In Nocturnal Rapport by Cirth

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Chapter 1

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Warnings for violence and mature themes.

Many thanks to my betas, Aeärwen, Meisiluosi, and Curious Wombat.

Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien's works.

In Nocturnal Rapport

Chapter One

A door opens and shuts.

Moonlight glints on the water I had spilled on the bedside table, but when I take my ratty cotton kerchief to mop it up, my hands are stained with red. My heart begins to pound. Cold sweat gathers at my hairline and drips down my temple. I try to call for help, but my voice is stuck in my throat.

Someone hollers from outside my chamber for my brother and me to get out.

Flames lap at the bottom of our door and chase away the darkness. The air is choked with thick shrouds of blue-grey smoke. I turn to wake Elros, but his bed is empty, the plain blanket crisp and neat, as if it had never been slept in.

Sirion. Sirion is burning.

A sharp pain rips through my side.

"Get up, fool."

I groan and cover my eyes with my arm. Why is it so bright?

"I said get up, you useless lump of Orc droppings."

Another dig in my side. I yelp and jump up, rolling off the bed and landing on the chilled floor with a thud. The room spins slowly for a moment, and then stills. Elros is standing before me, a hand on his hip, bright eyes narrowed. He is dressed in his fencing gear, and his boots are covered in a film of dust.

"You overslept," he says, not bothering to look at me, picking some dirt from his nails. "Maedhros is not happy. You had better get ready for a thrashing."

I blink twice, slowly. The sun is high in the sky, streaming through the window and painting the ground, and bringing out the bronze in Elros' hair. He raises an eyebrow expectantly, and my jaw drops.

We had fencing practice this morning.

I scramble up, cursing in a manner that even Maglor would punish me for, and rush to the closet, flinging out some clothes. "Why didn't you wake me earlier?" I say in a high-pitched voice.

"It is not my duty to wake you."

"Do this world a favour and throw yourself off the hill," I snarl, thrashing into my breeches.

He shrugs, a smug grin on his face. "I'd rather die in battle." Then, more seriously: "You are in a pleasant mood this morning."

My hands shake as I pull on my tunic and reach for my sword, which is leaning against a corner. I look to the window, and swallow the lump that rises in my throat. The glass is flecked with a string of blood. I squeeze my eyes shut, take a breath. There is nothing there, nothing. I am not I am not I am not in Sirion. I open my eyes. The window is clear. I can see wispy clouds sailing along the breeze. Biting my lip, I huddle my sheathed sword to my chest.

"Are you planning to move your arse today or tomorrow?" says Elros with exaggerated patience.

I give him a cursory kick to the shin and gulp down half a glass of water to ease my parched throat. My hands are shaking, and some of it spills down the front of my tunic.

We hurry downstairs, out into the sunbaked courtyard, where a group of elves have assembled. The cool air carries a faint scent of pine, but I have no time to bask in it. Maglor is watching a couple of soldiers fence, and Maedhros is standing ramrod straight by a wall, his arms folded across his broad chest. I swallow and try not to backpedal when Maedhros turns to me and raises his chin in a pointed manner. "I am so glad you could fit us into your busy schedule," he says in his customary monotone voice.

I learned long ago not to argue with him or make excuses (memories of scrubbing the scum off massive cauldrons still make me cringe), so I hold my head high and advance towards the rest of the group. Maglor says nothing, but raises his brows at me in silent chastisement. I avoid his eyes and begin to stretch.

When I am called forward to fence, I grip the handle of my sword so hard my knuckles turn white. There is an odd rushing sound in my ears, as if I have pressed seashells against them. The world tilts sideways. My vision blurs. Win, I have to win. Have to be in control, control, control.

The sky is painted with blood.

I position my feet.

Flaring fire and clashing steel and spilled entrails and choked moans that might have earlier been screams.

"Begin!"

It is over in less than a minute. The fellow helps me to my feet, and I can tell he is striving not to grin from his victory. His hand is warm and sweaty. The rushing sound is in my ears again. I have an urge to yank him down, to have his face connect with the stone ground. But I stand up and congratulate him, and then sally over to Maglor, who pats my shoulder but does not speak to me as he usually does. I frown and curl my toes.

There is no time to talk to him, anyway, because Maedhros calls me for another round, this time with himself. No doubt he has a mind to vanquish me publicly as punishment for my tardiness. Instead of composing a strategy to win, I prepare myself to be utterly humiliated; this day, I feel that I am low on luck. In any case, the most I've managed to do to Maedhros while training is make him so bored he stopped the fight and strode away.

The sparring lasts all of fifteen seconds. I cannot even stare at the sky for solace, because Maedhros orders me to get my backside off the ground sharpish.

"Don't be hard on yourself," Elros says with a big, toothy grin, when I limp over to him. I am hot, and bothered, and sticky with sweat and grime, and his attitude is not helping me. I wish he would give me a warning before being so cheerful, I think, glaring at him, well aware of my childishness. He continues, "You cannot beat Maedhros at sword fighting, in any case."

That is my brother's idea of charity.

***

My stomach is rumbling, but Maglor's expression makes me put down my spoon. I was about to begin my lunch when he came and sat across from me at the trestle table. The sounds of clacking cutlery and singing are thick in the great hall. I want to admire my beautiful, steaming bowl of chicken stew, but force myself to look at Maglor's face instead.

He puts his chin in his hand and taps his long, brittle fingers on the table, brows drawn in a frown. "I wish I did not have to ask this of you," he says at last.

The grimness of his tone makes me forget the stew.

"Maedhros wishes for you and Elros to have more practical training in sword fighting," he says, curling his lip as if he has tasted something bitter. He puts both hands on the table and releases a long-suffering sigh. "I tried to argue, but he is my elder and decided on this occasion to put his foot down."

"It's all right," I say, secretly thrilled. My heart begins to pound. I needto use my sword, need something to kill –

"You and your brother will accompany me on a round next month, so there will be ample time to train you further till then," Maglor says, enunciating each word, looking at me closely, as if he suspects my thoughts. "We will scout the eastern and northern areas for a fortnight, and then return." He pauses, scowling at my neglected stew as if it is the cause for all his woes. I have an urge to pull the bowl towards me and hunch over it protectively.

Then he looks at me again, an odd, searching expression on his face. "Elrond, if you..." He shakes his head, as if struggling to form words, and then says in a more controlled tone, "If you are concerned about this, I can tell Maedhros – "

"No," I say, somewhat more sharply than I had intended.

Blood, so much blood. Round, unseeing eyes.

Suddenly, the sounds of the great hall seem to come from far away. I feel as if I am trapped in a bubble, separated from everyone else. "I will come with you."

Crows wheeling slowly, slowly in the slate-grey skies.

He narrows his gleaming, dark eyes at me. Uncomfortable under his shrewd gaze, I begin to fidget with a loose thread on my sleeve. He knows by now that I fidget when I grow anxious – and I certainly grow anxious when I lie or conceal a truth – but does not argue. With another sigh, he says, "I will have to speak with your brother, as well. You both will meet me in my chamber after dinner today."

I nod obediently. Like a good son. Good sons are obedient, are they not?

Maglor hums and gets up. I find that I want him to leave. He glances down at me with concern, his lips pursed. "Elrond, are you all right? You have been acting somewhat strange."

"How?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

He gives a little shrug, brow furrowed. "Withdrawn. Moody," he says tentatively, as if he is afraid I will be offended.

"What else is new?" I say, dragging my bowl towards myself and blowing on the stew. It is iridescent with yellowish oil. Heedless of manners, I bring it to my lips and take a sip. I grimace. It is repulsively cold and reminds me of eating raw, stale meat.

Maglor rolls his eyes, and the tense atmosphere breaks. I can hear scattered singing and the clash of cutlery again. When he speaks, his tone is exasperated, but also fond. Fatherly. "The day you don't give someone your cheek is the day I will start worrying. I wonder where you get it from."

Probably my real father, I think, but say nothing.

It is only after he leaves that I realise I never thought of threatening him.