Maedhros stands uncertainly. For a moment, for too many moments; he has always been the sword of the Feanorian power, grave in manner and bearing, aware of his duties and little else. Maglor has worn the emotions for both of them, strung like pearls across his gentle brow.

Finally, Maedhros breathes out through his nose; his shoulders drop as he slides his arms over his brother's narrow back, clasping him near.

He cannot make promises that may not hold. "All will be well," he murmurs, as kindly as he is able.