The Starlit Sky by Cirth

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Chapter Eight

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Chapter Eight

Had anyone in Sirion asked me if I would spend most of my adolescence in my enemy's stronghold, I would have laughed and declared him insane. Yet it is often the way of things that nothing turns out quite as planned, for good or ill. My proud father would not have looked upon my crumbling home – for home it grew to be – with anything other than horror, or scorn, at least. As to my mother – she was always mild-mannered, and would likely force a smile to hide her discomfort. Yet, for all I cared, they could sing their laments to the skies for the rest of their days. My affections were reserved for the denizens of Amon Ereb. I could count the number of particularly unpleasant experiences I had there on one hand, and hoped to keep it that way.

I had not forgotten Sirion, but I tucked away its memory in the back of my mind, and it seldom came to consciousness without my will. I'll admit my dreams were every so often stained with crimson, as they still are – and in fact they are more frequent now. If I could not forgive the Fëanorians, I was still willing to understand them, though little then was left to understand, or so I felt. But I will return to that later, else I may end up spewing more words than I ought.

I became an apprentice with the healers, and never regretted my decision, though I continued my other studies. My days were often spent with my nose in a book, and as a result my fingers were often stained pale yellow. Sometimes, thanks to my obsessive study sessions, I would get so engrossed in my work I would forget to eat. Then I would trundle down into the kitchens to fix myself a miserable meal of stale bread and vegetables. If I was lucky, one of the cooks would still be there, and I would beg him to make me a small meal since I'd be too tired to do it myself.

One morning in the early summer I came bounding down the stairs into the courtyard to locate my elusive brother. I was stopped several times on the way by people who offered me a shake of the hand or a clap on the back in congratulations. "Ho-ho! You'll be there tomorrow, eh, Master Elrond?" laughed Agorael, wiping his grimy hands on a drab kerchief. He then shook me so roughly by the shoulders I'd have tumbled down the stairs were it not for his grip on me. "Bit of a pity if you miss your own begetting day, staying locked up in your chamber and all?"

"Hardly," I replied, offering a grin. "I may love my books, but not more than my begetting day celebration."

I was to be eight-and-twenty on the morrow, almost grown as far as anyone could see. My maturation had been a surprise, what with everyone being unfamiliar with half-elves. By the time I was eighteen you could have mistaken me for an adolescent human. "If you are asking me to explain this, Elrond," Maglor had told me, scrutinising me from head to toes, "you are going to be disappointed. But you are healthy, and growing tall, and I suppose that is what matters." He had sounded somewhat unsure of himself, and there was a crease in his brow.

After I escaped Agorael, I found Elros stretched out on a stack of hay outside the kennels. His eyes were closed, and one hand lay on his chest. He seemed to be in the blissful midst of sleep. "You ill-mannered lout. Do you mind acting like the revered prince you are?" I said, reaching up and yanking his hair. His response was as I hoped: he squealed, cursed fantastically – earning a roar of good-natured laughter from a cluster of ellyn nearby – and fell off the hay. He landed on his side but jumped up immediately.

I raised my eyebrows and said, "Hardy rogue. But I am disappointed in myself; next time I will try harder."

"Elrond!" he complained, rubbing his arm. I winced at his voice. It had cracked when he was seventeen, and for the next few years he walked about sounding like he had gravel stuffed down his throat. Three summers ago it finally grew smooth and deepened, and acquired a resonant quality not unlike our father's. Later he would make a fine, disciplined commander, but now, he was as much of a brat as you could have wished to avoid. "Confound you! What do you want?"

"I want you to get dressed, for we have a training session with the famed lords of Amon Ereb today." We had begun to learn the art of the sword and the bow at the age of ten, and maintained a rigorous weekly schedule of physical activity. Fantastic purple bruises in the most extraordinary places had become a banal fact for us. We bore them much the same as we bore the tiresome flies that buzzed about our ears in the hot season.

Elros massaged his scalp. He had taken to wearing his hair short, in the manner of the Secondborn, so that it brushed the tops of his shoulders. It was matted and dirty now, and he would have to wash it later. When clean, it framed his sharp-featured face well, highlighting his high cheekbones. I had chosen to keep my own hair long, and it touched the small of my back even when I wore a plait; I was horrified at the thought of cutting it. My brother sometimes accused me of vanity, but I thought 'dignity' was a better term. What self-respecting elf, I thought, walked about with his hair cut off, like some shamed thrall?

"When do we have to meet them?" Elros asked me, reaching down to straighten his sandal, which had loosened from the fall. His bare arms were slender, but rippled with muscle; he loved all manner of fighting and riding. For all I know, he never got over the fact that I was better at swordsmanship, even when I worked less hard at it than did he.

"Half an hour," I replied. "And, for pity's sake, do not sulk if I beat you." I dodged a swift kick aimed at my shin and bolted up the stairs, laughing. Once in my room I quickly changed my clothes and brought out my sword from my cabinet. It had been made by one of the blacksmiths some years ago, and was light and tough; it gleamed like moonlight on water. I would not admit it, but at the time I loved wielding a blade almost as much as I loved studying.

I went to the clearing in the south, where our training sessions usually took place. My brother, the Fëanorians, and a few other people were already present. Elros had donned his leather armour, and was leaning against a wall. Maedhros stepped forward and said, "Warm up, both of you. Elros, you will be first."

The lad was one of the younger soldiers; he grinned and nodded at my brother, who smirked in return. When we had finished stretching, I stood back, and the sparring began. We used wooden swords, and they made a loud clacking noise every time they met.

"Stop looking at your wrist, Elros," Maglor called. He was watching with sharp eyes, his arms folded across his chest. I never saw him so serious as when he was fighting or playing the harp. One may not have expected the former; my first impression of him was that he could not hold his own in battle. Later I learned, to my surprise, that he could wield a war-hammer with rather extraordinary skill. Not the small one that you could mistake for a kitchen tool, but the great hefty sort that looked like it could smash a young tree in half. Maglor danced with it in his hand as if he were a ribbon. I myself felt like a lumbering fool when I tried to swing it, and my first attempt at using one ended with two broken toes.

All of a sudden I caught sight of a young elleth gazing at Maglor shyly. I recognised her; often I would find her doing this, though he rarely seemed to notice her.

"Eyes over there, Elrond," Maglor said in a sharp voice, gesturing at the sparring youths. His look said, "What is wrong with you today?" I felt my cheeks go pink, and returned my attention to the match. Elros' opponent was winning, but only by a hair's breadth – my brother was fighting bravely. When neither showed any signs of backing down, Maedhros called for a halt and nodded his praise.

By the time the session was over, I was covered in sweat and panting. I had fought four men, one of them my brother, who had managed to knock me to the ground. "Ha!" he cried. "There you go, Elrond! That is what you get for being a braggart." I brushed him off and stood up.

Stripping off my armour I ambled over to Agorael, who had been watching us. "What did you think?" I asked him. "I think you're pretty good," he replied, "though you need a bit of fine-tuning. I suggest you ask Lord Maedhros for some advice. Then again, I'm just a keeper; I don't know much of fighting and all, if you'll pardon me."

I looked at the elleth I had noticed earlier and said, "Do you know who she is?"

Agorael arched an eyebrow. "Ah, so you've noticed, too. She works in the scullery. Poor thing's wasting her time, and she knows it."

I laughed. "Why do you say that? Because she is too young? Personally, I think a few hundred years is old enough."

It was a joke, and a poor one, but Agorael took me seriously. "No," he said. "Lord Maglor is not that sort of person. You'd have much of a lip to say so, Master Elrond," he added with surprising earnestness. He almost looked offended, mouth drawn in a funny little pout, and I could not hide a grin. "What is wrong with finding a wife?" I said. "It is no crime. I know we are in the middle of a war, Agorael, but I think Maglor really does need a woman. He's been acting like a crab lately, and marriage might do him good."

Agorael peered at me closely, as might a botanist at a particularly fantastic, though odd, flower. "But," he said, "Master Elrond! Why would he? He is already married."

I scoffed, running my hands through my damp hair, massaging my scalp. "Oh, spare me, Agorael. I know he loves his music and his poetry, but there is a limit, you know. Music cannot make up for love; you know this well." My smile faded when I saw Agorael flush red, as if someone had stuffed a centipede down his trousers - or perhaps as if he was embarrassed.

"Agorael. Were you being serious?" I asked slowly. Agorael sighed and rubbed his temples. "I talk too much," he muttered. "Fool, fool, fool! That's what I am. Of the very highest order!"

"Agorael!"

"For pity's sake, Elrond," he said, averting his eyes, "don't dwell on it, and don't say I told you if you do."

"Wait a moment!"

But Agorael was walking away, rubbing the back of his neck.

Stunned, I stood still, the noise around me a buzz in my ears. Maglor had always been a private person, but surely, I thought, a secret he told a kennel master could have been also whispered to me? I would have felt, with the amount of time I spent with him, I knew every musing or desire that played and turned in his mind.

I glanced at Maglor, who was talking with one of the guards. Some moments ago he'd been grave and stern. But, training session over, now he was animated, gesticulating with his long fingers. "...and then he said, dead chuffed, Oh, I think I put too much pudding on my plate. As if he had forgotten he had five children and a wife at the table!" They brayed with laughter and clapped each other on the arms. Maedhros, who was nearby, cringed. He grasped his brother's shoulder and muttered something in his ear. Maglor quietened, but was still tittering, eyes cast down.

Someone tapped the side of my head. Elros. "Quit dreaming and come to the baths," he said. "You can ponder your studies of anatomy all you like there." He skipped away before I could reply. I did not follow. Slowly, people left, draining out of the area, chattering. Maglor did not seem to notice that I remained, and disappeared with his brother. My grew darker with each passing moment.

I wiped my nose and tried to force down the hurt. At that age, I suppose, one finds it difficult to find agreeable anything that does not fit one's idea of perfection. "Stop being irrational," I told myself, aloud, with no one to hear but the wind. "He is under no obligation to share with you every secret of his under the Sun." I stuck out my chin in defiance.

You and me. Elrond and Maglor.

I pressed a hand to my brow, shook my head as if I'd been underwater, and went inside. I had planned to huddle in my small, dank chamber with my books for the rest of the day, but instead found myself advancing towards Maglor's room. He opened his door before I could knock – perhaps he was on his way out – and his brows lifted in surprise. "Elrond!" he said, running his gaze over me. "Wha – what were you doing in the rain? Come inside this instant!" Grasping my wrist he pulled me into his chamber. "No towel," he muttered, looking around, then patting his trousers. "A handkerchief will not do." He tutted, then, as if on impulse, pulled off his tunic, dishevelling his hair, and flung it at me. "Use it!" He walked over to the hearth, kneeled and struck a flame. "Are you asking to catch a chill, boy?"

Annoyed, I said, "I have only caught a cold twice before, both times when I was a child. And do not call me boy. Maglor."

He looked up at me, brows raised. I felt oddly aware of his presence; he stood out against the idiosyncrasies of the room, like a figure in a painting. His bound hair fell like the sweep of a shadow over his shoulder. His taut body was festooned with scars, neither as copious nor as deep as Maedhros', but nonetheless grotesque. They did not repel me; I'd seen them before.

"What is it?" he asked, standing up, puncturing my thoughts.

"I – " I found myself at a loss for words. What was I supposed to say? My expression must have been troubled, for he pursed his lips and walked over, and placed a hand on my arm. He said nothing, but his gaze was understanding. I scowled in return, then dropped my eyes to my feet. A sudden, nameless fear seized me, and I swayed, biting my lip. You and me. Elrond and Maglor.

Maglor gave a soft chuckle, making me start. Then he took the old tunic from my hands, folded it, and wiped the drying raindrops from my face and neck. Holding my hand he ran the now damp cloth over one arm, then the other, and finally placed the shirt on his cluttered table. He told me to remove my clothes. While I did so, he tossed me a set of his own from his cabinet, without looking at me (In my years here I had grown used to nudity – soldiers had no time for shame). When we were both dressed – his tunic was too large on me – he walked over and pulled me into an firm embrace that surprised me in its tenderness. The rain roared against the windows, rattled and shook the glass, but could not reach us. I caught a whiff of fresh, wet earth, mingled with Maglor's muted, musky scent.

"Elrond," he said, patting my back. The way he said it, I might have been his wayward but nonetheless beloved son. I swallowed a lump in my throat, and dug my nails into his shoulder-blade. It must have pained him, but he did not hiss or grimace, and instead carried on in his serene fashion. "You are a fine, young man. I do not doubt you will come into greatness. You will have lands of your own, and a wife and children, and friends aplenty from across Ennor, and your heart will threaten to break with joy."

It was not what I needed – or wanted – to hear. I said in a somewhat hoarse voice, "What about you?"

He was silent. Then he let go of me and held me at an arm's length, his face both sad and stern. "Elrond," he said, "what will everyone say if they see you with me, asking my opinion on everything, sparring with me, placing me above your noble father? They will label you a traitor and a rebel. Do not let my status fall on your head."

"Let them see!" I said, with a vehemence that surprised even me. "I care not for status or privilege!"

"You say that now," returned Maglor. "You will weep when you lose both." He let go of me and stepped away. Then he said, plastering a bright smile on his face, "Tomorrow is your begetting day, and we will celebrate with a feast! Let us think of happier things, and also give our minds to the hunt the day after." He ruffled my hair, and then ushered me out of his chamber.

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Note: Maglor is canonically married, as per the essay 'Of Dwarves and Men', HoME Volume XII.

As to the amount of time Elrond and Elros spent in Amon Ereb, please refer to the note at the end of chapter ten.