Marvel: Silver Hand

Alexander woke slowly, his eyelids heavy and his body aching. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled his nose, and the faint beeping of machines echoed in his ears. Blinking against the harsh fluorescent light, he realized he was in a hospital room.

A nurse entered, a kind-looking woman with dark hair tied back in a neat bun. She smiled softly when she saw him awake.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she said gently, approaching his bed. "How are you feeling?"

Alexander swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy. "Where… where's my mom?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The nurse's smile faltered, but she quickly recovered. "She's alive," she said reassuringly. "She's in another room. Would you like to see her?"

He nodded, relief flooding through him despite the gnawing pit of fear in his stomach.

The nurse wheeled Alexander through the halls, his heart pounding with every turn. When they reached the room, she opened the door, and he saw her.

Sophia Athos lay in the hospital bed, her face turned away. Her body was almost entirely covered in bandages, her head wrapped tightly with only patches of red hair peeking through. Her arms, too, were bound in white gauze, and an oxygen mask covered her mouth and nose.

"Mom?" Alexander whispered, his voice trembling.

She stirred at the sound, turning her head slowly toward him. When her eyes opened, they were wide with fear, darting around the room as if searching for an enemy. She screamed—a ragged, hoarse sound that tore through the silence.

"Mom, it's me!" Alexander said, rushing to her side. "It's Alex!"

Her panicked expression softened as she recognized him. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she reached out with a trembling, bandaged hand.

"I'm here," Alexander said, taking her hand gently. "I'm here, Mom."

Sophia could only cry, her voice too raw to speak. Alexander stayed by her side, holding her hand and murmuring words of comfort.

The hours passed, and day turned into night. Sophia eventually drifted off into an uneasy sleep, and the nurse returned to guide Alexander back to his room.

"You've been very brave," she told him as they walked down the quiet halls. "Your mom is lucky to have you."

Alexander didn't respond. His mind was a storm of emotions—fear, sadness, guilt. He felt as though a piece of himself had been left behind in the fire.

Three weeks later, Alexander and his mother were discharged from the hospital. Sophia's recovery was slow and painful, and her burns would leave scars that would never fully heal. Her face, once vibrant and full of life, was now marred by red, raised scars, the cruel reminder of what they had lost.

With nowhere else to go, they packed what little they had left and moved to Sophia's parents' old house in Snow Valley, a small town nestled in the western part of the Berkshire Mountains.

The drive was long and quiet. Sophia sat in the driver seat, Alexander sat in the back, glancing between his mother and the scenery outside. Snow Valley was a far cry from the bustling city they'd left behind. The air was crisp and clean, and the mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks dusted with snow.

When they arrived, a woman was already waiting on the porch. She was tall and thin, with sharp features softened only slightly by her warm smile. Her auburn hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and her clothes were practical, if a little worn.

"Aunt Clara," Alexander said hesitantly, recognizing her from old photos.

Clara approached the car, her smile fading as she took in the sight of Sophia. "Oh, Sophia…" she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Sophia looked away, unable to meet her sister's eyes. The two women had been estranged for years, and the tension between them was palpable. But Clara said nothing more, instead stepping forward to help Sophia out of the car.

"Let's get you inside," she said softly.

The house was old but well-kept, with creaky wooden floors and a faint smell of pine. Clara had prepared a room for Sophia on the first floor, knowing she wouldn't be able to climb the stairs. She guided her sister to bed, arranging her pillows and blankets with care.

Alexander's room was upstairs, small but cozy, with a single bed and a window that looked out onto the snowy landscape. Clara helped him settle in, tucking him in as though he were much younger than ten.

"Are you okay?" she asked gently, brushing his hair back.

Alexander nodded, though he didn't feel okay. Not even close.

Clara hesitated, then leaned down and kissed his forehead. "If you need anything, I'm here," she said.

As she turned off the light and left the room, Alexander stared up at the ceiling, his mind racing. He thought of his father's last words, of the fire.

In the corner of the room, Celebrimbor watched silently, his ghostly form barely visible in the dim light. For the first time in centuries, the wraith felt something he hadn't known he was still capable of: helplessness.

Alexander rolled over, clutching the blanket tightly. The boy knew that life would never be the same.