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One by one, Maglor watches them fall.
Celegorm pitches forward with Dior's sword in his back; Curufin is cut down by a silver-haired marchwarden whose name Maglor will never know. He cannot reach either of them before the light fades from their eyes.
Caranthir makes nothing more than a soft, choked sound when a blade plunges between his ribs. One of Maglor's swords flashes across the attacker's neck before he casts both aside, letting them clatter to the stone. Maglor lunges for Caranthir as he collapses; he lands hard on his back with Maglor's hand behind his head, his eyes wide. Lungs burning with rage and grief, Maglor presses down on the wound, staunching the blood that spills and spreads with every beat of Caranthir's heart. He can feel it weaken under his palm—can see Caranthir's mouth move, and—
—Maglor wakes. For an instant, the world tilts and swims; his breath comes in harsh gasps as he struggles to sit up, his body shaking hard enough that his teeth chatter. Bile burns the back of his throat and he swallows hard, hand over his mouth.
Beside him, Curufin sighs as he shifts in his sleep; Maglor finds no reassurance in the steady rise and fall of his chest, and scrubs his hands over his face. He turns away from Curufin just in time to see Caranthir's eyes slowly blink open.
"Maglor?" Caranthir says. "Are you all right?"
Maglor looks at his palms—clean, without a trace of blood. "Fine," he says, his voice thin and unsteady, the taste of bitter copper sharp on his tongue again—just as it has been every time he's woken tonight, in the starless dark. His shivering does not cease, and a soft, wordless sound slips out before he can stop it.
Caranthir pushes himself up. "What's wrong?" he says. "Are you sick?"
Maglor answers with a slight shake of his head. "Just—" His voice catches. "Just a dream," he says, though he's never before had nightmares so vivid in their violence, nor ones that left him—over and over—dizzy with a pervasive sense of dread. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to forget the look of blood-splattered stone, of the feel of Caranthir's breath faltering beneath his hand.
Caranthir neither alarms easily nor wastes concern, yet he reaches out to rest a hand on Maglor's shoulder. "A dream," he repeats, though it's not agreement so much as doubtful acknowledgement.
A cold, heavy sense of inevitable grief settles over Maglor like a blanket—or a shroud. "This won't end well," he says absently, and only then realises he's spoken at all.
Caranthir looks at him intently. "What makes you say that?" he asks.
Maglor has no answer. Dreams are not prophecy, and foresight has never been his gift. He folds his hands together in his lap with a deep, careful exhale, and tries to focus on Caranthir's steady calm. Pragmatic, logistics-minded Caranthir has never been careless with hope—any misgivings would have been voiced long before now. Even with this certainty, the foreboding lingers, and not even Caranthir's presence at Maglor's side can ease it. "I don't know," Maglor says eventually.
Caranthir withdraws his hand. "Lie down," he says. "Try to sleep. We need you clear-headed."
Maglor nods; he does as he's told, though his eyes remain open. He listens, in silence, to Caranthir's breathing as it gradually deepens—and only when Maglor is certain that he sleeps does he reach out and lay his fingers against the pulse at Caranthir's wrist.
It beats, strong and rhythmic, beneath his touch.