Accidentals by Agelast

Chapter 1

It was only by accident that Makalaurë had seen them. A door that closed too slowly, his own step too quick. For a moment, he could not imagine what they were doing, and felt, impossibly, a sense of hurt for being left out. He couldn’t help his accomplished ear, used to picking up stray notes. A gasp, a moan. A murmured endearment. Familiar sounds, made strange by who produced them, and why.

Finally, he had enough and closed the door with a loud thump that echoed through the empty halls, reverberated through the house. He told himself, rather sternly, that he did not care if they heard.

Later, when the windows of his music-room are were tinged more with gold than silver, Findekáno and Maitimo strode into the room, as bold as they pleased. Maitimo had marks on his face, his skin too sensitive not to show every action put upon them. Findekáno’s hair, usually so carefully arranged, was loose. He looked odd. They both did. They had the same expression on their faces, elated and shamed.

But Makalaurë was ready for them, as was his harp. Politely, he begged them to be seated and listen to the new piece that he had composed this afternoon. They sat on the floor in front of him like children, their faces now expectant and free of any guilt.

Makalaurë closed his eyes as he played; he knew the strings too well to mistake them. The music started off slowly, and then quickened and deepened until it took on almost the quality of a voice. Of two voices, raised in…

Maitimo put a dampening hand on Makalaurë’s harp, and stilled it. “Is there something you wish to tell us, Makalaurë?”

Findekáno looked at him with deep admiration -- as if he had said anything remarkable! -- and Maitimo preened, the vain old cockerel.

“The whole world, they say, loves lovers,” Makalaurë hissed through his teeth, “But I don’t see why I should.”

Findekáno sighed, as if disappointed, while Maitimo narrowed his eyes. He asked, “What’s wrong with that girl in Aqualondë?”

“What’s wrong with the girl in Aqualondë is that she is there, and I am in Tirion. And besides,” Makalaurë said with a new surge of bitterness, “she wrote to me and said that she needed to concentrate on her music just now.”

“That sounds like something you would say,” Findekáno, and that earned him a kick in the shin from Makalaurë. Findekáno yelped in surprise and gave Maitimo an aggrieved look.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Makalaurë,” Maitimo said, frowning.

Makalaurë sniffed proudly. “As if I could be jealous of your -- limited (and strange!) -- taste in lovers.”

Findekáno, who had grown more annoyed as time passed, swore under his breath and made a feign to grab Makalaurë’s harp. Makalaurë fended him off, and they flailed at each for a moment. Then Maitimo decided to get involved. He was sighing over the foolishness of brothers (and cousins), when Findekáno’s fist connected squarely with his jaw.

The fight was in earnest now, with the three of them borne to the floor in a mass of limbs and hair. The strings of Makalaurë’s harp snapped and the frame crunched in a final way, under their combined weight.

“Stop! Stop!” Maitimo said at last, and they separated. Reluctantly, Findekáno let go of Makalaurë’s neck and Makalaurë stopped pulling Maitimo’s hair out by its roots. Shamed by what had just occurred, they all retreated into their corners to lick their wounds.

Makalaurë took along with him the mangled corpse of his harp, and mourned over it.

*

Many years later, Maglor faced off with Fingon again, this time over Maedhros’ sickbed. Everyone, of course, had been grateful for Fingon’s unimaginable valor, braving Angband itself to bring Maedhros back. He was a hero, rightly fêted and honored. But then the damned Elf wouldn’t leave! It was ridiculous. There were fires from across the lake, Fingolfin sent messages every day, demanding Fingon’s release. Release! As if he would leave Maedhros’ sickroom unless he was dragged out to eat, bathe, and sleep.

Maglor, of course, had to do most of the dragging. Celegorm was of the opinion that they ought to throw him out into the snow. Caranthir said nothing, but grew more severe. Curufin spent more time in the forge, shaping sharper and sharper weapons. Amrod hardly noticed Fingon’s presence at all, absorbed as he was by the whispering of a brother who went unseen by everyone else.

Maedhros, when he was not almost dead with pain or threatening the healers with an immediate, bloody murder, could not do without Fingon. And so Fingon stayed, hardly aware of anything beside Maedhros’ immediate needs, oblivious that his presence was a contested one.

Maglor, who had seen both his father and older brother race off to challenge the Enemy in the North, to one’s death and the other’s capture, had barely been able to hold his other brothers from pitching forth into the abyss themselves. No longer was he able to hide behind his music and his vague moods; he felt that he had grown a thousand years in a few decades.

And then there was the Oath.

Maglor pushed open the door of Maedhros’ room and flinched at the blast of heat that hit his face. The fire burned high in the grate despite the noonday sun shining in through the windows. Fingon lay sprawled on the chair next to Maedhros’ bed, fast asleep. Maedhros, however, was awake, and watched Maglor as he came in. His gaze was hard to endure, but that was to be expected -- he had come back from beyond all imagining, after all.

Maedhros, who was looking less and less like a scarecrow every day, relaxed a little when he realized Maglor was alone, and carried nothing with him except -- well, a harp. A new harp, the first one he had made in Beleriand. The wood had come from a walnut tree that had blown down from a storm, in the first year of Maedhros’ absence. The strings were of the finest catgut, naturally.

Maglor eyed Maedhros suspiciously. Maedhros did not even attempt to look innocent, instead he poked Fingon’s side with a bony elbow.

“Play something for me -- for us,” Maedhros said, as Fingon stirred and blinked.

“What do you want to hear?” Maglor said, sitting on the edge of Maedhros’ bed. Despite his words, he had already started. The music was warm and mellow, and as yet, without any words to complicate matters. Maglor felt his stiff shoulders begin to loosen as he played.

“Do you remember the time we destroyed your harp?” Fingon said, half-dreamily. “I thought you would kill me. Or I, you.”

“Ah, the lost days of our innocence,” Maedhros said dryly.

Maglor shrugged and kept playing.