Nasyalossë by Lovimmy3365  

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Sky to Sea

Maedhros came to his brother's door. He automatically brought up his hand to knock, but hesitated. The fire crackled in the sconces for a moment, coloring the air with their dull orange hue. He listened past the fire, trying to hear if Maglor was awake. Nothing. He held his breath and entered the room, wincing as the door creaked. Maglor lay open-eyed in his bed.

Maedhros cleared his throat. "I brought lunch."

There was silence for a long moment.

"It's just some stew and bread, but—"

"I am not hungry," Maglor said.

Maedhros came to his brother's door. He automatically brought up his hand to knock, but hesitated. The fire crackled in the sconces for a moment, coloring the air with their dull orange hue. He listened past the fire, trying to hear if Maglor was awake. Nothing. He held his breath and entered the room, wincing as the door creaked. Maglor lay open-eyed in his bed.

Maedhros cleared his throat. "I brought lunch."

There was silence for a long moment.

"It's just some stew and bread, but—"

"I am not hungry," Maglor said.

Maedhros walked over and sat on the edge of the bed with the tray. Maglor shifted away from him, laying on his side. Maedhros sighed sharply. "Perhaps I shall eat it all myself then."

"I welcome you to it."

"Maglor."

Something in his tone made Maglor stop. He sat up, hiding his face behind his hair the way he did as a child. He did not look at Maedhros, but tilted his head towards him. His hair was lank and dull, tangled from how long Maglor had been abed. He was frozen, fragile like the skeleton of a bird. Maedhros did not know what to do. He offered the bowl to Maglor again.

"Maedhros," Maglor whispered. "I am not hungry. Please don't—"

"You need to eat. You help nobody by languishing here."

Maglor's hands curled into fists in his lap. "I am not hungry!" he cried. "You cannot make me eat, and you cannot move me with your words. Use them on Thingol or Fingon and see if they listen to your diplomacy. Otherwise I have no need of your parenting, atarinkë!i"

"Will you—" Madhros cut himself off, exhaling and calming his temper. Being the eldest of seven had taught him much of patience, but he could only break himself against the rock of Maglor's obstinance for so long. It had been like this for weeks. Maglor had fought in the Dagor Bragollach at his gap, holding the line with his horsemen until Glaurung decimated his forces. All that Winter and into the Spring he had fought. The Summer brought little relief: Maglor spent that time recovering slowly from his wounds and gathering scattered survivors from among the dead, picking through corpses like a carrion-bird and then like the thieves who came to pilfer the pockets of the fallen. By the time he had come to Himring, Maglor was half-mad with rage and grief, oscillating between the two with little warning. Fear curdled in Maedhros' gut at that: Fëanor had been much the same in the throes of his paranoia.

But Maglor was not Fëanor, even if they were father and son. The latest development was this stillness. Maglor's anger had subsided, and his grief had won. He remained sequestered in his rooms, uncaring for visitors or friends. Uncaring for brothers, too, but Maedhros had never let that stop him.

Maglor sat in his stony silence. Maedhros bowed his head. "Maglor. Makalaurë," he said. He did not ask what he wanted to, why he was acting this way. That they had an Oath to fulfill, scraping against their skin. Why his own presence was not enough for Maglor to recover. Instead he asked, "What is it you need?"

For a long time, Maedhros sat. He did not think Maglor would answer, and was just about to leave when he spoke. "I do not know what our purpose is here, Maedhros. The Oath? It is nothing in the face of the despair already set upon Beleriand. Do you really have hope to survive this? That we will fulfill it and return triumphant to Aman with our father's works in our hands? The Valar do not want us there, if they even want us at all."

Despite all they had gone through in support of their father, Maedhros still felt a dangerous sting every time one of his brothers spoke against the Valar. "Whose sons are we, Maglor? Fëanor would not—"

"Fëanor is dead, and so we are sons of a corpse soon to be corpses ourselves," Maglor said cuttingly. His name, gold-cleaver, was not for nothing, His voice and words could cleave the heart in many ways, turned to cruelty just as easily as kindness. Though Maglor held a deep well of compassion, his sharpness was renowned as much as his skill. "Why do you persist in this farce? We cannot gain a Silmaril from Morgoth: you have fought against him yourself and you know of his power. He has just destroyed our forces, driving our brothers to an unknown end and forcing them to hide in the wilderness like animals." Maglor bared his teeth. "Do you even know where Amras is?"

Maedhros swallowed. He did not give rise to this fight. Maglor would rather fight to fuel his despair than listen to any argument in the heat of strife. It was how he got so much of a rise out of Celegorm when they were together; Maglor striking mercilessly and driving Celegorm to his own easily-roused rage. It would just as often raise Maglor's spirits to argue over something trivial. Celegorm and he had spent many hours bickering lightly over the color of the leaves or any scattered topics throughout their years Celegorm was not here, however. He was riding out by Minas Tirith, or else entombed already.

Again, many things lay at the tip of Maedhros' tongue. Why did he persist in this? It was not out of love for his father, for the elf he knew as father died when Finwë had in Formenos. The loyalty he kept now was for his brothers and his people, who did not have need of a Silmaril but food and shelter. The Oath burned behind his heart, driving him to look to Angband and hack at Morgoth's fortress endlessly. These were all reasons, of course. Maedhros had enough of reason. Finally he settled. "Maglor, we have no choice."

Maglor threw himself to his feet, casting the sheets into Maedhros' face. He laughed, his hair caught in his mouth. "Of course. Of course we have no choice!" His laughter turned angry, mocking, and dissolved into choking sobs. "We have no choice." Before Maedhros could comfort him, he continued. "Perhaps if Father didn't spend the last years of his life rushing to burn himself, we wouldn't have had to follow. But that is not our fate. I do not wish for anything because the Oath will not allow it. We shall cast ourselves as weapons upon Morgoth's black hide until we shatter, and he shall use our pieces to build his iron crown. I am sick of this Oath. What care I for Silmarilli when they have lead to this destruction? What more shall we do now that Morgoth has opened the gates to his crown and ended his long seclusion at last?"

Maedhros' mouth was dry. "I know, Maglor. I know. I want them not either. But we must. We have started this quest and continued to fulfill it. We must end it."

"At what cost?"

"We must do what we must do. And when we do not survive, we must at least make the effort that the peoples of our house do not perish as well, for even a small part of Morgoth killed is a part that can no longer taint Arda." Maedhros leveled a look at Maglor, who came around the bed and sat beside him. "Now eat."

Maglor ate, the fire gone from him. He looked wilted in the firelight. They sat in silence for a moment. Maedhros did not want to force Maglor to do more than he was ready, but Maedhros could not bear to leave him alone, not after his outburst. His mind turned like a river flowing through a glade, winding and turning from conversation subjects. Talk of craft would make Maglor mourn his harp anew. Talk of family was dangerous in more ways than one. Maglor had ever held little interest in the logistics of running the keep...

"My search for survivors around Himring has borne fruit," Maedhros said.

Maglor stopped abruptly, the stew splashing out of his spoon and onto his sleepclothes. He grimaced in disgust. Some things never changed. "Really?" Maglor asked, incredulous. Less and less people were buying Maedhros' excuse to go riding. "Did you know them?"

"No, he was not of our people. A warrior called Erestor, though I cannot place the root of his name." Tor could derive from the Sindarin tar, meaning king, but eres he could not place. He had as much interest in language as a son of Fëanor could, but it was not his calling. "He was grievously wounded—burned by the whip of the balrog, if you can believe it. He is alive, resting in one of our healing halls."

"Does he come from Orodreth's forces, fled from Minas Tirith?"

"I do not know. He mentioned fighting the Enemy, though he gave no hint as to with whom."

"Hm," Maglor hummed thoughtfully, resting his spoon on his lower lip and looking towards the ceiling. "I know no one from my riders by that name. Did he give any others?"

"No."

Maglor shook his head, dispelling some errant thought. "Do you think he will survive his injuries?"

<p">"He has been here a few days, and has not woken up. He was thoroughly thrashed, and burned besides. Our healers say he has some chance of recovery, but they cannot force a fëa to stay in an unwilling hröa. Despite this..." Maedhros remembered a flash of bloodied teeth, those burning dark eyes. "I think he will survive. He shall never hold a sword again, but he shall be alive."

Maglor looked at his own hands and his mouth twisted in sympathy. "I cannot imagine losing my hands." A shock seemed to run through him. "But shall he not fade from that alone?"

"I do not know, Maglor, we only spoke briefly ere he swooned. I shall see him when he wakes and speak with him then."

When the time came, nearly two whole days after Maedhros had finally gotten Maglor to stir, his courage fled him. Maedhros brought a portion of food, intercepting it from a cook's assistant (who looked disappointed to go back to the kitchen). Erestor himself lay in bed, seemingly unbothered by his presence and even showing some of his skill with silken words from their first meeting. It was that, though: seeming. Even the normally shy Tinwerúmë had sensed it, smiling gently and assuring Erestor of his place. Erestor felt only half-there, distant in some way he could not place. His eyes kept drifting to his hands, the polar opposite of their first meeting when he could not look at them at all. He seemed to know how horribly he was injured, and yet could not accept it. Maedhros looked at the own stump of his hand in the hall just outside. Had he accepted his own maiming so easily? Fingon had done it, though Morgoth had made the circumstance. In this, the Oath helped him to overcome: nothing mattered to it, only that it be fulfilled. He did not have the time to grieve his own wound and so he had no comfort for Erestor. All Maedhros could offer were the walls of Himring.

Maedhros straightened and returned to Maglor's chambers, only to find the door already opened. He had left a note on the table by his bed, which was made neatly after weeks of constant use. The note read, "I have requested a bath be drawn. Please tell me you have told no one of my recent avoidance of them!"

Maedhros smiled, a crack in his stone face. There he was. Fussy as ever.

 

Erestor's days in wakefulness were as boring as any other time he had spent healing. After Tinwerúmë and he had spoken, he was left to rest in his bed. He was given a schedule of when to expect meals and given more information on his recovery. Tinwerúmë was optimistic that he may be able to grasp things with his fingers, but unfortunately not go far enough to make a fist. Of course, that was far in the future once the acute wounds had healed. He would have to apply a salve daily to prevent the skin from drying. Or, someone else would. He had not the dexterity to do it himself. Tinwerúmë changed his bandages and gave him new ones dipped in heady-smelling poultice, then left him to sleep. He ate, spoke, and slept. Otherwise he was bored out of his mind. Tinwerúmë, kind though they were, could not attend to him for all the daylight hours. They mentioned a Master Brógano often, who seemed to be the senior healer, and much of the goings on of the keep.

It seemed High Hing Fingolfin had died not so long ago, and so his son Fingon was aiming to take up his throne. The coronation could not be left too long. It must be arranged soon or the seat of power would be shaken—a throne left vacant was merely a chair. That was aside from the Doom of the Noldor, though, which Erestor would not remind anyone of. They knew of their fate already, and it would do no good to remind them. Frustration and sorrow were the Enemy's greatest tools. Erestor had always thought that if jealousy and hatred could have been destroyed, Beleriand would never have sunk. So many sent out senselessly to die—Fingolfin was the perfect example, charging out alone just as his brother Fëanor had years before. Fingon, too died separated from his host. Each isolated realm was brought to its knees one at a time. Picked off.

It was why Elrond had gone out of his way to foster such connections in Imladris. Lothlórien and Taur e-Ndaedelosii were their eternal allies, as were some of the Dwarvish clans and Mannish kingdoms. The remnants of the Dúnedain had Elrond ever counted as family. Though the Hobbitfolk were no great warriors, they had conceded to feed the armies that protected them. This was not to say they were helpless—indeed, none could outlast them in spirit. They endured where an Elda would fade, though they did with twice as many complaints. Erestor wondered if the Hobbits had awoken at the first rising of the sun as Men did. Every one certainly had a different story for their origins. Perhaps he could collect them in this earlier time and try to come to a consensus. But no, he could not write if he tried. Perhaps someone would concede to write for him.

All of this planning and he still had no sign of their existence! Ai, how Erestor longed to be abed in Imladris, where at least old Bilbo would read from his book to the warriors in the healing halls. This long stretch of rest was torturous—and he would know!

His musings were interrupted at last by a figure he had only ever seen distantly. Once he sat atop his fierce black steed, battle harp raised in defiance. Then as a father, doting on two young Eldar. Finally, as a pale thing half made of mist, watching over the depths of the black seas and singing with it's hushing waves. Maglor Fëanorion. His skin was pale with sickness, though his hair was dark with water and he was strung up in dozens of decorations. He dressed in deep Fëanorion red and several shades of blue in what would be casual finery if not for how clearly worn it was. The garments were still fine, of course, but they were mended and some parts made more recently than others. Blue was an easy enough color to create in any case. Erestor had listened to plenty of dyer guilds who wished for more field space to be devoted to wode or indigo. Maglor's robes were clearly wode.

Maglor stopped at the door, peered in, and strode over to Erestor's bedside. With a few days of rest and food behind him, Erestor needed no assistance to sit upright. "Good day, my Lord."

Maglor shook his head. "I am no lord, simply greet me as Maglor. You are Erestor?"

"Yes, my—" Erestor pursed his lips. "Yes, Maglor."

"Is that Sindarin or Quenya?" Maglor asked. Of course that was what he asked.

"It passes as both, as it must in these lands. Thingol lay claim over them, and he tolerates not but his own tongue," Erestor began. Maglor looked keen to interrupt, but Erestor finished his answer before Maglor could ask the question. "From reste, with the beginning letter I have ever had, and a common ending of these languages."

Maglor shut his mouth, then thought for a moment. "I see. Then the ending of your name has no meaning?"

"It is only an ending. I am afraid I did not know what it meant when I chose it."

"Then what have you been called before?"

"Mostly Quenya names, ere your people offended Thingol," Erestor remarked lightly. He held no resentment, but found it amusing to have the fearsome Kinslayers squirming under his sharp tone. Maedhros was certainly amused by it. "In my days of wandering I went by Enílëkaro, then Ehaþar when the Secondborn found the one more difficult to pronounce."

"Similar to Erestor in root if not construct."

"On the contrary, they seem most similar, excepting the change of the root. the -ar on Ehaþar comes from kar, common to both names and mutated in Sindarin. Though as I have said, Erestor itself passes as both.iii"

Maglor nodded. "Are you not Noldor, then?"

Erestor shook his head. "No, I am not."

"Sindar, then?"

"No."

"But you have mentioned your wandering years—and you have implied you had a name before then. Are you Silvan? But no, you have not spoken of Thingol in any joy. What company of the elves have you come from?"

"Ah," Erestor said, smiling. "Now that is a secret. But you did not come to speak of names, did you?"

Indeed, now that Maglor was closer, Erestor could see the mark of shadow in him. His eyes, lit by treelight, were made brighter by the dark despair that surrounded them. He looked haggard and hungry, and his skin and hair were dull. It was past a year since that fateful battle, the Bragollach, had broken the Gap, and yet he looked as if it had been a mere week ago. Did the news of Fingolfin's death truly strike him that deeply? It was said that Fëanor and Fingolfin's resentment had not been enough to tear cousin apart from cousin before Melkor had been released. Perhaps Maglor still held affection for his estranged uncle. It was also said that Maglor could be the cruelest of his brothers, singing limbs out of shape that would never heal right, endless in his pursuit of the Oath. Erestor had seen the bodies himself. Erestor had also seen Maglor on the shore, a specter. Elrond had never stopped trying to get his father to return to Imladris with him.

There was nothing for it. Erestor would have to take Maglor as he presented himself. Which right now, was poorly. If Elrond did not judge a sick man, Erestor should not either. Besides, if ever Erestor got angry at what some elf-lord said, he could imagine what Bilbo would say to cut them to bits.

"I must confess I came here with no true...motive," Maglor said. "Only, I have been—You are new, and come fresh from battle, and so I thought..."

Something in Erestor softened. "You do not know," he said gently.

"Aye," Maglor said. A long exhaustion seemed to pull at him, and the light grew darker in his eyes. "I apologize for intruding, I do not know what I was thinking, it is just—"

"I thank you for your company. I can only assume you have come to entertain me, an honor I am glad to receive from you given your busy schedule," Erestor interrupted. "I have heard of every stone in the fortress twice over from Tinwerúmë. Tell me of some adventure or song, I beg of you. One can only sleep and sup so often before he goes mad from repetition."

"A song..." Maglor mused. "Not today, for I have found little cause to sing in cold Himring. Perhaps a tale, then of my youth in Aman. Will that serve?"

Maglor told a tale of him and Maedhros alone, before Celegorm had been born. Maedhros was by far the eldest of any of them, but Maglor was a close second, born some years after Fingolfin.iv Those were still the years that Fëanor and Nerdanel spent wandering Aman, keeping a child with them each on horseback (though Maglor remembered more than one tantrum on Maedhros' part because he wanted his own). Fëanor and Nerdanel would set up camp and leave Maedhros and Maglor to wander among the grasses and trees. This particular time, Maedhros was keen on finally getting his own steed, and roped Maglor into finding some poor forest creature he could ride. They had indeed found one—for the animals of Aman did not fear Elves the way they did in Beleriand—but it was a small hedgehog. The thought of riding the hedgehog drove Maedhros to sympathetic tears, and by the time they had been found by their parents, Maedhros had vowed to never ride a horse again, as he believed it was too cruel to them. Nerdanel had to show Maedhros how much their horses truly enjoyed riding and being partners to them before they could move. Maglor spent that time clutching his father's hand, thumb in mouth, as Fëanor fought to look serious and empathetic while his heart sung with joy at his son's ridiculous kindness.

"Between you and I, 'Laurë," Fëanor whispered as he watched Nerdanel lavish the horse with brushes, pets, and braids, "I wish I was that horse."

Erestor snorted, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "Did he truly say that to you?"

Maglor grinned, a piece of happiness blooming like a shaft of sunlight on a sea of sorrow freshly drained. It ached to be happy, even in a small and content way, for the ground was laid with roots of darkness, but it was worth it. "Aye, he did, though I did not realize how lovestruck of a fool he was until much older. At the time I must confess I pictured him trotting on all fours with Ammë sitting on his back. He would have been crushed. It is Ammë from whom Maedhros gets his height and breadth. We have called him atarinkë, but he is more of an amilinkë in truth."

Erestor shook his head, still laughing. He brought up a hand to cover his mouth, but stopped and winced at the pain. He settled for looking away to hide his grin. Maglor felt a strange unease come over him. How many would be doomed by the Enemy? How many in Beleriand had been destroyed by him already? He swallowed. They were all to die, eventually. No Noldo could return to Aman without violence interceding.

"Do they pain you?" Maglor asked, and immediately wanted to slap himself.

"In truth I can scarcely feel them. Though pain shoots from them from time to time," Erestor murmured, quieter than Maglor had heard him before. "They do not even bear their own weight. It is strange."

Hoping to bring memories of a happier time, Maglor turned to a different question. "What did you do before you came to us?"

Erestor's eyes shone, but he smiled in that small way of his. "I was the steward of a rather homely house."

Intrigued, Maglor leaned forward in eagerness to ask—

<p">The light of the fire glinted against one of his jewels like Glaurung's fire—he froze and closed his eyes, any curiosity or momentary joy crumbling like a desiccated leaf. As ever, his mind turned to the destruction of the Gap, his horse buckling and dying beneath him to the cold blade of an orc. He could not summon tears to cry, for they had long been spent. Unnumbered tears, the Doom had said. Indeed unnumbered.

The heat of the dragon was almost upon him. Perhaps that was why his tears had dried. His fear was so great he could not feel it any longer. There was only the certainty of death. He wanted to go to his bed and lay there, hoping in some strange way his bedsheets would protect him from dragon's fire. More now than ever he longed to forswear his Oath and undo the evil he had done in its name. He knew not what it would do to him, but at least his blade would never again turn to the throats of his kin. Perhaps that was Glaurung, that terrible beast: yet another being of darkness summoned by the terrible Oath.

Maglor felt a hand on his own. It was rough and bandaged and limp. He opened his eyes to Erestor's stern face, though his eyes were gentle like a still pool. "Come now, Maglor. Tell me more of your life among the green grasses and the stars." Maglor did not know what expression he was making, but Erestor's expression became utterly unreadable. Maglor bowed his head, his hair curtaining his face from the outside world again. Then, Erestor uttered something entirely incomprehensible: "So you were sick of it even then..."

Before Maglor could ask what he meant, Erestor began a story of his own, "There is a valley, deep in the chasm of a brightly-lit wood, where the river rushes from the sky to the sea in churning power and tinkling droplets both. It is here that many dwell, Eldar and Men and Dwarrow alike, and even some known as Hobbits. Everywhere there the air smells of clean water, and the houses are cooled by the spray of the river's flow as it carries on. Here, children of all kinds in the world play along the riverbanks, throwing rocks and eating river-weed and other such things that children do. It is like no place in the world, for Loremasters and books and great works of art may be found where any Child of Iluvater lives, but the keeping of them is separate to the other kinds. The Dwarrow chant their mountain chants, the Men trace their lines of queens and kings, and the Eldar sing of their histories, but here may all of them be heard together in a tapestry greater than those of Vaire.

"When the memory of fire comes over you—" and Maglor could not help but flinch "—remember the rushing water or the still stream. For even though children play on those shores, there are yet places of quiet contemplation to be had. It shall leach away like water through sand, and scatter away to the wind again."

Erestor caught Maglor's eye when he looked up, and Erestor offered a single impression of cool water on a warm summer's day, just at the edge of seeping cold. A second impression came, this time of the pulsing heat of burns before they, too, were cooled by the stream. Osanwë.v

"Thank you," Maglor said, nearly at a loss for words. "I did not know..."

"There are few in Beleriand or Middle Earth who do not fear the Enemy and his works, Maglor. It is the calling of a friend of mine to not only heal the hröa, but to bring rest to the mind and fëa. What he cannot do, he instructs those to do for themselves. He is the first healer of his mastery."

"What is he called? From where does he come?" Maglor asked. To heal the fëa—that was a gift of Estë.

Erestor's expression shuttered. "Ah," he said faintly. "It matters little, for you cannot meet him. He is lost to the Enemy."

"I am sorry. But surely you will see him in Aman, though many years may part you."

Erestor merely looked away, withdrawing his hand and laying back. "I am tired now, Maglor. Give me pardon, for I wish to rest."

Maglor hesitated, trying to think of something to say, but his words failed him. For so long his words had turned to knives and arrows. When faced with this implacable grief he fell silent. "I shall leave you, then. Sleep well Erestor."

Erestor remained still until Maglor could not see him any more. The dance of the fire against the stone walls did not bother Maglor anymore, not with the memory of a river still lingering. His unease grew, however, like a shadow lengthening in the sun.

i Atarinkë is a word that means "little father," as I'm sure any Curufin fans know because that's his amilessë (mother name). Here, Maglor is basically going "OK dad" to his brother.

ii Taur e-Ndaedelos (lit. forest of the great fear) is Sindarin the equivalent for "Mirkwood.' Erestor (and nobody, really) would ever have called it Eryn Lasgalen because in this AU the Fourth Age never came.

iii From what I can tell, the closest root word for Erestor's name would come from reste- (v. "To help") or resta (n. "help"), which also has the implication of healing (related to the word athelas. I worked backwards from that in roughly this order: Erestor -> Ehaþar -> Enílëkaro -> ???

• Enílëkaro (early/middle Quenya): comes from nílë "to be helpful/to care for" kar "to do/to make" + ro "masculine ending, used (from what I can tell) in Noldorian Quenya"

• Ehaþar (late/middle Quenya): Comes from haþa "to be helpful/to care for" + kar "to do/to make"

• Erestor (late Quenya/Sindarin, styled in Sindarin due to Elu Thingol's Quenya ban): Comes from reste "to help" ('or' being the derivative of 'kar' as it changed over time (which I just made up lol))

iv Ok once again we have to do tree math here. 1 YS = 9.582 YT, which makes Fëanor (born 1169 YT) roughly 200 years older than Fingolfin (born 1190 YT). While this makes it hilarious that Fëanor literally was beefing with a baby, it also makes it plausible that Fëanor and Nerdanel (married "in his youth") could have had Maedhros before Fingolfin was born, as none of the 7 sons of Fëanor are given a birth date. While this is probably not true, consider: Maedhros being older would be fucking funny as fuck. So he is. by like. an elvish month. Findis, is of course older than Maedhros (Findis being born 1185 YT).

v Osanwë is basically elf telepathy, which I am sure everybody already knew. It's a skill anyone can practice and get good at, but some are better than others. Galadriel in particular is very skilled at it!

Chapter End Notes

Maglor you crazy ass...

For anyone wondering "why is Erestor being so nonchalant about this?" don't worry. it hasn't hit him yet. I want to establish him in the environment before we get to the real meat of the story.

Also as of posting date (6/30/26), tomorrow is Artfight, so I will be a little busy! (~Aesburgers, btw). I'm also moving at the end of the month so it may be slower to update. I don't think there will be too many delays so this may not affect anything, but I wanted to give a warning just in case. Thank you for reading, as always, and I hope you enjoy!

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