The wind howled against the jagged spires of Himring, a relentless northern gale that rattled the heavy iron-bound shutters of the great council chamber. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of pine resin, cold stone, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel. Maedhros stood at the head of the massive oak table, his tall, scarred form illuminated by the flickering torchlight that cast long, dancing shadows against the tapestries of the House of Fëanor. His red hair was pulled back in a severe warrior’s braid, and his single hand was pressed firmly onto a map of Beleriand, his fingers tracing the mountain passes of the Ered Gorgoroth.

Around him, his six brothers were gathered in various states of focus. Maglor sat to his right, his fingers absentmindedly tapping a rhythmic, mournful beat against the wood. Caranthir was scowling at trade ledgers, while Curufin and Celegorm leaned against the far wall like restless predators. Near the hearth, the twins, Amrod and Amras, were sharpening their daggers in a synchronized, unsettling silence. Maedhros was deep in an explanation of Orc movements, his voice a low, commanding baritone that usually demanded absolute attention. However, a heavy, confused silence began to settle over his brothers—not because of his strategy, but because of a glaring, impossible anatomical anomaly. As Maedhros shifted his weight to point toward the March, the tight, dark leather of his breeches strained visibly. There was an enormous, heavy bulge gathered at his crotch, a silhouette so immense and pronounced that it seemed to defy the physical limits of the garment. It was significantly larger than anything his brothers had ever noted before, even in the shared baths of their youth.

Celegorm, whose eyes were trained to catch the slightest movement in the underbrush, was the first to truly go still. His gaze dropped to Maedhros’s lap and stayed there, his brow furrowing in genuine bewilderment. He nudged Curufin, whose usual mask of cold indifference flickered into clinical shock. Curufin adjusted his posture, squinting as if trying to determine if Maedhros was concealing a heavy piece of siege equipment beneath his clothes. The most jarring part was Maedhros himself. He wasn't breathing heavily; his heart rate was steady, his skin was pale, and his focus remained entirely on the tactical placement of archers. He was completely, utterly unaroused, treating the massive, distracting weight in his trousers as if it were a natural, unremarkable part of his anatomy. Maglor let out a soft, choked sound, his face turning a shade of pink that matched Maedhros’s hair. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to refocus, but the sheer, protruding scale of the sight made it impossible to ignore. Down by the fire, the twins had stopped sharpening their blades entirely, their mouths slightly agape.

"The fortifications must be doubled before the first snowfall," Maedhros continued, oblivious. He leaned further over the table, the enormous bulge shifting and pressing firmly against the leather, creating a visual tension that looked ready to snap the seams. "Why are you all staring at the floor? Celegorm, your report on the scouts." Celegorm opened his mouth, but only a dry, rattling sound came out. Maedhros stood up straight, his hand resting on his hip, the massive silhouette of his "endowment" jutting out with a terrifying, silent authority that was wholly at odds with his calm, professional demeanor. "You all look as though you've seen a ghost. If the cold of Himring is too much for you this morning, perhaps we should move the council to the kitchens."