The Hammer Does Not Fall by Cirth

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise.

The Hammer Does Not Fall

Chapter One

His brother moved between the worlds, or so Maedhros heard. Like a miser clinging to his last piece of dull copper, he was little more than a body clinging desperately but vainly to a spirit. So Námo apprised him, and so the keen-eyed Telerin elves aboard this grey ship muttered during their dinners, their breath rancid against each other’s cheeks, when they thought Maedhros was not watching them. “For surely he still sings,” they said with sneers, as if Maglor’s was a lamentable attempt at penitence. Perhaps it was. Maedhros still wanted to grasp them by the scruffs of their necks and cast them into the cold, choppy waves below. They would squeal like pigs, their flared nostrils sucking in stinging salt-water. He could do it; he was solid as a twisted oak and as strong. But he was only recently resurrected, and even toying with a paper-knife could earn him curses and dour stares. An attempt at murder would ensure he remained in Námo’s Halls till the end of Arda, and he could not risk that. Not now.

The deck slanted abruptly with an imperious wave, made him look up from his position against the railing, and despite himself his breath caught. How long had he been standing here, senseless to everything but his reverie? The shoreline was perilously close, and he could discern from a distance copses of trees, disquietingly still; bone-white sand, moulded into undulations by the water; what might have been the remains of jellyfish, or other washed-up rubbish.

Gulls screamed shrilly overhead; they pined narcissistically for attention; they sounded like wailing children (oh, Sirion, Sirion). He felt his heartbeat quicken, his breathing grow laboured. His blood beat rhythmically in his ears, and he could hear Ennor, Ennor, Ennor in its steady pounding. And once again he had come to retrieve something that was his, something he still considered his, and something he may not have gotten back. For Maglor was here, or so Ossë informed him in Valinor.

He had only just begun to work as a scribe for a freelance poet, Lindaiwë, to learn a living in Tirion. Much to Maedhros’ dudgeon, the Valar decreed he not stay with his remaining family but earn his own living, in order to display to the citizens of the Blessed Realm his repentance and his integrity. Business was rather slow, since the poet was largely unknown (and hence in desperate need of a scribe) and because Maedhros had to hastily master the vernacular Quenya, which differed slightly from the versions he used in his youth and in Beleriand. Lindaiwë’s general ineptitude and Maedhros’ own status as a kin-slayer did nothing to ease matters. They made an odd, awkward team, and Maedhros was usually only too content to traipse back to his small wooden cottage in the evening and collapse onto his threadbare, creaking bed. He hardly had enough money to scrape together two decent meals a day, but it was enough for him, and anyway he was welcome to eat, if not live, in his mother’s house outside the city.

To make matters worse, there had been something of a population explosion…

The Telerin elves cupped their hands around their mouths and hollered for the anchor to be dropped, and Maedhros started out of his thoughts and, in anticipation, clenched his right fist, which was granted with his new body, identical to the one he had in his youth. Tall and strong was he, with the grace of a stallion, and wavy, wine-red hair framed his fine, patrician face. His sharp, subtly slanted eyes glowed like embers beneath a wide clear brow. Yet a scowl remained fixed on his lips, for his features were no longer a source of pride. In his careless youth in Valinor he was vain, and knew his form to be memorable for its great beauty. He would brush off his brothers’ admiring gazes, which were not entirely without envy, with a wave of his hand, and then ruffle their hair in pompous comfort.

His mind utterly ceased to be occupied with such things the moment he entered Angband and knew true fear. Useless was the name ‘well-shaped one’ in the treacherous face of the Black Foe. And he noted with disdain, after his re-embodiment, the way he would often draw women’s grudgingly appreciative looks when he walked in the streets, but he said nothing of it. If folk wished to stare, they could stare, for he was withdrawn and cared not for attention.

I swear I will bring you back, little brother.

He was the first to step off the ship, and tapped his foot on the sand as his legs got used to movement on land. The air smelled of salt and wet earth (no, not carmine), and he drew a deep breath before surveying his surroundings. It was the break of dawn, and the beach was lit with a sickly orange glow. In this light the trees ahead appeared black like oil rather than green. He started as he heard flapping wings near his feet. A large gull had landed on the sand and was picking at some limp seaweed. It lifted its head and cawed indignantly at Maedhros, as if demanding he remove his presence.

Maedhros refused to be humoured, his pride soundly vanquishing any hope for drollery, and considered abandoning the elves, along with his breakfast. “You will not find him so soon!” one of them called flippantly, leaning precariously against the banister of the ship. Disgusting, Maedhros thought, and when he began to walk away, the other elf insistently shouted, “You will be more alert if you have food in your belly!”

In half an hour they were breaking their fast on steamed mussels, rice and small, sour oranges. Maedhros ate quickly, almost nauseous at the now-alien feel of food in his mouth, of the chewy, soft flesh of the mussels, the pulpy fruit that made his tongue roll. But the salty stench of the fish was the worst, pervading his nostrils, seemingly thick as frozen grease, and he had to fight not to gag at it. During the first few days after his awakening in Lórien, he had eaten naught but rye bread with weak gruel. His senses were completely overwhelmed after those yéni spent without a body.

After the long ordeal of eating was blessedly over, as he left with his small, leather satchel slung across his torso, the same insolent fellow from before told him, “You will not find him,” and the words made him shudder with suppressed fear and grow angry. He abruptly pushed his hands into his trouser-pockets, muttered, “We shall see,” not quite loud enough for the other to hear, and walked away. The wind stirred his hair, which he had scraped back into a high, severe ponytail. Some strands got in his eyes anyway, and he cursed under his breath.

For hours, Maedhros trudged along the coast, his face twisted into a deep frown. It was silent, save the soft rush of the steel-grey waves and the occasional bird-call. There was no-one, no company except the gulls and the pale crabs that crept unobtrusively along the sand, leaving indentations that were swiftly wiped away by the gentle tide. Cool water licked at his feet, sometimes swirled around his ankles, wetting his light sandals.

I – no, we – have spent years waiting for you, he thought. What is to me a few more hours, or days, or weeks? He had been so sure Maglor would follow him in death. His brother was like a reverent shadow, always by his side, ready to offer a good-natured smile or a disquietingly pitiless sword. Many a time he was the iron pillar that Maedhros leaned against when he felt weak or that he was without hope. Maglor had the uncanny ability to swallow his pride and maintain a level head in the face of maelstrom. To Maedhros, it was his crowning quality. Is he still the same?

Maedhros could only hope so, as a fool did. Ossë had remained tight-lipped and cold about the matter, saying only, “He is not himself.” Maedhros wanted to throttle him in frustration, and it seemed Námo had too, from his irked expression. Yet Maedhros hated them both, hated the Valar for their pitiless hypocrisy, for their small, insignificant acts that they haughtily labelled ‘divine forgiveness’, and his head was so filled with hatred, hatred, hatred he thought it will burst open like the exploding fruit in the forests of Oromë.

His mother wanted Maglor to come back, as did Elrond. Both of them wished to see him, to drink in his appearance as thirsty folk drank cool water. They wanted to embrace him, to touch his hair, his face, to trace with eager fingers the fine lines around his expressive, thick-lashed eyes; they wanted to kiss his cheeks – once on each side, following the old, pointless custom – and breathe in his warm scent of musky sandalwood. Maedhros did not think his brother would smell of sandalwood now.

The sun had dipped low in the sky and the shadows grown long when Maedhros wearily came to a halt and cast his head back in resignation. He sighed deeply and ran his hands over his skull, pressing down his damp hair, and decided he should head back. He had no problem seeing in the dark, but neither did he have a desire for the elves to send a search party for him when they should have been sending one for his brother.

Suddenly he shivered, and realised it had grown cool. He was about to turn his heel when he noticed, from the corner of his eye, a hunched figure perched on a flat rock by the trees, apparently in deep thought. Maedhros squinted at the spidery limbs and the lank, dark hair, long enough to brush the backs of the person’s sharp, bent knees. The overall effect was egregious. Appalling. Nobody should have looked like that. It was unnatural, fit for Orcs or their foul masters. As if sensing his presence, the person lifted his head, and Maedhros gave a shout – for it was Maglor!

"Maglor!" he cried, charging towards him, arms outstretched, all dignity and dourness forgotten. Maglor – is it really Maglor? – seemed startled, and nearly fell sideways off the rock. He jumped to his feet and began to scramble away.

"No, no, Maglor!" Maedhros said in despair, forcing himself to stop a couple of fathoms away from his brother. "It is I! Maedhros!"

Maglor stopped and eyed him warily, pursing his lips. His brow was puckered anxiously, and Maedhros wanted to weep, to embrace him and not let go, to assure him of his safety. “Little brother,” he said gently, extending a hand in what he considered exquisite self-control. “I have been given a new body and granted a new life in Aman. But my heart was sick with worry for you, and the Valar granted me permission to bring you to Valinor. You do not have to stay here!” he added when he noted his brother’s discomfort. “Say something, Maglor!”

But the elf before him remained silent. Maedhros felt he was about to tear his hair and sob in frustration when his brother took a tentative step forward, then another. Finally, when he was within three feet of Maedhros, he lifted a small hand – smaller than it ever was in his manhood – frail as a robin’s wing, and with mild curiosity touched the elder’s cheek. Maedhros remained still, staring with pursed lips. For he was slowly realising, with an expanding sense of horror, that his little brother did not recognise him.

The thin elf with vacuous, half-lidded eyes lifted his chin and said stupidly, “Aah?” and Maedhros thrust his hand away and stumbled back with a dismayed cry. Raising an arm over his chest as if to protect himself, he stared as Maglor – or this thing pretending to be Maglor – plumped to his knees like a child and began to hum to himself, idly drawing patterns on the sand with his fingers, as if his encounter with Maedhros had not occurred.

Maedhros was shocked. No, he was repulsed. Disgusted. He felt more disgusted than he did when he for the first time saw Maglor in the birthing chamber, wet and streaked with blood and spotted with what looked like lumpy wax, the twisted purple umbilical cord still stuck to his soft belly. Maedhros had been cowering behind a table in a corner, so revolted he could not rip his eyes away from the squirming, pink infant. There were some things that were too horrible to look away from.

His brother was a seasoned scholar! A hardened warrior! This could not be Maglor Fëanorion! In his blind distress Maedhros screamed, “Madness does not become you!” as if his brother could understand him and laugh at the desperate joke. Maedhros wanted him to laugh. He wanted him to laugh in his face and get up and dust his knees and say with the disdain of a prodigious artist, Oh Nelyo, do not be a fool, you philistine. Maglor had told him that before.

And he was, he was a fool, because oh fuck, oh fuck, I left him I left him Ilefthimlikethis fuckfuckfuck and Maglor was gaping at him vacantly, as if Maedhros was some kind of curiosity and he was not quite sure what to make of him yet. Maedhros briefly scanned the lines on the sand for any sign of a real pattern or intelligence and found neither. They were just squiggles, such as those a toddler might have made in his boredom.

"Can I bring him back to the ship like this?" he thought vaguely, and reached out and curled his fingers around his brother’s upper arm.

That was a mistake.

Maglor’s eyes darted, alarmed, from Maedhros’ face to his hand – and then he tossed his head back, baring his convulsing neck, and uttered a keening wail, not unlike a wraith’s, and Maedhros quickly let go and stuffed his fingers in his ears because, in the name of all the stars, his brother’s voice was loud. As a baby Maglor was not fussy and cried little, but when he did, the vibrations would at times crack their father’s precious stained-glass windows. It was very peculiar and not a little shocking. As Maglor matured into manhood his voice deepened and acquired a pleasant hint of huskiness, but it also attained a fantastic range which he controlled with exquisite accuracy. And if his little brother had lost that control, he had not lost his range.

Unable to bear the hideous noise, worse than the screech of nails on a chalkboard, Maedhros grudgingly used one hand to try to cover Maglor’s mouth. Maglor scrambled away and ran towards the sea. Maedhros followed him. “For heaven’s sake, shut up!” he cried, grabbing at his elusive brother. Maglor evaded him, surprisingly quick on his feet for someone so frail, and it was only with brute strength and the help of the forceful sea that Maedhros managed to tackle his brother to the soft sand beneath the waves. Maglor thrashed and struggled, his wails subsiding to pitiful grunts, and at length he choked on some salt-water and let out shuddering coughs. He smelled awful, rancid. Maedhros was reminded of rotting flesh. He wondered vaguely what his brother’s insides looked like now, slippery crimson and black.

When a hand struck his jaw, unexpectedly hard, Maedhros made a hasty, rather thoughtless decision. He curled his right hand into a tight fist and rammed it forcefully into his brother’s stomach. The body beneath him stiffened, shuddered, and finally went limp, and Maedhros dropped his head and breathed hard, chest heaving up and down, up and down. Sweat crawled down his cheeks in slow rivulets, and he shuddered. He had knocked Maglor unconscious once before, years ago. It was not an accident.

They were in the settlement in Hithlum his brothers had painstakingly set up after his capture. It was still in its early stages: an incomplete fortress made of grey stone, several tents dotting the area like olive-green turtle shells, the grass withering due to many stamping, hurrying feet. Soot, thick and soft and suffocating, first shooting up from furnaces and then drifting down again to dirty people’s hands and faces. Stonemasons, tacticians, builders about, some of them singing as they worked to heighten their spirits, others swigging golden-brown ale while sitting on stools or coils of rope, gazing at the still, metallic sheen of Lake Mithrim’s surface. It was a cacophony of hammering and chattering and music straying from georgic instruments.

Maedhros was almost healed in body, but he still wore a thick bandage over his stump. His mind was festering, going black around the edges, with the memories of Thangorodrim (there was too much pain to think while he was there), which he desperately, desperately wanted to forget but which treacherously crept into his thoughts whether he willed it or not. He and Maglor were strolling along the lake, as they sometimes did, to increase Maedhros’ previously lost stamina. The long, pregnant silence between them was unbearable. Awful. Maglor kept throwing him furtive glances, lips pursed, looking like a kicked puppy, and Maedhros kept his head rigidly straight, pointedly ignoring the other. He didn’t know why his brother insisted on these useless walks when neither spoke and in any case his legs now had strength aplenty.

When they neared a twisted old willow tree, its branches dipping lightly into the water, Maglor had turned to him, meek as a dormouse, and said quietly, with that infuriating, martyred look, “I will not ask you to forgive me.” For leaving you in Morgoth’s clutches. Maedhros had gone deathly still, peering hard into his brother’s eyes, not to search for any emotion but to intimidate him. Then he growled, “Good, because I won’t,” and, with all his might, had smashed in Maglor’s ribs with his metal-toed boot. There was a thud and spreading carmine and someone was screaming, and Maedhros had walked away without even glancing back.

They forgave each other anyway, because of the circumstances. Because that’s what brothers did. Maedhros wondered if what he had done now was forgivable. It probably wasn’t. But he couldn’t think about that.

What would the Telerin elves do when they saw Maedhros carrying his brother inside the ship, so emaciated one could see his jutting skeleton? They would be appalled. They would try to throw him out, say it was not worth taking this excess, useless baggage back to the Blessed Realm. Or…or should Maedhros have considered bringing him back at all? What was there for Maglor in Valinor save mocking faces and barbed tongues? Was he unhappy here? No, likely not. But then he probably didn’t know what the term unhappiness meant. It was a civilised word used by civilised people in a civilised language.

Almost as an afterthought, he abruptly turned his brother’s hands upwards. They were vomitous, the skin like old, rumpled, brown paper, pus-yellow blisters that had refused to heal dotting the flesh like the spots on a fly agaric. His stomach churned, and he quickly placed his own hand over his mouth in order to stop the nausea.

Punching the wet sand, Maedhros gave a frustrated, angry cry. “Damn it all!” he yelled to the grey, cloud-strewn sky, serenely overlooking everything below, as it always did. “Do you not have mercy, Eru Ilúvatar?” His voice reached naught but the pale rays of the setting sun.

His eyes dropped to his brother’s sallow face. Maglor’s hair stuck to his cheeks like starved leeches, curled and thin and repellant.

They were shocked when he settled Maglor down gently in a large, comfortable chair by a window in the dining room. He sank in despite his negligible weight, and his head lolled unceremoniously to the side. It had not been too difficult for Maedhros to haul his form into his arms and carry him back to the ship. He was still in a faint, and some elves gathered ‘round in a semi-circle with detached, thinly veiled interest, maintaining a safe distance from Maedhros, who at length turned around and said, “Tell someone to draw a bath in my chamber.” No one moved. Maedhros was growing annoyed with their scepticism. “For heaven’s sake, go!” he snapped. They were afraid of him. They scampered off.

Before Maedhros did anything else, though, he asked for a sharp kitchen-knife, which was handed to him with hesitation by another elf, and swiftly cut off Maglor’s long, matted hair at the neck, creating a coarse, rather unappealing effect. He grimaced. He decided he could fix the crude style later. Wrapping the chopped locks into a ball, he contemplated throwing it away, then, after a moment, discreetly tucked it into his satchel.

The chamber he was given was rather small, boasting but a low bed, a tiny bedside table, a window, and a stool, and the wooden tub scarcely fit in the remaining space. Maedhros peeled off his brother’s clothes, which stuck to him like a second skin, and cast them onto the floor in disgust, noting briefly his own need for a bath but brushing it off. Gingerly, he picked his brother up and placed him in the tub, which was filled with beautifully hot water, suffused with the sweet scent of helichrysum. In a short moment of liberty, Maedhros breathed deep and sighed blissfully, the quirk of a smile on his lips.

Making sure Maglor’s head stayed above the water, he began the arduous process of cleaning him. He took a hair cleanser and scrubbed the dirt from his brother’s rough locks, grimacing at the rivulets of filth that trickled down his back. Then, he gently massaged a wet, soapy cloth over Maglor’s face, neck, toes, and the rest of him, watching the skin turn from brown-grey to its original cream-white (Bless the kind soul who invented soap, he thought vaguely), with a growing, odd sense of familiarity. He had, of course, seen all his brothers naked before – more times than he could care to count. He was surprised to feel an affectionate sort of possessiveness, an idea that he alone had the right to invade Maglor’s privacy in such an intimate manner, and realised he had not felt this in a long time.

Nearly an hour later, when he was done and Maglor, now dry and looking more worthy of cultured society, lay on the bed, wrapped in a soft, beige bathrobe, Maedhros stretched and arched his back in satisfaction and tiredness. He had rubbed salve, given to him in Valinor by his mother, over his brother’s hands, and hopefully that would help the pain.

He looked at him again. Maglor’s poor, shorn head gave him the look of a Man, and Maedhros wrinkled his nose at the thought. It was a reminder of mortality, of the fact that life could, in fact, end. It was a concept he was only too familiar with, but Men died like flies whether they were slain or not…

It will grow back.

He had to wait for Maglor to wake up before he could feed him. His own appetite rather gone, Maedhros did not eat his supper, but sat by his brother’s side on the bed, idly turning the pages of a slim volume of verse to pass the time, which seemed to have slowed with the late evening. Presently his mind drifted, and he wondered how his brother had for so long survived on this harrowingly lonely, forsaken shore. He must have acted on a primal instinct to eat and to wash, foraging the beach and the nearby forest for berries, fruits and dead animals. Maedhros’ stomach clenched in guilt and pity, and he grimaced and forced his attention on his reading.

Eventually, dark eyes slowly opened and there was a low groan of discomfort. Maglor squirmed unfamiliar environment before turning his gaze to Maedhros. “Has he grown tame?” Maedhros thought, not moving for fear of startling his brother and causing another distressing wrestle. Apparently, he had. Maglor sat up with some difficulty, his arms trembling with the effort of supporting his weight, placed his hands in his lap, and lowered his eyes.

Maedhros regarded him, and after putting his book down anxiously wrung his hands for a while. Then he picked up a spoon and began to feed his brother warm milk and honey, which he had earlier filched from the kitchen. Maglor had grown surprisingly placid, and drank without complaint, though he was clumsy and uncoordinated, like an infant. Occasionally Maedhros had to wipe away with his finger a spatter of milk from his younger brother’s chin.

When the cup was empty Maedhros placed it on the bedside table and tentatively stroked the other elf’s damp locks. The light from the candles around the room lazily flicked across their faces. “You are such a child,” he muttered softly. “Are you always going to need me to take care of you? To stop you from drowning in your gloomy, artist’s thoughts? Mother always said you were too morose.” As if in reply, Maglor reached out and grasped a strand of Maedhros’ loose hair, tugged downwards. He thrust upon him a look so blank and yet so pleading that Maedhros pulled him into an embrace, fiercely desiring to give him warmth, and wanted – wanted to cry. His chest grew tight. What do I do? How is he going to live this way? Oh, Námo, tell me…

He stiffened, then slowly pulled away from Maglor, looked closely at the impassive, thin face with pursed lips. No. No, no, no. He could not, he could not.

Suddenly filled with loathing, Maedhros gave a great shout and pushed in the chest his brother – who merely blinked in mild surprise – and began to pace restlessly back and forth, back and forth, in the ludicrously small space. He turned to Maglor and cried with hot anger, “You stupid, pathetic idiot! I wish I had never come here! How could I ever love this senseless sack of bones with no memories to speak of?” Then he sat heavily on his stool, put his face in his hands, and wept like he had not passed his tenth summer. He imagined Maglor’s fëa in Námo’s Halls, then his new form in Lórien, then…

Vehemently shaking his head, he muttered lowly to himself, his words like some kind of dark chant, “I loathe you, I loathe you, I loathe, loathe, loathe you.” And then fresh, hot tears spurted down his cheeks, and he buried his face further in his palms in shame, because he could not love anyone more.

He tried to steel himself, drag the weakness from his flesh through sheer will, foundered. But he had to succeed, for there was no other way. His fingers twitched. He had not killed in a long time.

Maedhros raised his head, closed his eyes, and made a desolate, silent prayer to the Valar for aid.

Chapter Two

Maedhros had scrubbed his hands for hours, even after the crimson had washed away and the skin on his knuckles had peeled off. That had been six days ago; he had not slept since. He felt like he was trudging, half-blind, through one, long day. Remorse had made a home in his guts and refused to leave.

Groaning, he hauled himself up. Around his waist, the tumbled, cotton blanket was warm and damp with sweat. His limbs felt like lead, and an ache hammered behind his eyes.

He wondered if this was how Maglor had felt when he refused Morgoth's offer of returning Maedhros alive. Under the circumstances, choosing the lesser evil was as heroic as choice as Maglor could have made; heroism outright was a luxury only those free of responsibilities could have afforded.

Thrumming beneath all this was Maedhros' worry that he had made a dire mistake.

The Valar, of course, were taking their time in deciding whether his forgiveness – if it could be called that – should be retracted. Maedhros had been obliged to sit in at their "discussion", which was more like a mishmash of conflicting arguments, for a day and a half, and their endless nattering had bored him almost to anger. He was more concerned with the thought that Maglor might not be re-embodied. He could manage wandering the Halls of Mandos till the end of Arda, but his brother deserved to feel the sun on his back again.

Maedhros swung his legs off the bed, giving up all hope for a night's sleep. Idly, he glanced around. The chamber boasted a low bed, a creaking desk, and a small oak-wood cabinet for clothes. Elrond had been magnanimous, considering the circumstances; no one wanted a kinslayer in any lord's house, and Elrond had offered him lodgings on short notice.

Earlier that day, Maedhros had galloped to Elrond's house with the intention of having a hopefully (but unlikely) short chat concerning Maglor. When he arrived, he stabled his bay horse, tramped about the manicured grounds, and generally tried to avoid encountering Elrond at all. At length he had collided with a surly, dark fellow called Erestor in a hallway, scattering a sheaf of important-looking papers, and the ensuing string of curses had drawn Elrond's attention.

Elrond had soothed Erestor with a pat on the shoulder and, graciously, not badgered Maedhros with questions. "You can stay the night," he had said with a somewhat tight smile that suggested he was trying to prevent a scene. Maedhros, at the back of his mind, was proud that his brother's foster-son had gained such self-control; at Amon Ereb, Elrond would have jumped up and demanded an explanation, and damned the consequences. Nevertheless, Maedhros could detect the shrewdness in Elrond's actions; he would be happier to speak after a night's rest and a couple of hot meals.

A great lord indeed, Maedhros thought, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, with more diplomatic skills than those of five of my brothers combined.

Since there was nothing else to do, he replaced his nightclothes with a tunic and breeches, tied his hair in a tight knot, and exited the room. He began to wander the house, taking in the checkered floor and the dark, wooden beams on the ceiling. The light was strange to him, and he found himself gazing at ordinary objects, wondering at their faded colours. The marble bust of Varda seemed like an old memory.

He had only ever beheld Valinor under Treelight and starlight. Stopping in a hallway, he looked out one of the tall windows, at the pale, yellow sickle moon that hung in the sky.

For once, he found himself enjoying the solitude. Since Angband, nighttime had been only a source of loneliness and fear for him, and he had often gone without sleep, choosing to keep himself busy with accounts or reading. At times he would wake Maglor and they would sit together on the roof, not speaking, but basking in each other's company. Maglor never complained, no matter the hour, and never asked why.

A light footfall made him turn his head, and he found Elrond advancing towards him. "A bit early in the day for a stroll," Elrond said with a soft smile. There was an oil lamp dangling from his hand, and he was clad all in white.

When Maedhros did not reply, Elrond continued, "Would you like to join me for some tea? I did not have dinner."

Neither had Maedhros; he had been in his chamber, lying on his bed and thinking about how he would deliver his reasons. He said, "Did you have work, or were you anxious?"

"A bit of both. Come to the kitchen with me."

It was not a request. Maedhros was almost impressed that he felt obliged to obey. He followed Elrond in silence, watching the sway of his dishevelled ponytail. They entered the spacious kitchen at the back of the house, and Maedhros was surprised to find the braziers lit. He resisted the urge to flap his tunic; the humidity made it somewhat difficult to breathe, and there was already a sheen of sweat on his brow.

Slouched on a wicker stool by a counter was a dark, raw-boned woman, peeling potatoes. She looked up at Elrond and smiled, standing up. "You always guess when I am awake," she said. Then her eyes fell on Maedhros and she made no effort to hide her scowl.

"It is not difficult," Elrond replied. From his tone, Maedhros guessed that the two were quite familiar with each other, perhaps even friends.

Elrond continued, "Though I was prepared to cook, in case you were absent." He brushed off her fond scoff, turned to Maedhros, and said, "This is Iowen, our head cook. Iowen, this is Maedhros."

"Pleasure," Maedhros said dryly, extending a hand.

"Pleasure," repeated Iowen, with a sneer. She took his hand and squeezed it. Hard. Maedhros thought he heard his knuckles crack.

Elrond either did not notice the tension in the air, or chose to ignore it. He said, "Iowen, please make some tea for us, and take extra care of Maedhros. He is tired."

Maedhros did not know how 'extra care' was supposed to be interpreted, but was not entirely comfortable with the way Elrond said it.

Once the tea was prepared, Iowen poured it into china cups, which she set on a tray along with shortbread biscuits. Then she produced a stout, unlabelled bottle from a small wooden cabinet in a corner. It looked like it could have contained alcohol or rat poison. She poured a drop of clear liquid into Elrond's tea and an unsettling amount into Maedhros'. A pungent smell stung Maedhros' nose, and he raised his brows. That, he thought, alarmed, is certainly not wine.

"For our tired guest," Iowen said with a smile that could have rotted one's teeth.

She had Maedhros at stalemate. He was not obliged to be pleasant – that was not part of the conditions of being re-embodied – but considering his circumstances, he could not afford to be rude. And in Valinor, refusing food or drink was one of the rudest things you could hope to avoid doing.

"Have a sip, my dear," said Iowen.

Maedhros did not appreciate being called 'my dear' under any circumstances, least of all by a person who desired his head on a plate, hung as a trophy in some great hall. Suppressing a sigh and forcing a neutral expression, he lifted the cup, blew on it, and took a tentative sip.

Immediately, he hacked, spilling some of the tea – still steaming hot – onto his hand. "That's..." His voice was hoarse. The drink burned like fire in his throat. Either it could bore a hole through wood, or his body was not ready to consume even a mild brew. Suddenly, he understood why Irmo had warned him not to drink for at least a couple of months after he had been re-embodied.

Elrond's impassive expression did not falter. There was not even a hint of amusement in his gaze.

"The alcohol is called 'white lightning'," said Iowen to Maedhros, who was still in the process of expelling a lung. "It was created in Valmar after your father decided to lead the Noldor to ruin, so you would not have tasted it before."

Maedhros blinked to rid his eyes of tears, and ignored the jibe. "It's..."

"Not like Mummy made it?" she said with a curl of her lip.

"Thank you, Iowen," said Elrond firmly, setting down his own cup. "Please bring the tray to the courtyard."

It did not escape Maedhros that Elrond had not said a word in his defence.

They advanced to a wrought-iron table beneath a fig tree in a secluded area of the back garden. Many-coloured lanterns swung from the boughs of the tree, and their light illuminated Elrond's sombre face as he took his seat. The autumn air was fresh and crisp, but Maedhros's anxiety ensured he could not enjoy it.

Elrond waited, hands folded demurely in his lap, till Maedhros had choked down all his tea before speaking. "The rumours say you killed him."

No further need for diplomacy, then. Maedhros idly broke a biscuit in half and blinked a couple of times. He had grown light-headed from the alcohol. "So he could be re-embodied," he said. He mentally cursed himself for sounding like a schoolboy concocting a pale excuse. That alcohol had lessened his control over his tone.

Elrond drew a shuddering breath. "What possessed you?" His voice cracked on 'possessed'. He gripped his empty cup, avoiding Maedhros' eyes; the cup looked like it was going to shatter any moment. Suddenly Elrond seemed the frightened and lonely child who would fall asleep in Maglor's arms.

"You did not see him," Maedhros replied quietly. He swallowed when he recalled his brother's hollow, lightless eyes. No living being should have had eyes like that.

"No, I didn't," Elrond said, looking up with anger in his gaze. "I also did not witness your father's speeches. That is a standard reason, is it not? 'You were not there'? Am I supposed to sit there and passively accept that, as I always have?"

Maedhros put a hand on his head, trying to stop the garden from spinning. Spots of bright light erupted in his vision. He kept his voice steady; it was a gargantuan effort. "You are putting words in my mouth, Elrond. I am not asking you do to anything. I am merely giving you my reasons for doing what I did. What you do – or if you want to do anything at all – is up to you."

Elrond closed his eyes and held his breath. When he opened them again, he smoothed his expression. A fair elvish lord, devoid of rage or hurt or bitterness. For a brief moment, Maedhros wished he could place a comforting hand on Elrond's shoulder, though formality forbade that. It was absurd to expect anyone to perpetually masquerade as a model of nobility.

"Forgive me," Elrond said at last. "I should not have – "

"You are allowed to be angry, Elrond. At least in front of me, you are." Maedhros massaged his temples, trying to get rid of his throbbing headache. Even the soft lamplight made the pain worse. "I know Maglor was like a father to you, and his absence would be a great loss to you. If he is not re-embodied, that is partially my fault. Partially, only because I think the Valar should re-embody him, and it is ultimately their decision." He leaned back in his seat. "Then again, I am biased."

For a long moment, Elrond was silent, studying the half-empty willow pattern plates on the table. Two lines creased his brow, and his lips were pursed. At length he swallowed and said, "The Valar are merciful."

"Spare me."

"They did," Elrond said pointedly, crossing his arms over his chest and looking Maedhros in the eye. "I do not wish to jump to conclusions, but I think we will see Maglor again." He began to clean the dirt from his nails with quick, jittery movements. "Did the Valar tell you when they would announce their decision?"

"They said it would take no longer than ten days."

"Why so long?"

"Because I killed him."

Elrond flinched, and Maedhros immediately wished he had not been so blunt. Then again, Elrond should not have allowed that cook to spike Maedhros' drink; it had loosened his tongue overmuch.

To dispel the tense silence, Maedhros said, "They are unsure as to whether he would have wanted a new life. After all, if he had truly wished for one, he would have tried to attain it for himself. He would not have wandered those lonely shores, punishing himself. That is one side of the argument."

"And the other is that he may not have been in the state of mind to make a sound judgement," Elrond said quietly.

Maedhros nodded, crossing his legs beneath the table. He did not wish to speak further about Maglor's possible re-embodiment; after all, there was no guarantee that he would be able to hold his brother in his arms again.

His eyes fell upon a host of fireflies that floated lazily around a nearby bush. He felt a small smile tug at his lips; he had not smiled in a long time. "Maglor loved fireflies," he said. "Did you know that?"

Elrond shook his head, a somewhat wistful expression on his face.

"He would catch them in coloured jars when we were children. When he found out they died if you kept them like that, he wept. Mother wondered if he had fallen and cut his knees." He scoffed, but not without fondness. "After that, he still caught them sometimes, but only long enough to look at them closely, watch their wings flutter. Then he would let them go."

Elrond began to play with a lock of dark hair from his ponytail. Maedhros' smile grew wider; some things never changed. As a child, Elrond would toy with his hair whenever he was thoughtful or anxious. Most of the time he was both. Except now he had faint lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, and his hands were gentler, and no mischief gleamed in his gaze.

"I hope he will sit in this garden," murmured Elrond at length, as if to himself, "and look upon the fireflies."

Maedhros did not reply, but raised his eyes to the stars.

Note: I have no excuses to make. This chapter is probably riddled with typos, bad writing, and plot holes, but I figured if I didn't post it now I never would. I'll give it a proper look over at some point. Enjoy, if you can.

Chapter Three

A week later, when Maedhros was pounding dough for bread in his cramped kitchen, four raps came at his door; they were brisk and loud, and sounded urgent. He cursed under his breath. After wiping his hands with a dirty cloth, he wrenched open the door. He blinked. "Elrond?" He was so confused that he forgot to extend an invitation to come in. It was the break of day; a scattering of stars still winked against the sky.

Elrond's face was drained of colour. He raked his hands through his hair and took several deep breaths. "We need to talk. And drink."

Maedhros was not in the mood to do either. He was anxious about Maglor, and growing impatient with the Valar. For the past few days he had been fidgety and restless; he had not even made his bed properly or glanced at the letters that had been slipped into his house from beneath his door. "Is it not too early in the day to drink?" he asked, hoping he would not be fed that affront to elvish existence again. Nausea swirled in his gut at the thought, and he fought the urge to place a hand over his mouth.

"Because I can't talk about this without something that will muddle my wits, and you..." Elrond wagged his mouth a few times, and then shook his head. "On second thought, don't drink. But come to an inn with me. The Leaping Lizard."

Maedhros cringed at the name.

"It's about half an hour's walk from here," Elrond continued, ignoring Maedhros' expression. He shuffled his feet and slipped his book into his satchel. "Let us leave now."

The sky grew overcast as they strolled down the white streets. Maedhros felt oddly as if he were floating through a dream; the tall pillars and the roads lined with arching cherry blossom trees did nothing for his humour. He tried to feel angry, but could not. Then he tried to feel happy, and failed. The only thing he felt was vague, nagging bitterness and worry.

By the time they reached the inn, a cold, miserable drizzle had begun to patter down. They ducked through the arched entryway and, after briefly greeting the innkeeper, settled themselves at a table in an alcove. An unlit lantern hung above the latticed window. Elrond ordered a glass of white wine, and then fell silent, tapping his fingers on his cheek

Maedhros leaned back in his seat, crossed his arms, and glanced around. There were a few people already present, wolfing down breakfast or talking in voices still weighed down with sleepiness. He grimaced when a group of young Noldor sitting at the bar suddenly burst into song: it was something about a cat and a fiddle. And spoons. And a cow. Maedhros decided he would have to be deep into his cups before he could remotely tolerate that song.

A cheery waiter in a stained apron brought Elrond's wine, along with a bowl of salted peanuts.

"Easy," said Maedhros, alarmed, when Elrond chugged half his glass in one go. Bad drinking habits disturbed Maedhros somewhat; they reminded him of uncontrollability, of not having one's life in one's own hands. Seeing Elrond this way made him worry more than he wished to admit. Did his foster-son turn to drink when he was upset?

No. Maedhros shook his head. Elrond had too strong a sense of self-preservation – and responsibility towards others – to throw himself into a habit like that. If Elrond felt something was foolish to begin with, he would avoid it.

Elrond put down his cup, his brow deeply furrowed. He fidgeted, looked to the ceiling, and then at the table. Then he pulled the bowl of peanuts towards him, scowled at it, and pushed it to the side.

Fat drops of rain slid down the window. Maedhros cleaned some imaginary dirt from his nails. "Take your time."

"Maglor."

Maedhros looked up at Elrond.

"Maglor will be resurrected," Elrond managed at last, in what sounded suspiciously like pained tones.

Maedhros blinked, and went still. The sounds of clattering plates, clinking cutlery and laughter seemed to merge together and come from far away. He was not sure whether to feel relieved or offended. "Why did you receive this news before I did?" he asked, bewildered.

"I don't know," said Elrond helplessly. He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. "I think the Valar sent official messages only to the lords and ladies of Valinor; but it is perfectly plausible that they sent a letter to your house, and you did not see it. I only found out last night; apparently, the message was delivered last morning."

Maedhros drew a long, deep breath to steady his hammering heart, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "A couple of letters had been delivered to me yesterday, but I assumed they were from Mother or you; I just threw them on a table and did not even look at the seals. I thought – I was sure the Valar would send Eönwë to deliver me news such as this." A surge of bitterness went through his chest. "When will they resurrect him?"

"A fortnight." Elrond cleared his throat. He took another swig from his glass. His hand was shaking. He put his chin in his hand, covering his mouth, and stared at a spot behind Maedhros' shoulder till his eyes grew bright. Someone at the other end of the room shouted for a song, and this was followed by raucous cheers and fists hammering on tables.

Maedhros waited patiently for Elrond to continue. He knew that if he spoke first, Elrond might grow irate or even more nervous.

Eventually, Elrond swallowed, briefly massaged his brow, and mumbled, "He might not have all his memories."

All of Maedhros' thoughts ground slowly to a halt. The idea was so ludicrous, so utterly preposterous, that it did not immediately register in his brain. "What?"

"It is...complicated," Elrond said, appearing to fumble for words. He made vague gestures with his hands, and kept shaking his head. "When Glorfindel was resurrected, he did not even remember how to speak. Gradually, he began to regain all his memories; but it took a good four months. He is still not sure if he has all of them there." He raked his hand through his hair, and his fingers came away glistening with sweat. "Sometimes, he will meet someone who triggers another memory." He glanced up at Maedhros, brow furrowed deeply.

Maedhros was silent for a while. Suddenly, he understood why Elrond had taken him here, and not sat with him in a private chamber; here, there could be no outbursts or arguments without drawing attention. Clearly, Elrond had wanted to keep things quiet and civil ­­– and non-violent.

When the fog in his mind began to break, Maedhros said, "So, it will be like taking care of an infant."

"Not necessarily. It is different for everyone, from what I have seen and read. He might remember everything, or most things."

"Our luck is too poor for that to happen," said Maedhros, massaging his temples. "Between kinslayings, wars, and torture, forgive me if I do not think Maglor will be perfectly normal."

Elrond leaned forward, now looking surer of himself. "He will not be perfectly normal either way. We do not even know if he will be grateful for this. Let us not leap to conclusions."

"He is my brother," Maedhros snapped. "It is only natural that I leap to conclusions."

Elrond dropped his gaze, appearing stung.

Maedhros immediately felt guilt wash over him, and cursed himself for not keeping a hold on his tongue. His own pain was not an excuse for hurting others. "Forgive me," he said in a soft voice. "I am only..." He sighed and rubbed his eyes, at a loss for words. The immense weight of the situation seemed to have suddenly come crashing down on him. His shoulders slumped. He felt weary, as if he had hiked up a tall hill without stopping for rest or food.

"I had a brother, as well," said Elrond. "I can understand your worry, in however limited a manner." Then he looked up at Maedhros, quiet but steely resolution in his gaze. "But I do feel that it is better that we remain calm; nothing will benefit from panic, or from eyes blinded with tears." His frown deepened, and he averted his gaze again. "I have shed enough tears in my life. I do not wish to shed any more."

"Weeping may be inevitable," said Maedhros, though not in an effort to argue. "But my heart says that you are right."

A small smile played on Elrond's lips, and Maedhros, for some reason, felt the weight on his shoulders lessen. "I hope I am," said Elrond. He glanced out the window. "We should leave. Celebrían will want me home."

Neither of them moved. Someone in the inn burst into song, and was joined by a couple more people. Maedhros could have pretended that the Trees still shone on Taniquetil and that he had only come to an inn for food and talk and cheer. Any moment now, someone would thrust Maglor into the middle of the room and merrily demand a song from him.

"Perhaps," said Elrond suddenly, breaking Maedhros' reverie, "it is not my place to say this, but...I wish to see you happy."

Maedhros arched an eyebrow, half-amused and half-disturbed.

"Perhaps you think that you do not deserve to feel happiness again," Elrond continued. He swirled the small amount of wine in his glass, which winked in the light. "But not being happy will not change anything. It will not bring the dead back to life, and it will not raise fallen kingdoms. And...and you are not malicious."

Maedhros barked a bitter laugh.

"You have killed, and that is inexcusable. No amount of time spent in Mandos or some prison can compensate for the taking of even one innocent life. But you took no pleasure in killing, and prevented it when you thought you could." Elrond rubbed his chin. "And my own hands are not unstained."

"You have killed only Orcs."

"Orcs are still living, sentient beings. They are brainwashed or wired to think in a certain way; I am not sure which. But killing them is not an innocent act."

"Is this an inappropriate time to say I am proud of you?"

Elrond smiled. His eyes were sad, and tired, and hollow. "It is. And I am not proud of myself."

"Maglor would not be happy to hear that."

"He will not hear it," Elrond said, in a tone that one did not negotiate with. Maedhros gave a grim smirk and put a finger to his lips. It felt like a pretend-formal agreement between two boys who had only just begun to become friends.

***

Since his re-embodiment, Maedhros made an effort not to avoid his mother. He visited her one misty morning, endured her kisses, and tried to make conversation beyond apologising and explaining himself. He ate the bread she made and plastered a smile on his face. All he wanted to do was go home and huddle in a blanket and worry about Maglor. Then he felt terrible for pretending to enjoy himself, and made his mother tea and offered to rub her shoulders, the way he would do when he was young and wore brighter clothes.

When he met her next, a day after he spoke with Elrond at the inn, she held a letter from the Valar; the envelope was identical to the one Maedhros received. They sat on creaking pinewood chairs in her balcony, which overlooked the garden and the expanse of land beyond. Silver mist, softened by watery sunlight, hung over the endless plains.

Maedhros put his elbows on his knees. He had not wanted to know of Maglor's fate without their mother by his side; the idea somehow felt indecent, almost obscene. "I wanted you to open it; unless you'd rather I did it." He was afraid of what the contents might be, and yet wanted to know them desperately.

Nerdanel frowned at the envelope. A stray lock of hair slipped forward and kissed her cheekbone. She gave the envelope to Maedhros.

He took it and gazed at the seal. Dark red, with the mark of Lord Manwë and Lady Varda. Perfectly round and smooth. It glinted in the afternoon sunlight. Forcing himself not to think, Maedhros slipped his finger underneath the flap and ripped it open. It sounded so cartoonishly ominous he almost laughed.

The message was written on a single sheet of crisp paper. For a moment the letters blurred and drifted, as if Maedhros were in a dream. Then he shook his head, gripped the paper harder, and began to read, his heart clattering against his ribcage. His shoulders began to relax when he realised it was much like the letter written for his own re-embodiment. There were a lot of long, convoluted sentences, grand words, and thinly veiled dubiousness – all typical of the Valar.

"It says he cannot request to return to Mandos, unless he is, for some reason, already fading," Maedhros murmured without looking up. He could feel the weight of his mother's gaze on him.

"Why not?"

"It does not explain. I assume it is because..." He paused, and shifted his gaze towards the garden.

Around the house hung a thick silence, broken only by the chattering of birds. It was not the silence of a home that was full and warm. Maedhros could not imagine enjoying a book in this kind of quiet; he could barely imagine sleeping in it.

"When is he to be re-embodied?" asked Nerdanel.

"Less than a fortnight. I suppose they are giving us time to prepare."

"Where will he live?"

With me, Maedhros thought immediately; it was almost a knee-jerk reaction. He said, "That is your choice. And his, if he has most or all of his memories." He gave a brief recount of what Elrond had told him, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

Nerdanel shifted her gaze to the fields. Dappled sunlight played on her face and neck. Her eyes betrayed no feeling. "If he has his memories, he can decide for himself. If not, I would rather he stayed with you." She looked at Maedhros again, and crossed her arms over her chest. "This is your responsibility, though I will be always be available if you need me."

Maedhros blinked, pursed his lips, and tried to remember if she had said fault or responsibility. He found himself mumbling something in the affirmative. The ground seemed to tilt sideways. He felt as if the sunlight was growing brighter, not in the way that sharpened colours, but in a way that fogged his vision.

"Maedhros?" Nerdanel sounded alarmed.

"Uh." His head swam. Where was he? Oh, yes, in his mother's house. "I need..." Water.

Then something cold and wet was pressing against his mouth. Liquid slid between his teeth and down his throat, and he hacked. He opened his eyes to find his mother gazing at him, her brow furrowed with worry. A damp, plaid cloth was in her hand.

Realisation washed over him. "How long was I unconscious?" he said. His new body seemed to be bent on failing him.

She seemed to relax somewhat. "Not long; a few minutes." She tossed the cloth onto the table. "Have you been eating properly?"

"Yes," he said without thinking, even though he had eaten nothing since the previous night. Never had he considered answering in the negative. Once, in his tenth summer, his father had yelled at him and rapped his knuckles when he did not accurately recite a poem of Rúmil. Maedhros had locked himself in his room and, for a day and a half, had not put anything in his stomach but a handful of raisins. His mother had finally coaxed him out with the promise of a lesson in knife making – something that, in his mind, he had hitherto been unjustly denied.

The first thing she had done was clean his face and feed him honey cakes. "Why do you trouble me?" she said, in that tender, exasperated tone only mothers knew how to use. "Do you know how much I love you?" She put a bite-sized piece of cake in his mouth. "What did you eat for this long?"

An attendant had brought him food, he said, gazing at his shoes. His mother did not reply, though he knew she was aware of his lie; she briefly cupped his chin before feeding him another bite.

Now, Nerdanel raised her hand, as if she intended to place it on his shoulder. Her arm hovered uncertainly for a moment. She put it back down and sat in her chair, and steepled her fingers.

***

A/n: So some aliens abducted me and I travelled in space for a few months and then I got involved with these cool underground fairies who made the best rhubarb pie ever and then a spider in my room died so I was involved in funeral stuff and –

Um, anyway. It's good to be back. I'm just posting what little I'd written months and months ago. I thought inspiration would strike me and I'd be able to finish the chapter, but woe, that has not happened; I've only added a paragraph and haven't edited anything. I might finish this chapter someday. Today is not that day.

Merry Christmas. o/

Chapter Four

It was half past noon. Maedhros had been sitting before the gates of Irmo's gardens four the past two hours, though the Valar had informed him that they would send him a letter the moment Maglor awoke. He was quite finished with letters; a day of waiting would have felt like a fortnight to him. If Maglor awoke, he wanted to know immediately.

A bead of sweat dripped down his temple. He made no move to wipe it away. Instead, he fidgeted with the tassels of his satchel, which contained a book he had intended to read; he had not even opened it.

Above him, the leaves of an elm rustled and whispered with the breeze. It was around the time when apples and acorns ripened; but trees here did not shed their leaves. Maedhros remembered Beleriand, where many trees would blaze like fire in the throes of death; he recalled being awe-struck by the morbid beauty. At times, when work was not pressing, he would sit at his window and gaze at leaves of blood and sunshine and earth until they broke away from their branches and fluttered to the earth, like dead fairies. It was so common that people had to create a word for trees that did not die in winter.

He jumped when the lock on the grilled iron gates clanged open. Irmo stepped out and nodded at Maedhros. "You can get him now." He held open the gate.

For a moment Maedhros did not move. His hands went still over the leather of his satchel. Then he stood up on nerveless legs and trundled numbly through the gates. Irmo shut and bolted them once more, and told Maedhros to follow him. The white stone path lay like a winding ribbon amid the gardens. Strings of little bells, hung on the boughs of the trees, sang a faint, sweet tune with every soft gust of wind. Maedhros registered this, but was unable to enjoy it.

Irmo glanced at Maedhros questioningly. Not a hair escaped his flaxen braids, not a wrinkle marred his cotton attire. His eyes were clear and bright and blue as the heavens.

Maedhros beat down the bitterness that rose in his chest. "Does my brother have his memories?" he said, striving to keep his voice steady. His heart was hammering. He had gone through the worst-case scenario in his head over and over again, trying to de-sensitise himself to it. If he thought about it often enough, surely it would come as less of a shock than it might have otherwise.

Irmo turned his gaze to the path in front of them. "He does not remember anything. Not even language. He is as a child."

Maedhros took a deep breath to calm himself down. His head swam. He stumbled twice, but managed not to have his face befriend the ground

They reached a large pond overhung with an arching willow tree. The fattest frogs Maedhros had ever seen sat atop the lily pads that spotted the surface of the water. In the bower of the tree, two men occupied rickety wooden chairs. Maedhros drew a sharp breath when he recognised Maglor, lolling back in his seat and gazing at the swaying branches with wide eyes. The knees of his ill-fitting breeches were stained with dirt, and his disarrayed curls tumbled about his shoulders.

Maedhros walked quickly towards them, almost tripping over his own feet. "Maglor?" he asked. Can I call him that? he wondered. Is it even Maglor if he doesn't have any of his memories?

He shook his head. This was Maglor. In a new body, perhaps, but what of it? It was the same soul, and likely the same mind.

Maglor grinned at him, and Maedhros pressed his lips together, because he had not seen him smile that way since the Years of the Trees. The elf seated in the other chair offered a sympathetic look, but did not speak.

Maedhros found himself at a loss for what to say. Questions hurtled into each other in his mouth, pushed insistently against his closed lips; but if Maglor's mind was a blank slate, he would not respond to anything Maedhros said, in any case. In something of a daze, Maedhros leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Maglor in an awkward embrace.

***

They had been sitting in silence at the kitchen table, with three candles for light. Maglor lay asleep in the bedroom; it had not been terribly difficult to put food in him and get him dressed – a small mercy. Elrond crossed his arms over his chest while Maedhros tried to salvage the dying flame of one of the candles with the curve of his hand. Outside, the night was buzzing with the sound of cicadas.

At length Elrond spoke. "What do you want to do?"

"Cry."

"That's nice. I meant what do you want to do that's productive?"

"I thought I would wash the dishes and get on with sweeping the floor."

"Maedhros."

"I won't give you a medal for remembering my name."

Elrond emitted a frustrated noise and put his hands on the table, as he was wont to do when he wanted to make a point. It was rather unnecessary, not to mention classless, Maedhros thought blandly. "Do you have a plan as to what you are going to do with him? How will you integrate him into society? Will you teach him to read? Have you spoken with Lady Nerdanel about any of this?"

"There are too many questions and only one Maedhros," said Maedhros, picking some dirt from beneath his nails and then scratching his temple. He looked up at Elrond, who was sporting a fairly bloodthirsty expression, and continued, "Worrying will not help me. And overly detailed plans have a tendency to fail – so I will see how things go. Right now I will provide my brother food and a home, and try to get him to remember, somehow."

"What if he doesn't remember?"

"Then I will tell him everything." It would not be the hardest thing he had ever done, though he guessed it could scrape the list for one of them.

"We will."

Maedhros sighed. He supposed saying, "He's my brother, not yours, and don't you have a wife to attend to?" would not be of much help. At any rate, Elrond did not deserve to be up to the neck in the quagmire of Fëanorian family affairs; he'd surely had enough already. He griped, "Get out of my house and put your nose back in your own." He said it in his mind, which was good enough, because Elrond rose from his chair and announced that it was late, and that he ought to be going, and that if Maedhros needed him for anything, he only had to send a message.

Elrond slipped through the door, quiet as a shadow, and Maedhros, without being told, knew he would not be seeing him for a long time.