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Chapter Text

The child had screamed when Maglor drew closer to him, his tiny body shaking like a leaf swept up by a typhoon. He’d stretched his hands out to form a protective shield of sorts; it was surely an impregnable fortress in his innocent mind, although to Maglor it made no difference. When the Noldo picks him up by the collar, Elwing’s son turns into a rabid dog that flails and wails and snarls, lunging forth to sink his teeth into any bit of flesh that isn’t protected by crimson-flecked armor.

He acts out of a desire to protect, Maglor thinks as he subdues his floundering arms by pinning them to his sides, But what he fights to protect is not himself. For when he’d picked the child up, the limp figure of another became visible to him. He is a mirror image to the one in his arms - most likely his twin - although a large gash on his left arm catches the elf’s attention. It is instantly obvious to Maglor that the growing puddle of blood beneath it stems from this. He bends down to determine the severity of the injury, only to have the little creature in his grip lash out violently.

“Don’t touch him!” he shrieks, clawing at him viciously. His small fingernails skid across the gauntlet in vain but he keeps going with a fiery ferocity.

Maglor shushes him in an attempt to calm him down. “I am not going to harm him.”

But even still he struggles to both examine the twin while juggling his brother at the same time. Frustrated, he contemplates knocking him unconscious to make the process of seeing to the wounded one easier-- but the repercussions of that, if either of them ever came to, would be a headache of their own. He settles on dropping to his knees and repositions the dog-child so he’s at eye-level with him, although he keeps his hands firmly planted on his shoulders so he cannot run off and render his efforts void. The boy squirms under his touch, but Maglor meets him in the eyes with both a look of pleading and authority.

“Child, child, look at me.” he repeats until the boy hesitantly returns his gaze. “I am not going to harm him, do you understand me? I will not harm him. Look at me, please. Look at me.”

He can see under the fiery look of desperation blazing within his soul a permeating, all-encompassing fear that threatens to bubble from him in the form of teardrops that prick the corners of his eyes. Pity stings Maglor’s heart, and as his grip on his shoulders loosens, so does the hostility in the boy’s look. He seems to sag, his chin wobbling, and it’s only a matter of time before he begins to bawl his eyes out uncontrollably.

Maglor coos, “There now, there now”, and instinctively reaches to rub him on the back. The boy flinches away from his touch and so he relents, raising his hands up in a sort of peace offering. Reassured at least now that he won’t be bounding onto him like a rabid dog, Maglor turns his attention to his half-awake twin. His breathing is shallow and he feebly stirs when the Noldo presses his ear against his chest to confirm his status.

“He’s going to die!” his brother wails.

“He is not going to die,” Maglor says hurriedly. “He’s simply delirious from shock.”

Acting quickly, he rips a length of fabric from his cloak and ties it around the gash on the boy’s arm to stem the flow of blood. When he tries to pick him up, the child struggles weakly then ultimately sinks back into delirium once he’s positioned comfortably (or at least as comfortably as he can manage) in Maglor’s arms. His uninjured brother had protested at first but eventually sank back into his sobs, his childlike mind unable to think up any better alternative. Maglor takes his hand and begins to lead them both cautiously down the corridor.

“What is your name, child?” he asks gently in an attempt to break the icy stillness.

The boy hesitates, glancing over to his unconscious twin who rests in Maglor’s arms. It is clear he’s unused to acting on his own volition. After a moment’s silence, which Maglor attempts not to break, he speaks in a shaky quivering tone much unlike the vicious shrieks he’d been making not too long earlier.

“Elrond,” he whispers.

“That is a lovely name,” Maglor offers, but his grip tightens as they pass into the burning courtyard. He begins to hurry them through, although he makes sure not to move too quickly so Elrond can keep up with his pace. “Is this your brother? What might his name be?”

“Elros...”

“Matching names! How very quaint.” They duck into a trampled dirt alleyway that leads back to the stables, where Maedhros and his men had agreed to convene earlier. “Do not worry, child. I will see to Elros once we reach a safe place. He will be alright.”

Elrond says nothing in response, but a shaky sniffle escapes him nonetheless.

When they arrive at the stables, only a handful of their men are already there tending to their wounded; although there is no sight of Maedhros or Amras, Maglor swallows the apprehension knotting in his stomach and gently lays Elros on a spare piece of tarp being used as a makeshift bedroll. Seeing their second-in-command return mostly unscathed, a few of his men look considerably more at ease, although they stare at the two children in his arms with an incredulous sort of confusion.

Elrond shivers, and although he has no cause to trust Maglor just yet, he buries his face in his side when he judges the bloody soldiers looking at him to be far greater threats. Maglor sees this with mounting understanding. He signals the soldiers to cease their gawking with a sharp glare.

“This one is wounded,” he explains as he begins to unbind the tourniquet around Elros’ arm. “I could not leave two children to fend for themselves in a collapsing building.”

“Are they not Elwing’s boys?” one asks cautiously. “For what reason aside from using them as hostages could you have taken them?”

Elrond freezes and looks at Maglor with an expression of dawning horror. He opens his mouth to scream once more, tensing his body as if preparing to throw himself atop Elros in some desperate attempt at defense. The Noldo reaches forth to calm him while biting down a curse at the soldier’s blatant lack of tact.

“Even taking them as hostages would be more humane than simply allowing them to burn to death. Now do not bother me with any more misleading questions!” he snaps. Then he turns back to Elrond, his expression softening. “Do not listen to him. I will keep my promise not to harm you or your brother-- please be assured of that.”

But the child shirks back. “Please don’t kill us,” he whispers.

“I am not going to hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

“But you said—”

However, a loud cry cuts Elrond’s words short. The attention of all in the rendezvous point are immediately diverted to a small party flooding from a westward entrance to Sirion. There are a dozen or so elves among them, each covered in soot and blood and sweat to some extent, but leading the ragtag group of survivors is none other than a tall elf with matted copper hair that now frays from its long braid. Hauled over Maedhros’ left shoulder - hanging limp and loose like he weighs no more than a leaking sack of flour - is Amras, who is so pale he seems almost wraithlike.

A single arrow smiles at them from a gap just under his right armpit that his cuirass does not protect.

“Kana! Is Kana here?!” Maedhros roars. His stoic expression breaks only for a fleeting second when he sees his other remaining brother is there and mostly unscathed. “Telvo has been hit— see to him, please, tell me he is not dead—”

“Calm yourself, you fool,” Maglor whispers, but he does not even hear himself. He forgets the two children entirely and rushes to Amras’ side the moment he is laid down on top of another tarp.

The youngest Fëanorian moans in anguish as he is shifted in position. Beads of sweat roll off his forehead and down his face, mingling with splatters of blood and diluting into a pale mixture of red and pink. His breathing is laboured, yet at the same time rapid- the interchangeability of it confounds all those who gather around him attempting to see to his wounds however best they can. When the arrow is eventually removed from his torso, a single look at its strangely-shaped tip sends one of their captains into a horrified stupor.

“Alas, this is no ordinary arrow,” she says solemnly. “This is of Sindar make, crafted by the denizens of Doriath. During my travels I saw its kind put to use by Thingol’s men on any who dared delve too deep into his realm. I fear the poison imbued within each of their tips is of great potency.”

“Poison?” Maedhros demands, but his voice is eerily calm like a dam threatening to burst.

“Nai! A terrible poison indeed, although of what kind I know not. Forgive me, my lord, for that is all I can tell you.”

“Waste no time then!” Maglor orders, turning to the two field medics who’d arrived with Maedhros, “Bind the region closest to the infected area and clean the wound however best. Make haste at once!”

They nod fervently and get to work. Maedhros turns to Maglor. His words are low and barely audible, perhaps in his own attempt to stifle his fear from bubbling to the surface in front of all the men depending on him for leadership.

“What more can we do?” he asks, though it is more like a plea, “Is there a song that might help? Anything that might slow the spread?”

“I do not know,” answers Maglor shakily, “I do not know. But I will try.”

And so he opens his mouth and begins to sing. His hand rests on Amras’ chest, which by now has been stripped of its heavy armor and laid bare so the medics can work better. When Maglor sings, he does so with such force and intensity that he feels the very words ripped from his throat and hewed into the air around him. He channels his Power through his quivering fingertips and into his youngest brother’s convulsing body, willing it to take shape in his veins and act with the purpose he intends for it.

He sings and keeps singing and does not stop singing until the medics bandage the wound however best they can, until he begins to feel his own throat shrivel as the raw scratchy soreness of overuse begins to settle in, until he feels Maedhros place his hand on his arm and gently pull him away. Then he blinks- and suddenly he finds himself collapsed atop a pile of dead leaves, absolutely exhausted. His vision swirls, and for a second he is tempted to close his eyes and pass out…

But then he remembers—

“The children!” he gasps, shooting up like a rigid plank. “Where are the children!?”

“Over here, my lord!” One of the medics shouts back in reply.

When Maglor looks over, he sees the limp figures of Elrond and Elros stretched out on some fresh tarp to her left. Panic immediately seizes him with clawed fingers that dig deep into his heart, but she reaches out a reassuring hand and places it gently on his tensed shoulders.

“We had to subdue them. When you were singing for Lord Amras we caught the uninjured one attempting to drag his brother away,” she explains apologetically, “I gave him some yulfumë to drink so he’ll likely be asleep for a while, but please be assured we did him no harm.”

“I do not doubt that… Thank you, meldë. You had no better options anyhow.”

“We finished treating the injured one as well. His condition is stable, although he required stitches. With proper care his arm will heal in a few months. If I may ask…” She hesitates, as if choosing her words delicately. “...might those months of his recuperation be spent under our care, my lord?”

Their chatter has attracted Maedhros, who limps towards them with the shadow of his grief casting a heavy darkness over his scarred face. However, he listens keenly- it is likely he already knows about the presence of the boys and the whim of the individual in question who brought them here. When he glances down at the sleeping children he does not falter, but he gives Maglor a scrutinizing raise of the eyebrow all the same.

“I would like to take them back with us to Amon Ereb,” Maglor says firmly. “What is left for them here? Their mother has fled, and their people slain. They will die if we abandon them.”

“They will hinder us,” Maedhros contends, “Amon Ereb is no place to be playing house.”

Maglor scoffs. “What are we to do then? Arrange a parley with Gil-galad and have him pick them up from daycare? His men would most certainly prioritise subduing us over the welfare of two children. I would only go ahead with such a foolish plan if a fourth kinslaying is what you so desire.”

“Do not test my patience, Kanafinwë,” Maedhros says softly. “You can berate me all you want, but are you not doing so to simply justify your guilt?”

“Do not flatter yourself. I merely speak my mind.”

“As do I. And I will continue to do so against the questionable tomfoolery you are displaying. It is very unlike you, and it greatly disturbs me.”

“Nahtas! Colder than ice has your heart grown, and it disgusts me,” Maglor snaps. “Fine then! I will give you a reason to take them. Would you have more use for them as hostages? Tell yourself they are our bargaining chips for Elwing’s Silmaril if it will convince you to let them stay. But I will not have these children left behind. One pair of twins lost to the elements is already one pair too many.”

Maedhros grimaces at his brother’s obvious jab at his failure all those years ago in Doriath; Maglor himself knows it is a low, dirty blow, but it is one he’s willing to make if it will add to his argument. The redhead seethes, his silver eyes burning holes into Maglor that would have made any regular elf quake and beg for his forgiveness, but the minstrel stands his ground. The brothers remain in an unyielding standoff for what seems like hours until the elder of the two breaks their icy silence.

“So be it,” he snarls. “But they will be your liability and your burden. Ilúvatar knows I will have my hands full looking after Telvo-- if only you would extend him the same concern you so oddly harbour for a stranger’s orphaned brats.”

“How dare you!” Maglor cries, rising to his feet. “Why do you think I sang myself to exhaustion not fifteen minutes earlier? How dare you doubt my love for our brother? This and him, they are two different issues entirely-- you absolutely cannot compare them!”

Maedhros steps closer and opens his mouth to argue back, but before what potentially damaging words can leave him and imbed themselves deeper still into Maglor’s heart, a squire steps between them, keeping both brothers at arms length from one another.

“My lords! We should make haste as soon as we can,” he interjects anxiously, making sure the argument cannot escalate any further. “The sun will soon set and by no doubt Gil-galad’s men will be on their way here once the surviving refugees find their way to the cities. Should we make preparations to embark?”

“Of course— you’re right. Everybody, start packing up!” Maedhros bellows. “Quickly wrap up any medical aid being administered to the wounded. I need all able-bodied elves to gather our dead and burn the bodies.”

Before he turns away to make final checks with his generals, he sends Maglor one last conclusive glare that drips with seething hostility. The minstrel bites his lip, furiously averting his gaze back to the two sleeping children by his feet. As he gingerly makes to pick Elros up, he fails to notice that his own hands are shaking so badly he can hardly move them coherently until the same medic from before offers him a sympathetic pat on the back.

“There are more important issues to dwell on for now, my lord. Shall I help you lift the children into the wagon?” She gestures to the aforementioned vehicle, which they had set aside earlier for use of transporting the wounded. “I doubt they could ride with us on the horses in their current state, and they’re small enough that they should not take up too much space”

He offers her a shaky smile. “That would be appreciated, meldë. Thank you.”

He takes a deep breath to clear his mind and decides to focus only on the journey ahead. Once they manage to tuck Elros and Elrond into a small corner of the covered wagon, they step aside to allow a stretcher carrying Amras’ unconscious body in. Maglor stops the procession so he can see his younger brother once more before their pilgrimage back to Amon Ereb. Amras is shivering; at the back of his mind, Maglor sees the weakened shape of his fëa flicker dimly, as if it may go out at any given moment.

Suffocating the heavy thoughts that shroud him, he bends forth to tenderly plant a kiss on his forehead. Quietly he bares his soul to Varda, like he often does in moments of weakness, and murmurs a quick prayer for Amras.