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It was the first year they even considered celebrating Yule, at Amon Ereb. There seemed little point, before the children; then, that first year, when the boys were yet skittish and heartsick, well, they did not dare ask.
But this year, when the leaves had begun to turn, Elrond had said to Maglor, his eyes big and pleading:
“Yuletide isn’t so very far away, is it? We had better get ready. We need mince pies, fruitcake, rice porridge. You have to leave food out for the forest-spirits. Or they might burn down your house and kill your cows. One year, we put almonds in the porridge. They were so pleased, they left us a whole pig!”
Well, Maglor could hardly say no to that.
So, Yuletide came, and Cook made Yuletide cookies, and mince pies, and fruitcake, and Maglor had the boys write letters to the forest-spirits (for there was no festive occasion that Maglor couldn’t ruin with tedious assignments). The halls were decked with boughs of holly, and the whole village was invited to the great feast.
The night before, the boys cleaned out their boots and left them on the windowsill for the spirits to fill with gifts, if they felt generous. And, in keeping with the traditions of their people, they offered the spirits two steaming bowls of rice porridge. With almonds.
“What did you have to trade to get almonds, in this place, at this time of year? One of Father’s rings?” Maglor poked his brother while the children set out their tributes.
“Just a length of his chain. Nothing special.”
Maglor stared at Maedhros. A length of chain, made by Fëanor’s hand—well, such things were rare and precious, these days. “You could have traded for an entire pig, you know,” muttered Maglor.
The boys came back inside, pink-cheeked, eyebrows flecked with snow. “Off to bed with you, now. It’s a big day tomorrow!” He kissed each of them good-night and released them to their nurse.
“Why buy the pig, when I can get the spirits to bring me one for free?” asked Maedhros, a glint in his eye. The children were out of earshot. “Off to bed, eh?”
Maglor met his brother’s gaze. The nights were terribly cold. “One shouldn’t sleep alone,” said he, stretching ostentatiously. He excused himself.
Maedhros followed mere moments behind.
The next morning was downright merry. The children shrieked over the humble gifts they found in their boots—a rag doll, a carved wooden sea-bird, some hard candies, matching pocketknives that once belonged to another pair of twins. They joined in the blessing when Maedhros and his men brought in the Yule Log. Everyone threw a spring of green into the fire. With it, they said a few simple words to banish the past year’s woes.
Once the log was burning bright, the wassail was poured, grand toasts were made, and the singing of songs and telling of tales began.
It turned out to be a fine feast. Someone, mischief in his heart, even brought a mistletoe bough, and took great delight in surprising couples unawares, holding the bough above their heads, and demanding they kiss, to everyone’s great entertainment.
That was when Elrond and Elros decided to get into a fight.
“I do too remember.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do!”
Elros whirled on his brother. There was something of the Yule Fire in his eyes, hot and sparking. “You don’t remember Daddy kissing Mommy under the mistletoe, because you don’t remember Daddy at all!” He got right in Elrond’s face. “Neither of us do! So stop lying!”
“I’m not lying. I promise I’m not!” Elrond pushed Elros away.
Elrond was on the verge of tears. His twin’s fists were clenched, ready to brawl. Maglor, drunk as a skunk, was too busy strumming out a maudlin tune on his mandolin to realize anything was wrong.
Someone should do something. Someone should intervene. Someone should cause a distraction, so the boys could forget their quarrel. For what did it matter, anyway? Their parents were long gone. What difference did it make, a memory, a story, a lie?
Maedhros sighed. Yet again, it was up to him to save the day. He set down his goblet. He pushed back his chair. He stood.
The chatter and clamor of the Hall quieted some, as the people thought, perhaps, their Lord wished to make another toast, or tell another tale of heroic days long past.
Instead, he strode over to the fellow with the mistletoe and took it from him, wordless.
Then Lord Maedhros went to his brother, his boots heavy and purposeful, echoing in the Hall. Maglor was so deep in his cups, he didn’t notice his approach until he was nearly on top of him. When he looked up from his instrument at last, his eyes were bright with self-pitying sentimentality. They lit on the sprig of mistletoe that Maedhros dangled above his head.
Maglor’s shock was palpable.
And he had no time to think or stop what was about to happen—
Before he knew it, Maedhros had swept him up in his arms, bent him backward, and kissed him hard and deep, mouth open, eyes closed, his big tongue finding his way inside. And Maglor could only moan, only whimper, clutch his brother’s broad back to him, feel his warm body, alive and beating against his own.
The Hall went completely silent.
Elrond’s mouth hung open.
Elros loosened his fists. He covered his face as the two Fëanorian brothers proceeded to make out beside the Yule-fire, on the darkest night of the year, their great shadows dancing over the entire room.
“Do you think that’s a Fëanorian tradition? Or something all the Eldar of the west do?” Elrond asked, still staring, aghast.
“I don’t care,” said Elros. “I’m not doing it.”
And he turned his attention to his figgy pudding, inwardly resolving to never, ever ask about Fëanorian traditions.
There were some things Men were not meant to know.