A Powerful Illusion by Himring

Chapter 1: The Boy

The boy hovered in the corner of the room, trying not to fidget and draw attention to himself, trying to find some task that needed doing and would serve legitimately to keep him in the room. In a moment, he thought, his lord would notice that he was still there and dismiss him, telling him he did not require anything else just now. But Aphadon had sensed something was not right the moment Lord Maedhros had re-entered his chambers.
He was feeling on edge in any case, so excited to be travelling away from the Marches for the first time in his life that he felt a little sick inside. Lord Maedhros obviously knew, in the slightly alarming way in which he seemed to know or guess most things, and had begun making reassuring noises when Aphadon was around, casual remarks that required little or no answer. Aphadon had been quick to recognize the tactic this time; when he had first joined Lord Maedhros’s household, it had taken a while before those reassuring remarks penetrated the fog of bewilderment and awe that surrounded him and he realized that they were really and truly aimed at him, Aphadon.
Maedhros was not saying anything now and perhaps in itself that had alerted Aphadon to the fact that something was wrong. Maedhros sat, his chair turned half away from the dressing table, looking meditatively at his crossed ankles—or maybe he was listening for something? But if he was, what was he listening for?
Somewhere in the distance, at the end of an echoing corridor, a door banged, sharply. Maedhros raised his head.
‘Aphadon’, he spoke softly, in warning, ‘I believe we may be about to receive a visitor.’
Aphadon could hear heavy steps, as of someone storming down the passage towards their apartment, and hastily launched himself toward the anteroom. He made it to the door just as a fist crashed against its timbered panel. He took a deep breath and quickly and carefully opened the door. His gaze went up…
‘It is the High King, my lord’, he said, not even embarrassed by the way his voice rose into a squeak. Even those a great deal older and braver than he was would surely have blanched at the expression on King Fingolfin’s face.
‘Thank you, Aphadon’, said Maedhros behind him.
Aphadon jumped out of the way as Fingolfin strode across the threshold.
‘Uncle’, said Maedhros. ‘I was wondering whether you would wish to discuss things further with me.’
‘I trusted you,’ barked the High King. ‘I was so sure of you that I didn’t even ask you…’
He stopped, as if startled by his own words.
‘Aphadon’, said Maedhros, ‘go down to the kitchens. Fetch some red wine and white bread for the High King.’
Aphadon hesitated. The High King did not look to him as if he had the least intention of sitting down and sipping a glass of wine. In fact, a moment ago he had looked more as if he was about to go for his nephew’s throat.
The kitchens were a long way off. Clearly, Maedhros’s intent in sending him there was to get Aphadon safely out of the way. Aphadon’s loyalty to his lord would normally have exacted unstinting obedience to his requests but, much as the High King terrified him, he wondered whether his duty in this case might not be to disobey. Of course, there would not be all that much he could do if the High King really should go so far as to attack his lord, but…
‘Aphadon’, said Maedhros gently, ‘go’— and he felt Maedhros’s palm between his shoulder blades, giving him a little shove. Aphadon reluctantly went out and shut the door behind him, leaving uncle and nephew facing each other.