The Master of Puppets by Cirth

Disclaimer: I don't own Tolkien's works.

Warning for violence and mature themes.

The Master of Puppets

One

"He sent you as a messenger?" There was a note of scepticism in Maglor's tone. He sat behind his oak-wood desk, Caranthir's rather short letter in his spidery hands. The mullioned window was left open, and a gust of wind blew in and stirred his loose, dark curls.

Uldor strove not to fidget. He was tired and hungry from the long ride to the Gap. His worn, leather boots were damp and cold, and he had mud spattered over his breeches courtesy the lashing rain, which had dissipated as soon as he entered the gates. He could practically hear the real question: 'Why not someone he trusts?'

"I think the Lord Caranthir wants to get rid of me for a couple of months," he said, without thinking. Caranthir had never liked him. Then again, he did not seem to like anyone.

Maglor cocked an eyebrow, expression severe, and Uldor swallowed. He is going to kill me. Why can't I keep my mouth shut?

But then Maglor laughed softly and glanced at the letter again. "There is little substance in his message, so I suspect you are right. What an ill-mannered lout he is, sending someone all this way for nothing." He got up, chair squeaking rudely over the slate floor. Uldor blinked; he was always surprised at how tall the other was. He did not know much about Maglor, but he remembered, from their first encounter at Amon Ereb, that he often made himself appear smaller, more unassuming than he really was. It was somewhat unsettling, and repelled Uldor.

Perhaps that was a good thing. It would make the eventual betrayal easier. Uldor pressed his lips together and swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. He did not want to think about the betrayal. Nonetheless his father's worn, thin face came to his mind, along with some of the last words he had spoken to him. You realise our people are starving? We need new lands. Do you want a toll of the children who have died? I can give you their names. Uldor shook his head. "Keep it together," he told himself silently. "This is of the utmost importance. The eldest son of a chief should be able to handle this."

"I will show you to the baths," said Maglor, making him start. He crossed Uldor and opened the door. "We will arrange a room for you, as well. I'm afraid it will not be very large."

"I will be happy with anything allotted to me." It was true; Uldor was used to living in small quarters. He shared a hut with his family while growing up, and his chamber at Amon Ereb could scarcely have been called a cabinet. Sometimes he even slept on the floor in the great hall, when the weather was warm. He would not have minded it much were it not for the mice that scuttled about, at times scrambling over him and waking him up.

Maglor led him downstairs to the baths in the east wing, looking stiff but making conversation that seemed impressively natural. "Your Sindarin is almost perfect," he said. "I can tell you have worked hard at it."

"Thank you."

"Can you understand Quenya?"

"Only a few words."

"I can be granted some privacy, in that case." Maglor did not sound peeved, but Uldor felt his face grow hot with embarrassment.

They came to a rectangular, outdoor pool, set in a courtyard and surrounded by stone pillars. No one was present; it was still early afternoon, though the sky was overcast. "There are set times for men and women, so you will want to remember that," said Maglor. "Women may bathe between the fourth and eighth hour in the morning, and men between the sixth and tenth hour at night. Keep in mind that there is a penalty for snooping," he added with a wry look. Uldor blushed; he had never seen a woman naked.

"I will leave you now," Maglor said, taking a towel from the racks near the arched door and giving it to Uldor. "A page will bring you a fresh set of clothes. There is a dish of soap near the pool. The evening meal will be served in the great hall at the sixth hour." He left, shutting the door behind him.

Uldor stood a while, taking the place in. A couple of magpies frolicked in a stone birdbath near a pillar, and a breeze blew by and ruffled the surface of the water. He stripped himself, throwing his clothes in a pile on the ground, and slipped into the pool. The warm water was a welcoming change to the winds he had endured on the ride here, and he grabbed a cake of soap and scrubbed himself till his skin grew pink.

The door opened and shut, and Uldor froze in the middle of cleaning his toes. He craned his neck to see if anyone had entered, but could not find anyone. Shivering, he put the soap back in the dish and clambered out, wrapping his towel around his waist.

Someone had left a wicker basket by the door. It contained clean, folded clothes: trousers, underpants, and a long-sleeved, grey-green tunic. There was a pair of leather sandals, as well. Uldor dried himself and slipped on the clothes, and was pleasantly surprised to find that they fit well. He always marvelled at elvish craft, at the way the clothes were always perfect for the weather and never itched. Nevertheless, he missed the tunics and the bright scarves his mother made for him, missed their musky smell and their smooth feel.

When he got out, he found a dark-haired Noldo standing by the entrance, arms crossed over his slender chest and a furrow in his brow. He had an air that made him appear important. Uldor guessed he was an advisor or a bookkeeper. When the elf saw him, he said in a curt tone, "I will take you to your room."

Uldor hesitated, taken aback at the other's abruptness, and then stretched out a hand. "I am – "

"I know who you are. Come with me."

"May I have your name?" Uldor said, clutching his grimed clothes to his chest. He did not want to aggravate the fellow, but it would be useful to know the more prominent denizens of the Gap.

The elf released a long-suffering sigh, as if he had been assigned someone else's latrine duty for the next fortnight. "Erestor."

He led Uldor up a flight of stairs in the north wing. They stopped at the last door at the end of a narrow, dim hallway. Erestor took a ring of keys from his belt and stuck one into the keyhole, and then threw open the door. "Have a good stay," he said, and began to walk away.

"What about the key?" asked Uldor.

"That will remain with me," Erestor said without looking at him. "You cannot lock the door from the inside."

"I, er...thank you?"

But Erestor was already halfway down the corridor, straight dark hair brushing his shoulders.

Uldor looked after him for a moment, and then entered his chamber. It seemed comfortable enough: there was a low bed, a stool, and a small chest for storing clothes. The place smelled old and stale, as if it had not been used in a long time. Sunlight filtered through a large, cracked window and painted the room in pale gold. He noticed that his luggage – a sack containing a skin of water and black bread – had been kept by the wall.

He expected exhaustion to overcome him, but found that he had an excess of energy, so he busied himself. The first thing he did was check under the bed and in the corners for pests, and was relieved to not find any. He hoped they would not come out at night; he'd had his share of warring with cockroaches with old slippers in his room at Amon Ereb. Eventually he had to throw the slippers away because they were caked with cockroach guts.

For the next hour or so he put away his things, re-made the bed, and paced about the cramped room. He was staring out the window at the shadow that lay near the horizon when a knock at the door made him jump.

It was Maglor; he had combed his hair and tied it with a strip of hide, but was wearing the same clothes as earlier. He said, "The evening meal will be served soon. I hope you are comfortable here."

"I am. Thank you."

Maglor smiled, and for some reason, Uldor wanted to turn away. "You are young, song of Ulfang," he said.

"Pushing five-and-twenty, actually," Uldor muttered, shuffling his feet. He had been considered a man at fourteen, and had been a disappointment to his family when he did not marry at all, let alone before eighteen.

"I try to be understanding of people as young as you. Your mind is as a blank sheet of paper; anyone can write over it, stain it whatever hue he pleases." He inclined his head, expression turning grim. "But I wish to make this clear: I do not trust you, and I doubt I ever will. So far you have done nothing to truly rouse suspicion. But you seem like you are nervous, and your hands are restless. That could be the way you usually are, but my fëa tells me something is amiss."

Uldor remained silent, striving to breathe steadily and maintain eye contact with Maglor. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, and he was half-scared the other could hear it.

Maglor continued, "I will not put any special restrictions on you, since I have no good reason to. But if I suspect something, you will be considered an enemy, and will be dealt with appropriately."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Uldor.

"I wanted to be honest with you."

"If you suspected I was an enemy, would it not have been wiser to keep your inhibitions to yourself and to a trusted few?"

"It would, under normal circumstances. But you seem like a bad liar, and I can tell that you do not wish harm upon anyone."

Uldor was disturbed by the accuracy of Maglor's remarks, but kept a straight face and said, "You have much confidence in your instincts."

"It is rare that they fail me," Maglor said. He looked out the window, appearing lost in thought. The setting sun cast a soft glow on his face and neck.

Uldor wanted to leave. He wanted to get on his horse, ride back to Amon Ereb, to the more temperamental but less shrewd son of Fëanor. No, he wanted to go back to his family, sit with his brothers, embrace and kiss his mother. When he was a child, he hated hanging out the washing and walking five miles in the blistering heat to fetch water. He would trade much and more for that life now. Still, he had been fortunate. He had gone hungry in his village, but had never starved; he did not know that pain.

He drew a deep breath, disgusted at his own selfishness. "My people are dying," he reminded himself mentally. "I cannot turn back, and am damned either way." He looked at Maglor again, and felt oddly calm. "I appreciate your honesty," he said in a quiet voice. He was being truthful. Nevertheless, he wanted to avoid Maglor as much as possible for the next two months. He could not afford to let the elf know about his father's plans, or grow attached enough to make his task more difficult than it already was.

Maglor turned to him and gave a brief smile. "Rest for the next two days." Then he cocked his head to one side. "I trust you are experienced with the sword?"

Uldor blinked, wondering at the question. "Yes, but I am more skilled with the bow."

"Can you shoot from horseback?"

"I can."

"Very good." Maglor walked to the entrance. "I will test your skills in the field. If I find them satisfactory, you will hunt Orcs with us, helping to defend the Gap. I will lead the company."

"And if you are not pleased with my skills?" Perhaps if he deliberately failed the tests...

"Then I will train you, or find someone else to do it. Either way, you will help us," Maglor said, in a tone that left no room for argument.

Uldor nodded, unable to find words to speak. As soon as Maglor left, he swore under his breath and kicked a leg of the bed, which did nothing but hurt his toes. Sitting on the mattress, he put his head in his hands and chewed his lower chip. "What am I going to do?" he groaned. He buried his face in the flat, musty pillow and cursed Melkor's name.

***

TBC

Uldor had been foolish, tricked into this situation by smiling faces and arms around his shoulders. It was only his second night at the Gap, and he was already being half-interrogated.

Gripping the edge of the trestle table that was sticky with spilled drinks, he took several deep breaths. The great hall was buzzing with the noises of clashing plates and singing and chattering. Along with that, the smoke from the fires and the candles made his head swim. He had accepted the large horn of ale without thinking much, and had underestimated its potency. Then again, the ale's effectiveness likely had to do with the fact that he never drank. He had tried fermented milk once in his village, at the insistence of a distant cousin, and had spit it out at once.

Somehow, he managed to seal his lips about the most important information, and instead chattered at length about his childhood. An hour passed by. Opposite him the four elves, also inebriated and swaying in their seats, seemed to have lost interest in political agendas. They listened to him with eagerness, their frowns replaced with big grins and their chins in their hands. All said and done, Uldor thought, elves could be terribly charming when they wanted to, with their clear voices and their quick, clever movements.

"So, I just bumped into them by accident," Uldor slurred, "but these boys, they didn't like me. They used to beat me to the ground as a child – "

"Why?" said one of the elves.

"I was small, and didn't like to fight. And I would hang out the washing and hug my brothers when they cried, so I was called a girl. Anyway, these boys chased me halfway through the village, and I ducked into the women's hut – "

"The women's hut?"

"You know. Women's hut. Kept supplies and things for that time of the month."

"Ohh," said the elves. A couple of them blushed, and another grinned.

"And these boys, I couldn't believe them. They didn't follow me in. Just hung about outside and called me names. Eventually they decided I wasn't worth beating to a pulp, and left."

"Good for you!" cried an elf, raising his empty mug. His cheeks were tinged raspberry-pink. "They have only themselves to blame." The others hammered on the table, knocking over a basket of bread by accident, and nodded their agreement.

After the meal was over, Uldor spent a good amount of time with his head jammed in a latrine, his hair tied in a slipshod ponytail. It was freezing outside, and his knees on the stone ground felt numb, but there was no point in going back inside to fetch a cloak. When he was sure he had emptied the contents of his stomach, he hauled water from a well in the courtyard nearby, swilled his mouth, and swore not to drink again. Trembling, and taking uneven breaths, he ran his fingers over his throat.

He had never in his life felt so alone.

Maglor wasted no time in testing Uldor's horsemanship. The next day at the cusp of dawn, he brought him to a pasture just outside the fortress and gave him a powerful mare with a glossy black coat. "Her name is Gilroch." Uldor stroked her nose, smiling, and she snorted and flicked her ears. Nearby, a groom with shaggy hair held a tall stallion. Horses had been Uldor's great love back in his village, and he rode them as often as he could, bow in hand and a quiver of arrows strapped on his back.

It was a cold day with an overcast sky. Mist had settled over the rolling plains and the hills that flanked the Gap, and the grass was grey with dew. Uldor could see his own breath, and rubbed his gloved hands together to warm them. He was already focused, but the grins of the elves who had come to watch gave him an unexpected burst of strength. To his shock, he was asked to ride bareback. He had never even heard of such a thing, and shook his head. "I cannot do that."

"I want you to try riding elf-fashion," said Maglor, somehow managing to sound both polite and murderous.

That could have ended better. Uldor had the sense to make light of his bruises and to laugh at his pains, despite the fact that he wanted to crumble into a heap on the ground and whimper. Maglor bit his lip, obviously striving not to laugh; Uldor wanted to hit him. "I will get you a saddle," Maglor said, and coughed.

Massaging his temples, Uldor thanked the gods for small mercies. Once he had proven to Maglor that he could switch horses at a gallop and shoot a straw target in the eye while riding, he cleared the wooden hurdles. A few of the elves clapped, while others stared, and Uldor fought not to feel too pleased with himself. His pride was cut short when one of the elves picked up a lute and began to sing a ridiculous song about his great courage. Soon the entire company was laughing and hooting at him; a couple of them were on their backs, kicking their legs.

"Do not mind them," Maglor told him in a placating tone, when he slid off Gilroch. "They like to tease."

Uldor grunted, unamused.

"Do you want some salve for your injuries?"

The scrapes on Uldor's arms and legs stung, but he was not about to humiliate himself further. He yanked off his gloves, scowling. "I am fine. Thank you for your concern."

Maglor arched an eyebrow. "Are you annoyed, Uldor?"

"Wha – no! Why should I be?"

"If you insist," Maglor said, and stroked Gilroch's mane. She tossed her head and tried to nuzzle his palm. "Five-and-twenty you may be, but you are very much a sullen child. By the way, you passed the test. Congratulations." He gave a warm, encouraging smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Uldor stuttered a thanks, feeling his cheeks grow pink.

Control your temper, Uldor thought. Keep your head down.

"I am just waiting for him to stab us in the back," muttered one of the elves at a nearby trestle table. He had been talking about Uldor – more accurately, making up stories, everything from murder to necromancy – for some time now. Another elf – a sturdy fellow with small metal rings in his earlobes – did not smile with the others, but put his chin in his hands and narrowed his eyes.

Uldor clutched his mug tighter and stared into the watery vegetable soup, at his distorted reflection. He had been ravenous when he entered the great hall for dinner, but now his stomach was twisted into a knot, and he'd lost his appetite.

"And that other tribe," the elf continued. "They are no better. I met some of them at Himring a couple of years back. Sordid characters - shifty eyes, so dark you cannot tell what they are thinking. I cannot understand why Lord Maedhros gave their leader the name Bór."

"Shut up," said Uldor.

The table next to him fell silent. After a moment, the elf who had been speaking looked at him sharply. "What?"

Uldor was shaking with fury. He stood up, almost tipping over his chair. "Bór and his people are stalwart and true. I have known them since I was a child, and they would sooner walk barefoot across fire than betray their friends. And if you talk about them that way again..." He trailed off, feeling his cheeks grow hot. What could he even threaten them with?

"You'll what?" the elf said, appearing amused. "Stand there and stew? Your wit is lacking, Easterling."

Uldor was ready to knock the fellow's teeth down his throat, consequences be damned. But before he could do anything, the elf with the earrings put his hands on the table and said, "That is enough, Alagon. You have never even spoken to any of these people, and it will do you good to hold your tongue, for once."

"Come now, Miluinir," said the other. "You are not siding with him, are you?"

Miluinir's expression was grim. "I am. He has done nothing to provoke you. Leave him alone."

Uldor had had enough. He left, advancing towards the north wing, the back of his tunic damp with sweat. Aside from some stares and sniggers, he was ignored. As he reached the dim stairwell, a voice said, "I'm sorry; are you all right?" It was Miluinir. From this close, Uldor could make out thin scars on his face and neck, and saw a dagger at his belt; he was probably a soldier.

Miluinir continued: "Don't mind Alagon; he's a lout. Talks nonsense about everyone, from his companions to people whose very existence is dubious."

Uldor nodded, feeling awkward, and then gave his name. Miluinir smiled, the lines on his face deepening. "I know who you are. Your horsemanship is a thing to marvel at, for a Man. Your archery is not lacking, either. I was surprised when I saw you today at the field; never expected such grace and power from someone so bloody short." He released a loud, booming laugh, putting his hands on his hips.

"Thank you, and I'm not that short," said Uldor, in equal parts peeved and flattered. The top of his head came roughly to the other's chin. "We are taught riding at a young age, and hunt and fight on horseback."

"It shows," Miluinir said brightly. "I am looking forward to practicing with you. Do you drink wine?"

"No," Uldor said quickly, holding up his hands and shaking his head. "I don't drink at all."

"More's the pity. We could have shared a mug of ale, outside beneath the stars. But we should do something else together. Play music, perhaps."

Uldor smiled at last, feeling warmth spread through his chest. The homesickness and the bitterness receded somewhat. He was beginning to take a shine to this elf. Of course, it would not do to be friends, but Uldor could have used some polite company; recently loneliness had washed the colours from his life somewhat. "I play the flute, and sing."

Miluinir stepped forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder, almost knocking the wind out of him. "Splendid! I can't sing for pudding, but have played the lute since I was a child."

Uldor secretly thought that all elves could sing unfairly well, but only gave an awkward smile. He was about to wish the other a good night and head up the stairs when Miluinir said, "Is tomorrow evening convenient for you?"

"What?"

"To play music. I'd love to hear you play."

"Um..."

"I'm sure you're brilliant," Miluinir continued blithely, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a childlike, carefree manner. "I'll be there, cheering you on. You can just play something short, if you want." He looked so honest and kind and gullible that Uldor felt more than a little guilt twist in his gut. He had no desire to play his flute in front of all these elves, who were likely waiting for his fingers to stumble over the holes so they could laugh at him. Truth be told, there was a fair chance he would ruin the performance, considering he had not played the flute in some months.

Somehow his mouth did not obey his mind, and he found himself saying, "Tomorrow sounds fine."

"Shake on it," said Miluinir, extending his hand. Uldor hesitated, before squeezing the other's fingers. For some reason, it felt a little like a sentence.

Uldor was woken by bright sunlight on his face. He groaned and stuck his knuckles in his eyes, and raised his head; he had fallen asleep sitting up in bed, trying to ease some nimbleness into his fingers by playing his wooden flute. Now there was an awful crick in the back of his neck.

Blinking blearily and yawning, he glanced out the window. It was a clear day, and the vast plains were a lush, dark green. Judging by the position of the sun, it was about the seventh hour. He wrapped his duvet around himself with chilled fingers and tried to enjoy the view, but after only a few moments nervousness began to gnaw at him again. What was he going to do? He didn't feel prepared at all for the evening. He wanted to cancel the plan, but he'd promised Miluinir he would go through with it, and he disliked breaking promises.

After choking down white bread, cheese, and fat apples at breakfast, Uldor returned to his chamber, took his flute, and began to practice again. It was an old melody, not entirely simple to play, but very sweet in sound. His father would play it for him sometimes, when he was a child.

Some time later, sweat began to form on his brow and slide down his cheeks, despite the cold. He flapped his tunic, sighing, and put his flute to his lips again.

A knock at the door made him jump, and he all but shouted, "Come in!"

Maglor stepped inside, a furrow in his brow. His hair was scraped back in a messy bun, and he was clad in a sweat-stained tunic and an age-worn, dark green jacket. "I was wondering what you were doing," he said in a vexed tone.

Uldor swung his legs over and stood up on the floor, striving not to fidget. What was Maglor trying to imply?

"You were supposed to be in the courtyard for training at the tenth hour."

Uldor blinked. "Oh," he said. "Oh, no." He had been so engrossed in practicing for the evening that he'd forgotten about the schedule that he was supposed to follow. Half-panicking, he looked out the window. It was well past the eleventh hour.

"Not the best impression, son of Ulfang," Maglor said, narrowing his eyes.

Uldor wanted to sink through the floor. Swallowing, he returned, "I deeply apologise. It will not happen again." He bowed his head to reinforce his point.

Maglor's nodded, and then gestured to the bed. "You play well. The sounds were very interesting. I have not come across them before." He had quite the flair for changing topics in mid-air, but Uldor didn't have time to feel perplexed.

"You were listening?" he said, narrowly managing to avoid the word 'eavesdropping'. All of a sudden he felt a shade less embarrassed for neglecting his training. The next moment he remembered that Maglor was reputed to be the greatest musician of the elves, save perhaps some Sindarin fellow whose name Uldor could not remember. His throat went dry, and he wiped his damp palms on his trousers. Was Maglor impressed, or was he just mocking him? As far as music went, Uldor must have sounded like a bumbling toddler trying to impress a demigod.

Ignoring the question, Maglor put his hands on his hips and said, "Play that for me again."

Uldor wagged his mouth a few times, desperate to refuse. Then he picked up his flute from his pillow, sat down, and began to play, praying his fingers would not betray him. Maglor's stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his visage inscrutable, blank as a new sheet of parchment. Uldor struggled not to squirm under his gaze. When the song was over, Maglor said, "I enjoyed that, truly. Your tutor must have been skilled."

"That was my mother," Uldor said, relieved.

"I congratulate her, then. You must play more songs for me some time, preferably without the constipated expression. But now, you will change your clothes and come to the courtyard. I will not go easy on you." He left, closing the door behind him.

Uldor did not stick his tongue out immediately after. He did not.

Notes:

Gilroch - 'Star Horse'

Miluinir - 'Friendly/Loving/Kind Man'

Alagon - 'Rushing/Impetuous One'