a tiny little thing for @thelordofgifs! hope you enjoy beloved <3
Sky above Himring is cold, lightining cracking through its smoke-charred plane and its iron-heavy clouds. It is not—has never been—a place of comfort. It stands against the North and it bathes itself in blood and guts, and the wounded it houses are nursed back to battle to the sound of war-chants, the clashing of armour, howls of the dead.
Its lord shuts the window and draws the curtains and begs it for silence. He stacks wood in the fireplace and pleads to it to burn twice as warm. He sings to the stone-cold floor a song of his own making, deep and dark and guttural, and it grunts, groans beneath him, yields to his will. He orders his best healer to watch over the man he fears so much for.
Maglor cannot see it, of course. His body burning in heat and his mind aflame with nightmares, he cannot feel his brother's hands on his face; cannot hear his desperate pleas. But Himring stays strong around him, shielding him from the hungry northern wind; and Maedhros kneels by his side and sings broken songs in broken voice, and the sky howls, and cold eats into the marrow of their bones.
