Work Text:
A/n: Just a spur of the moment thing I wrote.
Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works.
Family Ties
One walk I took with my father stood out from the rest.
It had been a miserable day with a persistent drizzle, and mud squished between our toes as we trudged along the river bank. Father had just returned from a voyage. He was silent; two lines creased his brow, and his mouth was turned downwards in a scowl. I didn't think he wanted to go out for a walk, but Mother had said, "Make your son happy?" and raised her brows in that gently admonishing manner of hers. Elros had wisely chosen to remain indoors and read.
I chewed my lips and furtively glanced at Father. He was built like a rock, with strong hands and a powerful stride. His hair was uncombed and speckled with raindrops and and tied into a sloppy knot, and the most lovely, radiant colour, like spun gold – too precious to fiddle around with.
He'd been brooding recently, or so Mother said; he had something very, very important to accomplish. I decided his eyes were hard and unhappy. This upset me, made my chest grow heavy. I wanted to replace that look with anything, anything at all. I didn't want him to be sad.
Pressing my lips together in determination, I broke into a run. He'd follow me and scoop me up and toss me in the air, and he'd forget his troubles, if only for a few moments. Didn't all fathers do that? I found myself grinning at the thought.
A cold wind seared my cheeks, and my heart pounded against my ribs from my sudden sprint. The rain began to lash down. Eventually I slid to a stop, stumbled a bit, and turned around, panting. I could hear my breath right in my ears. My feet were caked with dirt, and Mother would likely shake her head at my now nicely soiled trousers.
"Elrond." Cool rain on my bare arms, tickling my skin.
My father was still a while away, his expression the same as before. His hands were pushed into his pockets.
"Elrond."
Why didn't he run after me?
"Elrond!"
I jerk my head back and blink. Amon Ereb is washed in grey, and Maglor stands at the entrance of the great hall, shouting my name. His brow his furrowed, and his fists curl and uncurl. I am in the courtyard, leaning against a wall that is slippery with moss. Between him and me is the grimy ground and the needles of rain and the blood on his hands.
Sucking my teeth, I remain rooted to the spot. Involuntarily, I shiver, and my skin corrugates into gooseflesh. My nose is so cold I can barely feel it. Maglor looks up at the sky, as if checking how long the storm will probably last, and then strides towards me. Without a word he picks me up, letting me wrap my legs around his waist, and carries me back towards the entrance. After months in this forsaken place, I have given up on resisting his badgering.
Why is he the one to come after me? Why does he have to ruin everything? He's already taken so much from me. Why does he have to take my memories, as well?
I close my eyes, feel a sob rise in my throat. Stop caring about me.
When we are in the great hall, which is mercifully warm compared to the courtyard, Maglor sets me down, kneels, and briefly skims his gaze over me. He tuts, produces a damp handkerchief from his tunic pocket, and wipes my face. "For pity's sake," he grouses, though his hand is gentle. When he is done, he puts the kerchief away and stands up. "Come," he says, trying too obviously to be stern. "Let us get you in some dry clothes. I will bring you some hot milk."
I watch him turn and walk towards the serpentine staircase that leads to my chamber. His hair is uncombed and speckled with raindrops and tied into a sloppy knot, but it's coal black with split ends and looks like it needs a wash.
It's hard to cling to this grudge. I chew on a nail and trundle after him. When I catch up with him on the stairs, I notice his hand by his side. It is a lot like my father's. Curious, and oddly unashamed, I reach out and grasp it with my own. Those fingers are cold and rough and clammy, and I can feel the bone beneath the flesh. Maglor has halted. I don't look up, but I can feel the weight of his stare. His hand begins to warm in mine, seems less like that of a corpse.
I let go and begin to play with one of my curls – a habit that used to make my mother narrow her eyes at me. Elros says my hair will fall out if I keep doing it, but I don't believe him.
Maglor tentatively asks, "Are you all right?"
"I never really held my father's hand," I return in a monotone that is strange to even my ears. My voice sounds very far away. "But it doesn't matter, because you are not my father."
There's a pause. "You are right," he returns quietly. "I am not."
Both of us are very still. Outside, the sky rumbles, and I shiver again. At length Maglor wipes his chin and says, "Come upstairs. You are still putting on some dry clothes, whether or not you are my son."
- finis -
If you'd like to read more about Elrond and Maglor, you can check out 'The Starlit Sky' and 'Cold'.