Findecáno’s hair, and Findecáno raised his head, blinking, and they looked at each other with such fondness Macalaurë would’ve gagged if he hadn’t been so irritated.
He leaned inside. “Findecáno. A moment?”
First there was a mad scramble to pretend they hadn’t been cuddling with the door wide open while Macalaurë resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and then Findecáno made to leave the room with Macalaurë still inside. Macalaurë followed him, saying, “A moment with you,” and closed the door on Maitimo’s startled expression.
He turned on Findecáno. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What?” Findecáno said.
“Astaldo,” Macalaurë scoffed, “nervous about a party!”
“It’s true! The south side of this lake isn’t exactly the friendliest place for me.”
“Yes. It’s so unfriendly that you feel the need to whine to Russandol until he agrees to come just to babysit you.”
Findecáno’s mouth worked, for a moment rendered speechless. “It’ll be good for him,” he said quietly.
“I don’t care. He’s not well. You shouldn’t worry him over some nerves.”
“But if I told him I wanted him to go for his sake, he’d bite my head off. You know he can’t stand to feel like he’s being fussed over. I’m just giving him a way to do the fussing for a change.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Macalaurë breathed.
“All right! It’s not like I’m lying to him. I really will—”
The door opened. Maitimo stood behind the threshold, awkwardly holding the handle with his arm crossed over his body. “What are you—lie down,” Macalaurë snapped.
Findecáno breathed out, eyes on Maitimo.
“And to think,” Maitimo said to him, “I came to make sure my brother wasn’t mistreating you. Is now a good time to bite your head off? Since I wasn’t given the chance earlier.”
“Russand—”
“Out, Findecáno.”
Findecáno opened his mouth but seemed to think better of defending himself. With a glare at Macalaurë, he flounced out.
“Good riddance,” Macalaurë muttered. “Now will you lie down?”
Maitimo didn’t answer. He stared after Findecáno, his face flushed, more angry or more hurt than Macalaurë had realized. “Is there an emergency,” he said, flat.
“No,” Macalaurë said. “I was just—”
Maitimo closed the door in his face. Macalaurë started. He knocked and called, “Russandol,” but received no answer. There was nothing else to be done. Still he stayed there listening until the sheets rustled, in case Maitimo fell.
Annal of the Sun 472, cont.
Maedhros spent the meeting staring at a small yellow flower in the grass near his feet. Maglor sat beside him, speaking in his place, and they all pretended as they always did that it was Maedhros making the decisions and only Maglor communicating them. Until Curufin said, “What do you think of going west, Nelyo? You’ve been so awfully quiet.”
Celegorm, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, tilted his head towards Curufin. Caranthir straightened. Maedhros said, “Cáno has spoken well.”
“Cáno, of course. Your right hand,” Curufin said, rolling his wrist. “But what does the King think? Or has he gone so long without the crown he doesn’t know what to do with it except give it to someone else?” His lips pursed in apparent sympathy. “Were you thinking of Findecáno? You did so care for him. The crown must be a terrible reminder.”
Maedhros raised his head and smiled suddenly, sharp. “As I said. Cáno spoke well. I’ll be staying here with him.” He leaned back and put his feet out, crossed at the ankles, so that his heel crushed the yellow flower. “There is no point in going west, and likely death to be met along the way, but dear Curincë, your King gives you leave to go any time you wish.”
“Does he? How generous,” Curufin said, and he looked in turn at Celegorm and Caranthir. “Maybe we will.”
Later, in their tent, Maglor said, “I don’t see why he insists on bringing up Findecáno. He knows it isn’t him.” He darted a glance at Maedhros. “Or not just. It’s everything. In the face of it, of course you—”
“Varda, Canafinwë. Shut up,” Maedhros said, and he collapsed face first into his blankets.
An Annal of the Trees.
After a while, it was Maitimo instead of Nerdanel who called Macalaurë’s name, and from much closer than the house. Macalaurë dropped the worms in his hands and crouched in the dirt. Between the stems of the flowers, he saw only grass and empty sky, so he lay down very still and waited.
Maitimo found him a minute later. “Macalaurë Canafinwë,” he sang, crouching, and Macalaurë rolled onto his back and rubbed at his eyes as if Maitimo had woken him. “Ammë’s been calling for you to come in for the last quarter of an hour.”
“I didn’t hear,” Macalaurë said blearily, sitting up.
“You didn’t, huh? You should know better than to take naps so close to dinnertime. And in the garden, no less!”
Macalaurë huffed and gave a sharp, useless kick of his leg. He hated when Maitimo scolded him, even lightly. It wasn’t his brother’s job. Not when he saw Maitimo so rarely since Nerdanel had decided she wanted to live a while with Grandpa Mahtan in the country and Maitimo had decided he didn’t want to come with them. Especially not when Maitimo spent all his visits with Nerdanel on the plains hunting or with Fëanáro in the forge or with both of them chatting in a sitting room, where Macalaurë was welcomed if he wanted to talk about how well he was getting on with his music but ignored if he wanted to talk about his favorite worms.
“I couldn’t help it,” Macalaurë burst out. “I didn’t sleep at all Telperion’s last blooming.”
Maitimo frowned. “You’re still having trouble sleeping?”
Had Macalaurë used that excuse with Maitimo before? He had. It was an easy one, and one that always got him tucked in and sung a lullaby. It was not meant to make anyone look troubled, as Maitimo did now. Macalaurë felt himself flush. He didn’t want Maitimo looking at him like that, but he also didn’t want Maitimo scolding him for lying. “I’m not. It’s fine,” he said, standing, brushing dirt off his clothing.
Maitimo said nothing, but his frown grew deeper. He took Macalaurë’s hand, though it dirtied his own, and held it the whole walk back to the house. At least that was nice.
Fëanáro tucked Macalaurë in and sang him a lullaby. Macalaurë said that was not how his tutor sang it. Fëanáro said that meant his tutor was a fool who ought to be replaced, and Macalaurë was almost sure he was joking. Outside, Nerdanel and Maitimo’s voices rose and fell, making Macalaurë think of when she and Fëanáro argued, except Maitimo’s voice didn’t grow as loud.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” Maitimo whispered. Sleep addled Macalaurë’s mind too much to think, so he didn’t. When Maitimo lifted him and carried him away, he allowed the rhythm of Maitimo’s footsteps to lull him under.
The next he knew, he lay in the back of a carriage, the sky awash with Telperion’s light. He sat up, and Maitimo, sitting in the front driving, turned his head and smiled. “Sleep well?”
Macalaurë clambered onto the driver’s seat, pressing against Maitimo until he shifted to make more room for him. The countryside rolled by in unfamiliar hills. “You’ve stolen me.”
“I’ve borrowed you,” Maitimo said, “and I left a note so no one will think you have been stolen.”
“They’ll be angry.”
Maitimo nodded. “Let them.”
It was the kind of brave thing Macalaurë would never dare say. He kicked his feet, a little in awe. Maitimo asked about his music lessons, and Macalaurë kicked his feet harder and said they were good except his tutor didn’t like any of his songs about the lives and tales of worms.
Maitimo laughed and laughed at that. “Nelyo!” Macalaurë said.
“Don’t look like that. I’m not laughing at you.” Maitimo bumped their arms together. “I’m laughing at—oh, I can just imagine the look on his face! I remember that tutor. Stuffy old man.”
The look on the tutor’s face had been mild distaste. Macalaurë didn’t say that because Maitimo was grinning brilliantly at him and he felt warm down to the tips of his toes. For hours as Telperion waned, Maitimo listened to him talk about the worms and the bugs in Mahtan’s gardens and told him about Tirion and Grandpa Finwë and how Anairë was pregnant. Finwë had let it slip to Maitimo. Maitimo wasn’t to let it slip to anyone else.
“I’m someone else,” Macalaurë said, trying to imagine a little wrinkly baby of a half-cousin.
“Are you? Or will you keep your mouth shut?”
Macalaurë made a show of opening his mouth and closing it with his cheeks puffed out. Maitimo laughed.
At the hour of the mingling lights, they stopped to eat, and as Maitimo pulled out bread and cheese and honey, Macalaurë picked strawberries growing on the side of the road. They sat on a blanket spread out on the grass and placed everything between them. Macalaurë said, “You never told me where we’re going.”
“To Valmar. Estë is there right now, so we can ask her what’s going on with you.”
Macalaurë froze with half chewed bread in his mouth. He tried to swallow and couldn’t.
“Don’t be scared,” Maitimo said. “You remember Estë. She’s kinder than anyone.”
And she would know Macalaurë was lying with one look at him. He doubted she would be kinder than anyone after that.
If he told Maitimo now, Maitimo would be angry and he wouldn’t talk to Macalaurë the whole way home and probably not after that, too. Macalaurë forced himself to chew. When he thought he’d eaten enough to hide that eating suddenly hurt, he said, “I want a nap.” He would take a nap now and then sleep well for an entire half of Telperion’s next blooming, and the next, and he would convince Maitimo everything was fine and they should turn around and go home.
But he couldn’t sleep. As golden light washed across the hills, he lay in the back of the carriage thinking about Grandma Míriel. Maybe her fate would be Estë’s idea of a fitting punishment. Maybe Estë wouldn’t realize at all, and she’d put Macalaurë under a sleeping spell, but because he didn’t really need it, it would be too strong and he’d end up like Grandma Míriel anyway.
Macalaurë sat up. He stared at the countryside and pressed his tongue hard to the roof of his mouth. It didn’t work. He burst into tears.
“Macalaurë!” Maitimo exclaimed, stopping the carriage. He jumped into the back and his hands flailed and he asked what was wrong, and Macalaurë got out that he didn’t want to never wake up, and that Maitimo had better not take him to Estë because if he did she would curse him, because he had lied.
Maitimo left the carriage and paced around on the road while Macalaurë sat huddled, sniffling. When he came back, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me an hour ago?”
“I didn’t want you to be angry with me,” Macalaurë said. The tears started again, and desperately he added, “I like this. You never do anything with me anymore.”
“What?” Maitimo said. He laughed, strangled. His arms wrapped around Macalaurë and jostled him. “I didn’t know you wanted my attention so badly! You could’ve asked for it!”
Macalaurë’s face burned. He buried it in Maitimo’s tunic.
Maitimo sighed. “How about this? I promise I won’t be angry with you until we get home. And since I don’t want to go home because Ammë and Atto are going to be furious with me, we’ll go to Valmar anyway. There’s a—a choir of Maiar that performs every day. You’ll like that.”
Slowly, Macalaurë nodded, and Maitimo said, “Really, Cáno, just ask next time. I’m always yours if you ask."
Annal of the Sun 472, cont.
Maedhros had been missing for an hour when Maglor found him sitting with his feet in the river. He cried out. Maedhros leaped up and spun and caught Maglor when he fell into him, and Maglor allowed himself exactly one moment of clinging to Maedhros, of breathing in the scent of his linen tunic and his hair in desperate need of a wash and his skin.
“What’s wrong?” Maedhros said. “What—”
“You were not in the tent. You were not in camp. You hadn’t said you were going to leave.” The more Maglor spoke, the tighter his throat closed. “You are not allowed that! You cannot make me think you—” He choked.
Maedhros had gone still against him. He looked past Maglor to the camp on the hill, where by now torches were surely being lit for a search. Maglor lifted his trembling hands to Maedhros’s face and held it, turning it back towards him. Maedhros’s skin was warm against his palms. Strands of his hair tickled Maglor’s fingers.
The air was knocked out of Maglor. He stumbled, and the next he knew the sky spun above him. For a moment Maedhros stood there watching as Maglor gasped for breath that would not come, his arm still held out in front of him, his eyes aflame. “I am your lord. Not your doll to be cosseted.”
By the time Maglor struggled to his knees, it was too late. He was gone.
Annal of the Sun 473.
On Midsummer’s Day, Maedhros played the part of a King. If Maglor closed his eyes and listened only to the sound of Maedhros’s low, strong voice, he could again exist in that time before the Battle when Maedhros had been so steady with hope in the face of Maglor’s doubt that Maglor had been convinced to give himself over to faith in his brother. Then some word or little phrase leaked through, the fallen or driven south or mourn, and Maglor opened his eyes to the present, to a sprawling town of small wooden buildings and tents and the remnant of their people. Their eyes shone. Some wept. They still had faith.
They weren’t there to watch Maedhros fall into bed that night and every day after refuse to rise.
Maglor hauled a bucket of water for washing into his and Maedhros’s hut. Maedhros still lay in bed. Breakfast porridge, and next to it the chicken and mushroom soup Maglor had brought him for lunch, sat untouched on the table. Maglor stuck a finger in the soup. It was cold, or as cold as anything could get in the summer heat.
“Will you not at least eat?” he said, but Maedhros made no answer.
Maglor stood there trying, again, to bring himself to beg. Maybe he should say, in terrible unfair anger, The Union is dead and Findecáno is dead, but I’m alive, or maybe he should throw the porridge against the wall. That would make a scene. Maybe he should follow Maedhros’s example and collapse onto the floor and never move again.
He glanced at Maedhros, his mouth going dry. A moment passed, or two.
He didn’t think. He just let his knees buckle. When his shoulder hit the ground and pain splintered through the old wound, he didn’t flinch, nor did he flinch when his head followed.
Outside, a bird trilled.
“Cáno?” Maedhros said.
Maglor kept his breathing slow and even and gave no sign that he’d heard. Almost he hadn’t. His heart was pounding in his ears. “Cáno,” Maedhros said, much closer. The table scraped across the floor. He grabbed Maglor and pushed him onto his side, and Maglor shifted, opened his eyes.
At the sight of Maedhros’s face warped by tight-lipped fear, shame surged up his throat. He sat up, or tried to, but Maedhros pushed him down. “You’re safe. Lie still.”
“I wasn’t—” Maglor began and stopped.
Maedhros was out of bed, focused on Maglor as he hadn’t been in months, touching Maglor as he didn’t allow himself to be touched. It was what Maglor had wanted. To confess now would be to provoke terrible anger, to lose Maedhros’s firm hand gentling on his shoulder.
“You weren’t what?” Maedhros said.
“Russandol,” Maglor said and reached for him.
Maedhros reached back. He allowed Maglor to wrap arms around his neck, to bury his face in Maedhros’s shoulder. “You need to lie down,” he said, doing nothing to make it happen. Maglor trembled, which made Maedhros pull him in closer. “You’re all right,” Maedhros said, and again, “You’re all right. You’ve only fainted. It must be the heat. But you need to lie down.”
This time he made it happen. Maglor lay on his back where Maedhros had deposited him and craned his neck to watch as Maedhros crossed the room and picked up the bucket of washing water and a few linen rags. The water sloshed when he set the bucket down by Maglor’s head. It streamed out of the rag Maedhros dunked, and Maedhros squeezed it out into Maglor’s hair and wiped his face and neck with it.
Maglor lifted a hand to catch at Maedhros’s sleeve. Maedhros smiled, a small, tight twist of his lips.
After the healers left, Maedhros sat down on the bed next to Maglor. Maglor leaned into his side, and after a moment’s hesitation, Maedhros settled against the headboard and wrapped an arm around Maglor’s back. The shutters were closed so that the afternoon sun came in as strips of golden light, leaving the room dim and Maglor drowsy. “How are you feeling?” Maedhros asked.
“Tired,” Maglor said, the truth.
“You’ve been overworking yourself.”
Maglor thought for a while. He said, as a test, “I’ve been doing the work of two people.”
Maedhros’s grip on Maglor tightened, the opposite of the retreat Maglor had half expected. Maglor leaned more of his weight into Maedhros to tell him he wasn’t angry, to ask him not to leave. Maedhros said, “I’ve been a poor brother this last year.”
“Yes,” Maglor said.
“You’ve been picking up the slack so well I didn’t think— And now you’ve gone and worked yourself to collapse!” Maedhros let out a sharp, bitter laugh.
It was a terrible power Maglor wielded. He closed his eyes and turned into Maedhros, resting his head on Maedhros’s chest. His hands found their place in the fabric of Maedhros’s tunic, and he clung, and Maedhros allowed him. “I need you, Nelyo,” he whispered.
Maedhros said nothing, but his stump came to rest over Maglor’s hands. It was apology enough.
Later, when Maglor woke, Maedhros sat at the table with a leg drawn up and clutched close to his stomach, staring blankly at the wall. His shoulders were trembling. Maglor watched him for a long time, then tucked his nose under the covers.
Maedhros stood. He came over to the bed to crouch beside it. “Macalaurë.”
“I’m awake.” Maglor reached for Maedhros’s hand. Maedhros gave it to him, and Maglor ran his fingers over Maedhros’s wrist, feeling every too sharp bone.
“I’m going to get dinner from the cooks. Any requests?”
“Get enough for yourself.” Maglor swallowed. “Please.”
A moment passed. Maedhros untangled his hand from Maglor’s and cupped his face. “For you,” he said, and kissed Maglor on his hair and on his brow and on his cheek. His lips were warm, but his eyes were dark and cold.