Work Text:
The half-Elven children had fallen asleep in their peculiar manner, despite their valiant efforts defeated by exhaustion and lulled by Maglor’s song and play into a fragile sense of security. The sweet melody had coaxed them out of their wary defensiveness and soothed them into grudgingly accepting the comfort offered by their captors; and Maglor was certain they would yet resent him for this spell of peace and themselves for falling under it.
(What is it you want from these children, Makalaurë? Maedhros had asked him bluntly, and it had been clear he would not accept any excuses about hostages, security or exchange. And Maglor had not answered; and Maedhros had laughed then, although no humour could be heard in his voice.)
It was an art Maglor was master of: he could touch the very hearts of battle-hardened warriors, inspire awe and courage and grief, he could weave images and sensations so real that none could resist their power.
(Save for him; ever save for the weaver himself, and yet Maglor kept trying.)
And now the minstrel of the Noldor had woven a spell of ease and security over these two children, clearly terrified out of their wits and still fighting so hard to be brave. Maglor wanted so badly to offer them peace, offer them safety, convey to them that they needed not be afraid – except how could he expect them to believe that if he, himself, could not manage to? Thus Maglor played, and sang, and the song itself felt like a lie, a fabrication meant to deceive, even in the truest intention, even though he truly intended them no harm – whatever that may mean, now. Yet he could not think of anything better to give them, now, at this moment, those exhausted half-Elven children that he wanted so badly to—
(What is it you want from these children, Makalaurë?)
(Nothing.)
(Laughter.)
(Mayhap you want nothing from them, yet you have already taken everything they had. And should they remain here, you will take even more than that.)
(Order me, then. Tell me to send them away tomorrow, and I shall.)
(No, oh, no. A steel gleam flashed in Maedhros’ eyes. You have my leave to do with them as you please. Do not think I mean to relieve you of that responsibility, brother.)
Maglor watched the sleeping children with a heavy heart, sensing the shadows gathering around them, seeping into their half-Mannish hearts, knowing there was nought he could do to chase them away; and that if by some miracle he could, this would lead to the children being hurt even more deeply.
My children would have loved you, whispers a shadow in his memory, and the familiar ache pangs him anew. You would not have to steal from another.
(There was a melody Maglor had once tried to play alone, and no more; for that melody had been made for two, and by himself he could but make a mockery of it.)
“My children would have been cursed,” he spoke, and the sound of his own voice surprised him. Maglor could almost sense her beside him, at once close and distant, bound to the deepest part of his being and gone far away among the shades of the dead. Are these children cursed? He thought to himself in her voice, and shuddered. The Doom is upon them; and the doom of Men, perhaps, though that is not for me to know; must they share my curse, as well?
“They should not have to bear that burden,” he said aloud.
He tried to recall her laughter, yet it came to him dry and mirthless, like Maitimo’s, entirely unlike hers. And yet you are resolved to keep them, his memory of her spoke in his mind. Why is that?
(What is it you want from these children, Makalaurë?)
(Makalaurë!)
(Blood flowing from her mouth; the image Maglor had seen but from afar and which haunted him every day and every night.)
(Would she know what do to? Was there a right choice, even?)
His fingers never stilled on the harp. The melody was gentle, quiet, barely there at all, and Maglor consciously kept it that way, not to let out any of the emotions, not to let loose the demons plaguing his mind, not onto those innocent children who were sleeping in his presence, so peacefully they would surely be horrified the following day.
(Makalaurë, she whispered. You know it is yourself you seek to torment.)