“You got roughed up but good!” Finrod grinned, but his voice was sympathetic to his cousin as he pulled a chair up to the bedside. One of Fingon’s legs was elevated, a device that looked like a wire cage encasing it to restrict movement, though the swelling was pushing his skin against the slots, making a checkerboard pattern appear.

Fingon opened his eyes, far from sleep, though trying to rest. “Just a scratch, cousin.” One was mostly swollen closed, something that Finrod had been warned about by his sister, who had made it by when Fingon was originally injured. It was a fall, not so uncommon for a gymnast, but the coach who was supposed to spot him was distracted. Fingon remembered little, having hit his face on the edge of the pommel horse, passing out immediately. His nose was broken, as were a few fingers, and his leg and ankle were twisted. No one was allowed to say the word ‘if’ about any of it; Fingon himself had defiantly told the healers ‘when’ he competed again, ‘when’ he walked again, when he was conscious enough to understand what had happened.

Finrod set a small basket of fresh fruit he had brought from the market onto the tray and poked at a muffin with large chunks of indistinguishable nuts in it. “What sort of slop is passing for food in this place?” he joked.

“Not bad,” answered Fingon, sounding sleepy from the herbs he had been given to kill the pain. “Actually nice. The bed is on wheels so they take me outside in the afternoon by the little spring in the back. Turgon managed to sneak one of my cats in, too.” He reached over to pet the lazy orange tomcat who was snuggled up next to him.

Finrod checked over the tray of food that had been left for Fingon, and picked at the wafer of coimas. It crumpled a bit, too dry to be fresh. “Are you sure?”

“Your sister left that,” he mumbled, closing his eyes again. “Last week, when everyone was here.”

Finrod nodded, drumming his fingers on his leg. Usually quite the conversationalist, he found himself lacking in dialogue. For several more minutes, he sat in silence until finally he suspected that Fingon had fallen asleep again. He collected up his satchel from the floor and stood to leave.

“Thank you for coming, cousin. No one else arrived after the first night. It is nice to know I am not forgotten.”

Finrod paused. “Not Maedhros? Surely your parents and siblings—“

“None. No family, no cousins, no teammates, not even a coach.” He opened his eyes, sighing miserably. “I suspect I shall be traded at the end of the season anyway.”

Finrod came back to the bedside, setting down his satchel.

“Oh, go, Finrod. Amarie—“

“—will wait up for me.” Finrod looked around, spying a game board across the room on a shelf. “Fancy a game of backgammon this evening, dear cousin?”