Cold by Cirth

Cold

Read Cold

A/n: This story was originally posted on Fanfiction.net on 29/12/2012.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Silmarillion.

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Cold

Shadow

From the corners of rooms, draped in shadows, Elrond watches him.

He does this at times, out of sheer spite, just so he can fill his little, bitter heart with penetrating darkness, for no amount of hatred is enough for this thing that he refuses to call an Elf.

Small fingers, still plump in childhood, clutch nervously around a table leg as he gazes at the man at his dressing table, getting ready for supper. Elrond's eyes don't blink as Maglor deftly weaves his tresses into a long, tight plait, don't waver as he sets a silver circlet upon his head and stares grimly at his reflection in the ornate, oval mirror. No, Maglor's mouth is not set into a frown, but Elrond has scrutinised him enough times to recognise the little changes in the kinslayer's expression, and to understand what they mean.

If Maglor is aware of Elrond, he never shows it. He goes about his work, keeping his eyes lowered, for which Elrond is secretly grateful. Now, however, Maglor rises from his seat, his fine russet mantle draping to his calves, and flits his eyes towards Elrond's general direction. It only lasts a moment, but Elrond shrinks into the dimness and hunches his shoulders, afraid that the monstrously tall man will bend down and drag him from his hiding place with large, rough hands.

Maglor exits the room quietly, leaving the door ajar.

This is the only time Elrond is nearly caught, and the cool, indifferent gleam in Maglor's eyes infuriates him no end.

---

Rain

The next time Elrond observes him, he does not hide but sits at his window sill, indiscreetly contemplating the lone figure that stands still in the hammering, grey rain on a broad wall of the fortress.

Elros shuffles his feet behind his brother, impatient; he wants to know why Elrond stares at their captor. Elrond doesn't answer; Elros is annoying him. He always annoys him when it comes to Maglor. Elros is too forgiving, too charitable, too willing to cling to the kinslayer's leg in hopeful affection; he is blinded by Maglor's soft smiles and his occasional offers of comfort in his songs or in his arms.

Elros wipes his nose on his sleeve. "Isn't he cold?" he says meekly. "I'm feeling cold even with the windows shut."

"He's technically a full Elf," Elrond mutters nonchalantly, just to make the other boy shut up. "He doesn't feel the cold too keenly." He gets a vaguely odd feeling as he says this, as if he is speaking of an alien species.

But Maglor doesn't look like he cannot feel the cold; rather it seems as though he welcomes its merciless bite. He stands with his feet firmly apart, cloak billowing in the wind, his chin tilted towards the dark, pregnant clouds. His eyes are closed and his lips parted, and if Elrond has to guess, he would say there is a crease between the man's brows.

Maglor's eyes open, and he lifts his open-palmed hands towards the heavens, as if begging or in prayer. His mouth moves, and he looks like he is singing. After a moment his arms fold onto his chest, and he drops his head, his rain-drenched curls sliding forward to cover his bloodless face.

Elrond twists his lips in distaste and jumps off the sill, and pulls the curtains shut.

---

Age

Maglor is playing the harp – a rarity. Elrond has heard him play only a handful of times, and before this has never stopped to listen carefully.

The musician sits cross-legged on the floor and languidly rests his head against the wall. His hands stray across the strings, and the music that is coaxed out with his nimble fingers is...well, Elrond has nothing to say about it, save that it wants to make him weep for grief and beauty.

Elrond is, for a time, begrudgingly lost in the melody, and is luckily yanked out of his thoughts by a door that slams open. Maedhros storms into his brother's chamber, his eyes hard as flint and his hair unbound; he had probably been resting. Maglor, as if he hasn't heard the other man's arrival, does not stop playing.

Maedhros glares darkly at him, and strides forward and grips his shoulder in an iron fist. Elrond watches, quivering in fear, as Maglor stays his hands and calmly raises his head, regarding his brother with disinterest.

"Cease that music," Maedhros spits, "before I slap you."

Elrond, now truly terrified of what may befall, chews his lip till he nearly draws blood, and almost cries out in protest when Maglor replies coolly, "I will not." As much as Elrond despises both kinslayers, he has no desire to see bloodshed; he's already beheld more of it than is healthy for a young boy. He flinches back when Maedhros raises his only hand, and waits for the sickening sound of the blow that is to follow, akin to that of beating meat.

But it does not come. Maedhros drops his hand back on Maglor's shoulder and looks at him imploringly. "Brother..." Maglor is unmoved, though he sets his lyre patiently on his lap, as if waiting for Maedhros to finish. The elder's voice, when he speaks, is thick with emotion: "Please...I cannot bear it."

"You would forget our mother's songs?" Maglor murmurs, pushing back the other's loose, wine-coloured hair with a hand bereft of jewels. "Maitimo."

Elrond swears he's never seen them look so young.

---

Familiarity

Elrond is confused. He watches Maglor at an arm's length, looks directly into his eyes, searches for some kind of answer, some kind of truth. Maglor winces, eyes shifting to the raw, ugly laceration above his left elbow, and Elrond can only think itwasmeantformeitwasmeantforme,damnyou! The Orc attack had been sudden and unexpected, and had left two soldiers dead. A hunting trip to the forest of Taur-Im-Duinath had taken a turn for the worse, and Maedhros looks like he wishes he had listened to Maglor when the latter requested that the Half-elves be left at the fortress for safety.

Elrond's eyes drop to the bloody, black arrow that lies on the ground beside them. Maglor had pulled it out of his arm, inspected it, and muttered, "No poison. Lucky." He doesn't look lucky with a gored limb and a broken ankle, sitting pitifully on the grass as if he is totally helpless.

Maglor's gaze his almost as confused as his own, somehow; he looks at him apprehensively, his aristocratic features contorted in puzzlement. Elrond barely comprehends his brother, who falls to his knees by his side and wails like a lost puppy, or Maedhros, who gives curt orders to the rest of the company.

Maglor flits his eyes downwards. Elrond does the same, and draws a sharp breath. His hand is clutching the man's like a vice, as if he does not want to let go. He quickly withdraws his fingers and forces defiance into his face. He tries to muster all his anger, all his frustration, and attempts to push Maglor hard in the chest, never mind his wounds, but Maglor easily stops his small fist in a gentle but firm grip. "Enough, Elrond," he says quietly. "Enough."

Elrond bends over and weeps shamelessly because the kinslayer reminds him so much of his father.