The steam in the bath house of Himring was so thick it possessed a physical weight, clinging to the cold stone walls like a silver shroud. The scent of cedar oils and the sharp, mineral tang of mountain spring water filled the air, providing a rare, humid reprieve from the biting winds of the March.

The sons of Fëanor were gathered in the central pool, the flickering torchlight dancing across wet skin and the various scars that marked them as lords of a frontier at war. Following the unashamed, fluid customs of the Teleri, they sat in communal silence—or at least, they tried to. Celegorm lounged against the smooth marble ledge, his silver hair floating like gossamer on the surface of the water, a wolfish, irreverent grin playing on his lips. Having already spent the last ten minutes critiquing the form of his brothers, the heat of the water loosened his tongue toward more competitive territory. "By the Valar, Caranthir," Celegorm chuckled, his voice echoing off the damp tiles. "You spend so much time brooding over ledgers that I think you’ve forgotten how to stand tall. Is the cold of the North shrinking the iron in your blood, or is it just the lineage of the South showing its limits?"

Caranthir let out a sharp, indignant splash, his face darkening with a flush that had nothing to do with the temperature. Curufin remained stoic, though he pointedly looked away as Celegorm’s golden, mocking gaze drifted toward his own son. Celebrimbor sat at the far end of the pool, scrubbing the soot of the forge from his forearms. Even in repose, his physique was a jarring revelation. While Curufin was lean and wiry—built like a coiled spring—his son was a masterpiece of rugged, broad-shouldered power. "Look at our nephew," Celegorm said, his voice dropping into a tone of mock-offense as he gestured toward Celebrimbor. "Curufin, you’ve spent centuries bragging about your 'perfect' proportions, yet the boy has surpassed the master. He’s wider across the chest and significantly thicker through the thigh than you’ve ever been. Honestly, Tyelpë, you’re making your father look like a half-finished sketch."

Curufin’s jaw tightened, his silver-grey eyes flicking toward his son with a mix of pride and clinical annoyance. Celebrimbor simply shrugged, the water cascading over a frame that was undeniably denser and more imposing than most of his uncles. He possessed a heavy, grounded sturdiness that made the others seem almost reed-like in comparison. Yet, at the center of the pool, Maedhros remained oddly, terrifyingly quiet. He sat with his back against a fluted pillar, his long, copper hair soaked and clinging to the massive, scarred expanse of his shoulders. He didn't participate in the banter. He was a statue of bronze and pale skin, the steam curling around a frame that silenced even Celegorm’s bravado. Even in his day-to-day formal attire—the heavy silks and leather pauldrons—Maedhros moved with a daunting presence.

But here, stripped of his crown, the truth was undeniable. Even with Celebrimbor’s impressive bulk, Maedhros was the undisputed mountain of the house. The sheer scale of his limbs and the heavy architecture of his body made it clear why he was the firstborn. One did not mock the sun for being bright, and one did not measure oneself against the eldest. Maedhros finally opened one eye, the grey depths as cool as a winter lake. He didn't say a word, but the mere shift of his weight sent a ripple across the pool that reached every one of them. "If you are finished measuring the world by your own small yardstick, Turkafinwë," Maedhros said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that vibrated through the stone floor, "the scouts from the Pass are waiting. And they, at least, have something of substance to report." He rose from the water then, a towering, magnificent figure of Noldorin might that dwarfed the room. As he stepped out, the steam parting for him like a subservient ghost, the brothers watched in a humbled, quiet awe.