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Chapter Text

“Is it true what they say?” 

Maglor raises an eyebrow at the twin crouched in the corner of his tent- twin, singular, he notes. Whatever little Elrond is going to ask, his brother either does not approve of the question, or does not know he is here.

That is interesting; Elros was always Maedhros’ mirror, so careful with his words and protective of his family. It has been two weeks since they took the twins, and for all that time they had been inseparable, clutching each other’s hands and dressing in identical, oversized tunics that they’d somehow stolen off Maedhros’ guards (the twins having long established him as the less frightening one, the one who didn’t make mistakes.)

You don’t go anywhere without me, they had overheard Elros telling his brother. You don’t say anything to them. They are dangerous, every single one. 

But this time, Elrond had deemed it safe to come to him alone… 

Maglor bites down a smile as he sets his book aside. “What do they say, little one?” 

He leans forward unconsciously in his chair, and the child fails miserably in hiding his flinch. 

Maglor could hit himself if it wouldn’t scare him more. Two weeks in and he has already forgotten what they are, his young captives, to the point that he has seriously contemplated trying to teach Elrond about the Music. Certainly there is none of that happening on the twins’ side, no fondness in Elrond’s eyes as he shuffles awkwardly to his feet.

Instead, Maglor hears on him the familiar tune of curiosity overlaid with fear, each pulling him in opposite directions. It is a few moments before the child finally approaches the desk, only to freeze at the sight of the two swords leaning against its side. 

This was a mistake. 

In the night, the world is quiet, and such thoughts can be discerned through the empty wind as a real voice. There is rarely anything so specific as dates or faces, but he has so far tolerated the rumors that he can read minds; if anything, it is useful for frightening away Orcs. Tonight, he is quite sure he would throw it all away in a heartbeat if it meant he never had to listen to Elrond wonder which of the blades he’d use on him first again. 

He has fantasized about it for centuries- of being brought to Mandos and demanding that they take his curse away, of ridding himself of both of them, of taking the Silmarils in hand and throwing them into the ocean, and never looking back once, finally free-

Stop wandering around in your head, he remembers Celegorm snapping at him, and takes a deep breath, leans back again. 

“You can ask me anything, you know.” He gives Elrond a tired grin. “What reason would I have to hurt you now? You are valuable hostages, you and your brother.”

It’s cold, unfeeling logic, and the child seems to trust it more than he does any living thing. He is cleverer than you by far, Maglor scolds himself. Outside there is the sound of his soldiers and the wildlife alike drifting off to sleep, and the calls of the night-birds in the forest overlap with the quiet, high notes of panic coming from Maedhros’ quarters; Elros has noticed his brother’s absence. They must be quick, then. 

As if sensing this, Elrond takes a few more dragging steps until, finally, there is triumph: the child even looks him in the eye as he asks in a trembling voice, “Do you mean that?”

“Anything,” he promises. Then, in a last-ditch attempt to lessen the guilt in those two pale, thin faces reflected in the glass of his lamp, “It’s the least I owe you, after all this.”

All this. It is the closest they have ever come to discussing what happened at the Havens of Sirion. Maedhros has so far been unusually tight-lipped about the occasion, and Maglor is reluctant to speak of the Ambarussa aloud. Two weeks have been spent dancing around the subject, not least because they had no idea how the twins would react. 

Maglor briefly wonders what Maedhros would think if he ever heard that they have spoken of it, and how it could have come up so easily; true, he has never been able to restrain his words in the late hours, but that was before the Nirnaeth. That was Makalaurë.

He waits on Elrond’s reaction, his chest already tightening in regret- regret that increases tenfold when the child only looks at him blankly, and he can hear nothing from him. 

“Elrond,” he says softly and, he thinks to himself, more than a little desperately. 

The little one has shrunk into himself, shoulders curling. He shivers and clenches his teeth, as if the question is fighting him on its way out. 

“It’s alright,” Elrond says thickly. “I was about to bring it up anyways…” 

Wind whistles in through the entrance of the tent, and between that and the shivering Maglor finds it impossible to stay still. He takes care to stand up as quietly as possible, recalling that the loudest sound in the caverns in Sirion had been his own footsteps. Elrond seems to relax slightly at that, more so when the heavy red cloth comes down between him and the night. He swallows hard, licks his lips carefully.

“It is about the Oath, Maglor.”

Maglor pauses. Well. He wants to call it a pause, but what he does is more akin to a flinch, as if their positions have been reversed- as if he still has a right to be wounded by the words of his hostage. He stares down at him, belatedly notices that his expression may be frightening, tries to adjust his face, and then decides it shouldn't matter; shouldn't matter, because Elrond is crying and there are more important things to worry about than vanity, and why is it that he looks so much like Amras when he cries?

“Did you choose to listen to it? Did you try to fight it?” Elrond bites his cheek, sudden tears shining in the lamplight. “Could you have broken it, if you chose?”

Could you have chosen not to attack our home?

And there it is, out there in the open. Maglor fights the urge to go and put his arms around the child, comfort him the way he did his brothers. Elrond is not Amras or Amrod or Curufin- Elrond wants nothing from him besides answers. 

"I do not wish to lie to you..." he says haltingly, then stops at the panic building up inside the room; panic, then anger, then an utterly morose kind of resignation. Elrond had not wanted to believe it was his choice to pursue them. 

He wanted to believe the best of him and Maedhros, he realizes, and he must be very careful not to let this affect his next words. 

Maglor takes a deep breath and begins again. 

"The answer to your question is yes, Elrond, and yet no; and there is no way to know for certain. There has been very little research done on this matter, and all I have to go on is my... personal experience."

He purposely mimics the tone of a lecturing tutor, a familiar voice, assuming Elwing had time and people enough to educate her children as they did in Tirion. This indeed appears to calm Elrond, and Maglor makes a mental note to start on a list of what alarms and does not alarm the twins. If Maedhros objects, he will make the point on valuable hostages and hope for the best. 

"Yes, I suppose we could have tried to resist it. Maedhros could have held out a little longer, this I know. But it would have ended in utter failure for the rest of us, and in time for Maedhros as well. An oath gone unfulfilled, Elrond," he explains, "near as I can tell, manifests in the mind of the oath-taker as a permanent pain, sight or sound or thought, whatever it would take to drive them to keep their word. Eventually it was inevitable that we would have to seek the Silmarilli once more. For me the effect was doubled because of my music, and the fact that the Oath was first brought into the world by the sound of Fëanáro's voice; it was all that I could hear." 

(And, he adds in his mind, the worst part was that I can no longer be sure Atya would not have said those things to me.)

Elrond nods mutely, and Maglor is suddenly glad that he never used his more practical songs at the Havens. 

"And there was the matter of..." He pauses, feeling a headache coming, the sound of dying stars echoing in his mind. Speaking of the Oath, it seems, has brought it down on him again. 

This is nothing compared to what the twins have gone through, he reminds himself, and continues on. "To be truthful, little one, the Ambarussa wished to avenge their" -a catch in his breath, remember the way Maedhros does it, how he distances himself from his words- "fallen brothers. They were very close to the three."

Elrond's mouth opens slightly, his lips in the shape of a silent oh. 

"I will not say that it had to be the Havens, for we are not blameless; far from it. We are the only ones to blame. But nor can I say that we had the full choice." Maglor moves his weary gaze to the lamp, and speaks to empty air. "Does that answer your question, Elrond?"

Elrond blinks up at him, and for a long while the silence thickens, like snow piling up outside the windows in Himring. Maglor absently wonders if this child has ever heard of Himring- was he born after its fall? Did he ever hear of the Gap, the grand tales they made of the flight of the Bragollach's survivors? What does he think of him now, this son of Elwing's? It does not matter; at least, it should not, but Maglor has never been good at doing what he should. 

Both of them startle when Elros' voice and panicked feet pierce the silence: "Elrond! Elrond!"

Elros, Elrond starts to say, then glances quickly up at Maglor, as if asking permission to leave. 

"Go," he says with a wave of his hand, and collapses as much as he can in his hard wooden seat as he watches the two small figures make their hasty way from the kinslayer's tent, one of whom now knows everything that matters. 

Ai, Káno, what have you brought upon yourself now?

Chapter Text

Elrond has always been good at numbers. 

True, there was nothing more tedious than adding and subtracting things over and over again when he and Elros were taking lessons together, but outside the nameless problems had opened up into things that actually mattered in their lives, that he could answer and put in order by simply drawing a few lines in the dirt with sticks. 

Other princes of the Eldar would have had ink and quills and charcoal to their hearts' content, but the Havens were always short of supplies, and there was a certain thrill that came with marking the ground, as if he is somehow proving to the earth that he can do some things right. 

He has spoken about this odd fascination to his brother, only to be met with incredulous stares and words like "It feels like what, now?" But they are nothing if not accepting, he and Elros, and as Elros had grown used to distracting the people from their own awful memories and bringing the children the specific blankets they needed, so he grew used to dealing with Elrond's urges to scratch sums into whatever patch of bare soil was available.

"You can be in charge of counting things for the both of us, then," Elros had told him around a week before the letter from the kinslayers came, all haughty gestures and kingly grace, as if he was doing him a favor by giving him orders. 

Elrond had rolled his eyes and flopped down on his favorite rock by the waterfall with a sarcastic "Yes, my lord." They were supposed to be learning this place, where they would be sent if the orcs ever decided to attack, but Elrond was more interested in napping in the sun than in getting his hands stuck in mud to find the best hiding places. 

It turns out that orcs were not the only things they had to hide from. 

Since the… raid upon their home, there have been no new instructions from Elros or from their tutors, only the ones they have given themselves. Elros is sure to have forgotten all about that day, but Elrond has nonetheless clung to his counting duties like a lifeline. There is a list in his head, ever-expanding, and he mutters it to himself whenever he needs to remember or to forget for the moment.

It has been two days and two nights since the kinslayers found them at the waterfall, approaching the third night now. Five nightmares between the two of them so far, consisting of three about Naneth and two about Maglor Fëanorion. A seemingly infinite amount of time spent being dragged around like cargo, traveling so fast that the dust from their horses' thundering feet has become a permanent sting in Elros' eyes. One question that has to be answered sooner or later, but whose possible answers frighten him more than anything.

Two and a half days since they've last seen a single building, or stayed in the same spot for more than a few hours, or spoken to someone they knew know. Elrond wonders if they will spend the rest of their lives like this, alone and friendless in the woods, before the kinslayers finally decide that they've had enough of mercy.

Not, he thinks sourly as he and Elros are once again dropped onto solid, hard ground, that there has ever been that much of that.  

"Are you hurt?" he asks, running anxious hands over his brother's shoulders. Elros may be the leader of the two of them, but he knows even less of healing and matters of health than Elrond. "Is your eye alright?"

Elros gives a soft grunt and tips over, limbs splayed out on the dirt. "Thirsty." 

" I am thirsty," Elrond corrects him. "We said we'd keep our manners."

"Trying to save voice," Elros says into his own arm. A few seconds pass before he adds, "Obviously.”

Elrond scoffs and hugs his knees to his chest, trying to warm up his hands as he watches the Fëanorian soldiers set up their tents for what feels like the hundredth time. The first time, he’d been shocked at the careless way in which they ordered their things- disgraced and cursed or not, they still followed two Noldorin princes, and Elrond was naive enough to expect to see some craftsmanship from them, some skill.

Now, he is somewhat used to seeing skeletons of rope and spears and rough wooden staffs rise from empty ground within minutes, though he still winces when they all but fling their cloaks and drapes over them, heedless of where on the structures they may land. At home they had always been taught to put some effort into making a place their own. Naneth would be appalled at the state of things here.

(Naneth is gone, and this is not home.)

Elrond shifts on the cold ground and focuses on the tents again. For all the rush and crudeness, they are infuriatingly good at blocking the exits to the makeshift encampment and making it all look natural. He doesn’t truly expect to be able to make it out of here, not with the guards in the trees and the musician-prince with his sharp ears, but it would calm him to have a potential escape route.

Without even the possibility of freedom to dwell on, Elrond’s mind comes to a stubborn stop at thoughts of Elros, now limp on the ground, his breathing ragged. They have so far managed to sustain themselves on what small portions of food and water the kinslayers deign to give them, but as frugal as life in Sirion was compared to that of the princes in the old stories, it isn’t even close to what they had at home. Eventually they will have to ask for more, which means they will have to reach out to the people who destroyed their lives. 

Or rather, Elrond will. Elros has said he would rather die than come within ten feet of Maedhros or Maglor, but Elrond won't let that happen. He'll go to them in secret and lie to his brother about where he was if it will heal him. 

All this resolve, and nothing to do with it. What was it that the soldiers from Gondolin always said? Resolve and reality cannot coexist in peace? They'd had hard eyes and mouths and shoulders, those people, and they'd curl up into corners and shrink from every candle. But Elrond cannot pity them now, not when winter is on the way and he'd give the stars to have some urgent errand call away all the soldiers, leaving just the two of them to bask in their campfires.

Wind cuts through his clothes like they are made of air, sweeping yellowed leaves into his face, and Elrond shivers. The cold is one more thing to weigh on their minds- they have made sure to turn down every offer from the guards to let them sleep in the tents. What will happen if Elros continues to worsen, and forbids him to do anything about it? 

What will happen if they stop asking? Stop giving?

Elrond buries his head in his knees, willing the tears to stop coming; he can't get thirsty again. He cannot , or he will have to drink the better part of the water next time, and Elros cannot afford to start “rationing” again. Even worse, they might actually manage to earn the kinslayers’ pity, and he isn’t sure if either of them could endure that for long. 

(They cannot live off the kindness of their mother’s murderers. He has seen Elros wake up in the night screaming for his friends, the tutors, all the guards with unfamiliar shields from Gondolin who fell to the red-haired twins’ arrows while escorting them to the waterfall. He himself has been haunted by their screams, the sounds of fire on stone stirred by some invisible wind. Elros dreams- not so seriously, but he dreams still of raining otherworldly vengeance down upon them, some stray memory from Queen Melian, while Elrond toys with the idea of accepting their gifts, gaining a life debt to them and finding a way to justify it somehow. 

It would be so easy. It would destroy all that they are.) 

Elros has pride to drown in, and he has paranoia, both unwanted gifts passed down from their forefathers. Elrond wishes he had either a greater or lesser amount of dignity- enough of it to suffer nobly like his brother, or enough of a lack of it to ask the princes for their help without shame. 

Elros begins to cough again, leaning on his shoulder as he pulls himself upright. His alarm grows, wrenching him out of his thoughts as his brother doubles forward, shoulders shaking. They should have been past this; he thought the coughing had stopped yesterday, he was supposed to be on the mend. 

He reaches up to Elros’ heart, Surely that’s too fast to be normal, and sweeps away the dirt on his clothes. “Brother, are you-”

Elros’ hand clamps onto his shoulder and pins him in place. Dark hair falls in front of their faces, and his brother whispers-shouts into his ear, “ Maedhros is watching us.”

Elrond stiffens- no, that isn’t the right word. 

Elrond tightens, the joints of his shoulders cracking from the sudden tension, and the flames wrap around his vision once more. Maedhros Maedhros Maedhros. Shapely, Red-Haired. It is strange, he thinks distantly, how much fear one name can hold, and with that he’s off again; he just wants to go home-

His brother seizes him by the sleeve. “Elrond, I swear you are worse than-”

He is passing us by.

Elrond winces as the thought flows between them, easy as water over rock. To him it feels almost pleasant, but one of the first things he remembers Elros telling him is that it feels like being stabbed on his end. The thought is enough to force him back together again. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I panicked, I shouldn’t have-”

“ Listen, ” Elros interrupts. Elrond complies, wide-eyed.

Around a dozen paces away, the princes and their soldiers are standing in a tight group, speaking in low tones. Elrond can spot Maedhros straight away: aside from his height, he is the only one still in armor, and his copper hair is short and unkempt, his cape torn and singed as if it has been hours and not days since the fall of Sirion. Beside him stands a familiar figure with tied-up hair and pristine blue robes, from whom Elrond hurriedly averts his eyes. 

“...should be back before nightfall,” Maedhros is saying in a clipped, fast-flowing voice. “Celebdin, you say that you have seen orcish scouts near the creek?”

A small, light-haired archer, presumably Celebdin, comes forward. “There were two that I saw, but there may be more. These beasts tend to travel in groups.”

Part of Elrond wants to laugh at him for calling the orcs beasts as if they are not the same, but his common sense still seems to be intact. 

Maedhros nods and goes on with his speech, phrases chasing the heels of phrases in quick, orderly lines. “Very well. Maglor, you will see to it that they do not find us. We will have to put more troops on watch tonight regardless, we cannot afford an ambush now.” 

“And what of the prisoners?”

Maglor raises an eyebrow at the dark-haired one with the staff. "We never take prisoners, Daemir." 

The words are spoken entirely too casually for the implications that they carry and, even worse, too beautifully. The younger prince's vowels are the echo of flutes in marble chambers, his consonants the sharp, satisfying hiss of hot iron in water. Elrond doesn't notice he is staring until Elros pulls him to his side, glaring at the soldier now pointing at them. 

"The unexpected guests, then- however you wish to put it, my lord, we endanger them by allowing them to run free, and they endanger us." 

Maedhros raises his voice for the first time. "If you are implying that the last sons of Doriath would go to the orcs for revenge-"

"They are certainly a convenient target!"

"What would you have us do, then?" Celebdin hurries to get out of the way as Maedhros advances, arms crossed. "We have already agreed that we shall keep them alive for the time being. Would you force them into a cage, then, take away the last of their freedom and give them to a fate more cruel than death? Would that not defeat the purpose of taking them?"

"With all due respect, my lord, it was you and your brother alone who saved them. Our counsel was never heard," Daemir points out. Elrond has a vague feeling that, if they had met under different circumstances, he would have come to admire the elf's sheer, stupid courage.

"We would not have needed saving," Elros mutters through clenched teeth, "if they had not come upon our home in the first place."

Normally, such a blatant display of anger from his brother would have alarmed Elrond, but he is too focused now on the discussion- now more of an argument- to pay him much mind. Celebdin seems to be attempting to calm everyone down and make them focus more on the orcs, which is proving completely unsuccessful. Daemir's words and gestures have grown more aggressive, but all of Elrond's attention is on the armored prince. 

Refusing to lock them inside, refusing to call them prisoners- does Maedhros truly care about their pain? The thought simply doesn't process, the way certain equations can never make sense. Still, the evidence is out there, and Elrond can already feel his mind slowly stretching to accommodate it. 

Maedhros cares about him. Maedhros cares.  It's a laughable idea, but if it's true, Elrond may not be alone in his struggle.

The thought dawns on him then that he is not the only one here in danger of allowing a foe to... grow on him, or whatever it is that they keep trying to dance around. He picks absently at his hands, mind spinning despite the reasonable voice in his head shouting to Slow down, don't jump to conclusions. 

(If they do care, and if they do want to show them kindness, he may soon get an answer to that question after all. 

Not  yet, he thinks. Please, not yet.)

"Elrond," Elros says, "they're talking to us."

He looks up to see Celebdin making his way towards them with one hand outstretched, bright and almost delicate under the fading sunlight. "The offer still stands, children. This coming night will be a long one." 

Elrond turns back to his brother and shakes his head no. As a rule they do not speak to the kinslayers, and plan to avoid speaking to them for the rest of their lives if possible. But they can communicate with each other still, so that it is Elrond that his twin looks at as he makes his answer.

"We are staying outside for tonight, brother." A pause. "Perhaps for ever."

Celebdin shrugs and walks away, keeping his pace quick to catch up with the others. He must report back to Maedhros, for the red-haired prince stops in his tracks to give them a blankly disappointed look that several of their tutors would have been proud of, but Elrond is no longer so afraid when they make eye contact. 

I know you  care, he thinks. And I know now that you have fears, like any one of us. You are not special.

Maedhros turns away, and Elrond is left with nothing but his suspicions and a rare, shining sense of victory.