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Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien's works.
Ugly Duchess kindly translated this story into Russian.
Reflection
"You are not supposed to be awake."
Elrond shifted on the cold stone stair, making room for Maglor, who sat down next to him. "You're awake."
"I am somewhat older than you."
"I hate the mirror in my chamber."
Maglor looked at him, eyebrows raised in a questioning manner. Elrond dropped his gaze to his knees and picked at a loose thread on his trousers. He curled his grubby toes over the blunt edge of the stair; speaking with Maglor was something he was trying to get used to. His real father was not coming back. "I always hated mirrors. There are so many things about them I can't stand. It sounds silly, but I have a fear of falling through to the other side."
Everything would be inverted: people's faces, the landscape, the letters on paper. There was something disquieting to Elrond about reading letters backwards. "And there shouldn't be another me, even if I know he isn't real." He felt embarrassed speaking his fears aloud; he was, after all, twelve years old, and there were darker things in Beleriand than mirrors.
Maglor released a soft laugh. "You have a twin."
"I didn't know that. I'll have to ask my parents about it, if I ever meet them again."
"Cheeky little brat," Maglor said, but he was smiling. The light from the torch flicked across his face, melting the fine scars that threaded across his cheek. He scratched his temple, and then let his head drop back, releasing a sigh. "I am guessing you will not be going back to bed?"
"I doubt it," said Elrond. "It is almost morning, anyway."
Maglor tapped his finger on his knee. "Do you want to go out and take the air?"
Elrond paused, and chewed his lip. Guilt pulled at his chest; he should not have been growing so friendly with a Fëanorian.
"It is an offer, not an order," Maglor said.
Elrond drew a long breath, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "I'll come."
Maglor gave him a black shawl from his cabinet, and took a green one for himself; from his desk he picked up a small tin. They stole up the winding staircase of the east wing of Amon Ereb, out onto a broad balcony, high above the earth. The air was cool and crisp, and carried a faint scent of dew. "Do not sit close to the edge," Maglor said. There was no railing. "If you fall off, you'll die."
"Cheerful words to start a morning with," said Elrond.
They sat cross-legged on the floor and watched the sun edge above the horizon, staining the dark sky with streaks of saffron-gold. Maglor opened his tin and offered it to Elrond, who poked his nose in it and sniffed. "I like ginger biscuits more than I care to admit," Elrond said, taking one out and munching on it. The flavour was sharp, but softened with the rich taste of butter.
They polished off the tin by the time the sky grew pale blue. Elrond felt oddly warm and peaceful, comforted by the silence and the knowledge that he was safe. "Let us go to the great hall," said Maglor, brushing some crumbs off his lap. "Breakfast will be served soon, and my brother will grow moody if he does not see us there."
"I thought he was always moody," muttered Elrond, before he could stop himself.
Maglor laughed, and stood up. "He is." He grasped Elrond's hand and pulled him up. It was then that Elrond realised he had, for a time, entirely forgotten mirrors and other twisted things that should not have existed.
They entered the great hall just as Elros trundled in, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He looked at Elrond and gave a lopsided smile. "G'morning," he said sleepily.
Elrond glanced at Maglor, who had gone to speak with one of the grooms by an unlit fireplace. "Good morning," he returned quietly.
It was.
-end-