The Hammer Does Not Fall by Cirth

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Chapter Two

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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.