Maglor's Star by Cirth

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

 A/n: This fic is inspired by a short story in Rabindranath Tagore's collection, "The Crescent Moon". Maglor would be around two, while Maedhros would be closing in on fourteen.

Káno - Makalaurë/Maglor

Nelyo - Maedhros

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise.

Maglor's Star

I look up at the winking stars and catch my brother's hand. Telperion's glow is settled lightly upon the lush grove outside our house, and the trees, black at this hour, are touched with a silver light that illuminates their idiosyncrasies. The scene looks more like the work of an artist, an imitation of nature – not a lie, but rather an attempt at truth – rather than something created by Yavanna's holy hands.

"Look, Nelyo! The stars are so close tonight. Will you climb that willow and bring one for me?" I point eagerly to a large, dipping tree with its branches brushing the dewy grass, like a stooping but hale old man wearing shaggy robes.

My brother looks down at me and inclines his head to one side. "You are so silly, Káno! The stars are too far away! You do make the most outrageous requests."

I scowl contemptuously and give his hand a shake. "I do not! When Mother stands her face seems far away, but when we stand on a table we can kiss it!" Maitimo is a good brother. He is always making drawings for me and brushing my hair, and he listens patiently when I pluck the strings of the wooden harp that Father made for me. Still, he can be obstinate when he wants to; we usually end up doing what he wants, and sometimes he says the strangest things. Like now.

"You are silly, Káno," he repeats with self-importance, and twirls a strand of his curly hair with a finger. "The stars are bigger than even Aman, and they only look small because they are far away."

I hit him lightly on the arm. "No they're not! How can anything be so big that it seems small?" I had never heard anything so preposterous.

Nelyo sighs and shakes his head, and arches an eyebrow; he does that whenever he is feeling particularly clever. Once, when I was making a drawing of a leaf, he leaned over my shoulder, raised an eyebrow, and said, "That just looks like a green oval."

But I am feeling needy, and I want him to show his love for me. And what better way to show love than catching one of Lady Varda's stars? "They are so close, Brother. Bring one for me," I plead. I imagine keeping my iridiscent gift in a coffer with an embossed stag on the lid, which Haru Finwë gave me last summer, and never looking at it save on occasion, because that would make it still more special.

But he only lifts me up clumsily from under the arms, peers into my face, and says, "Oh, Makalaurë, a silly child you are."

 

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Chapter End Notes