In Nocturnal Rapport by Cirth

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Chapter 2

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Chapter Two

It had become a habit: thinking of ways to kill him. It began from the day we were captured. I would lie in bed, gazing at the broken moonlight shift on the walls, and try to devise methods in lurid detail. It almost felt strange to go to bed and not do so, while my brother slept like the dead beside me. For some reason, I never even attempted to carry out my plots. I was aware of the repercussions of a murder attempt; even in my perpetual haze of fury, I knew that the chances of my success were slim.

At some point I succumbed to the warmth of Maglor's embrace. It was too draining to despise him, to constantly remind myself of how much more I ought to despise him. I may have been living under my enemy's roof, but I was fed, clothed, and given a warm bed. I was alive. There was nothing stopping me from getting up at the break of day and watching the sun climb above the jagged, green hills.

At three-and-twenty I should have all but forgotten Sirion. There is nothing in those memories for me. Elros does not talk about it; if I do, he groans, turns away, and stuffs his fingers in his ears. For all the world he appears a disgustingly carefree youth who'd sooner walk across hot coals than think before he speaks.

I look up from my seat on the edge of the bed. It is quiet. Thousands of dust particles drift in the beam of watery light that has forced its way through the window. It almost feels as if no one else resides in this grey, ageing fortress; solitude throws its cloak around my shoulders. The wind and the plains are cold company.

My sheathed sword leans against the wall in a corner. Its pommel gleams. I imagine slicing through tough sinew and hard bone, reddening my hands. It would offer relief.

I stand up. My heart pounds. I run my fingers through my hair and squeeze my eyes shut. My breaths are loud in this cramped chamber. I look at my sword again, and terror and loathing stream into my veins. It would be best if I fling it out the window, or melt it in the forge. Make jewellery out of it for posterity.

I am not a competent jewel-smith.

***

Elros has been chattering to me for the past hour. His voice is a dull buzz in my ears. I don't even know what he is talking about. I sit at my rosewood desk and pretend to listen. He makes lively gestures with his hands and there is a big, stupid smile on his face. A sickle moon glows in the sky, and warm candlelight flickers across my brother's form, over his tattered, red tunic and his cream scarf.

It is oddly warm for the season, and I dab at the sweat on my upper lip. There is a puddle of congealing blood on the floor. It appeared around the time my brother invited himself in. I have tried blinking, but it is not going away. A cloying smell of rotting flesh hangs in the air, and I wonder if I am imagining it or should look around for a dead animal. Elros appears oblivious to it.

"And then – are you listening?" he says in an indignant tone, straightening his back. The ends of his breeches are rolled up, and his dark, unruly hair hangs in his eyes. His slovenliness grates on my nerves. I am glad I do not share a chamber with him anymore; tripping over shoes and other sundry objects is not something I enjoy.

I grunt, waving a hand before my face to see if the gesture will make the blood disappear. It doesn't.

"Lies!" he says. "What was I talking about just now?"

Something inside me snaps. My fingers twitch. "Shut up. Your voice annoys me."

"Well, your existence annoys me!" he crows, leaping up from his stool and knocking it over, and the ensuing bang makes me cringe. There is no true anger in his voice. He is acting as if we had engaged in a childish battle of words and he had won. As if this was a game.

I sag in my seat and pinch the space between my brows. "Go away."

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Make me."

There are spatters of dark crimson on the glass of the window.

I draw a deep breath. If I leave, he will follow me, and I might do something we will both regret. "Elros," I say quietly, in a carefully controlled tone, "please leave."

His expression changes. Now there is fear and concern in his bright eyes, in the furrow of his brow, and suddenly he appears far older than he is, weighed down with years. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say something. But then he silently exits the room, shutting the door behind him. I hope he will not speak to Maglor about this.

I stick my knuckles in my itching eyes and glance at the floor again.

There is nothing there.

***

The grass is green and threaded with dew and rips easily. A little mound of torn grass is growing steadily by my side. Stars shine, cold and bright, in the ocean of the sky. The air is thick with the scent of wildflowers. A peaceful silence has settled over our company – the silence of the living, not of the dead. It is, on occasion, peppered with the clatter of pans and the crackle of fire and the lull of low voices.

Maglor sits down beside me and brushes away the mound of grass, his expression unreadable. I avoid his eyes. He does not reprimand me for being destructive, as I expected him to. Instead, he says, "You can tell me anything."

"I know." I fondle a blade of grass, wanting to tear it from the earth but not wanting to upset Maglor.

"Even if you do not wish to speak about it, I will be here if you need me."

"I know."

"I worry about you."

A pause. "I know." I turn to him, opening my mouth to say something, anything, to distract me from the acrid smell of ashes and the streaks of crimson, and draw a sharp breath. Half the skin of his face has been peeled away. It is as if someone just hooked their nails at the place where the lobe of his ear meets his jaw and ripped off the skin, revealing stringy flesh and cartilage and yellowish fat the texture of half-melted wax.

Suddenly I am paralysed from the neck up. I cannot breathe. My heart pounds. It's not real not real can't be real no one touched him come to your senses. I force myself to squeeze my eyes shut – one, two, three seconds – and then open them.

"Elrond?" There is a deep furrow in Maglor's brow. His face is normal again.

I swallow and let myself fall onto my back, onto the damp ground, and breathe heavily.

"Are you all right?" he asks, sounding alarmed.

I groan softly, cover my eyes with my arm, and roll onto my side, away from him. My hands clutch the hilt of the dagger at my belt so hard I hear my knuckles crack.

***

We had not expected the attack.

"Let me," I say, breathless, shaking. My clothes are drenched in sweat. A pale, autumn sun glows behind flimsy clouds. "Let me kill him." I plant my feet apart and raise my sword. Fury and ice and steel surge through my veins.

A tall, burly Orc with a battle-axe looms above three of our men lying prostrate on the earth. One of our soldiers rushes at him, brandishing his sword. A scattered battle rages around us. The sounds seem oddly distant to me. Vaguely, I wonder if Elros is all right.

Maglor places a hand on my shoulder. "We should attack together." His face is smeared with blood, and I know it is real.

"I need to do this!" I hiss, turning to him. His eyes widen, and he purses his lips. He draws back somewhat, searching my face. I drop my head and take a shuddering breath. "Please," I say.

His gaze hardens. "We will attack together, Elrond," he replies, in a firm tone that one does not retort to. I swallow and nod.

***

A fist backhands me across the face. The ensuing silence is long and thick. Slowly, I bring my fingers to my throbbing cheek, shocked. Maglor's normally serene face is contorted in anger. He has never raised a hand against me before. "You will not," he says in a low, tight voice, "try to do anything like that. Do you understand?"

We are in a copse of trees, away from the rest of the company, so they cannot hear us.

Tears spring to my eyes, more out of shame than the hot sting in my cheek. Maglor's expression softens. Suddenly he pulls me into a tight embrace, his hand fisting my hair, but not hard enough to break the strands. I lean my head against his shoulder and draw shuddering breaths. "I'm sorry," I whisper. I should not be weeping. Healers do not weep; nor do warriors. It is a sign of ingratitude –

"Elrond," says Maglor gently, "I want you to be safe." He pulls away and holds my shoulders. "And to be safe, sometimes you cannot do things alone." I am grateful for his impassive expression, and for the fact that he does not wipe my tears. He continues: "You wanted to attack that Orc, not to keep our company safe, but to kill for some kind of pleasure or catharsis – do not look at me that way. I could tell."

I drop my gaze.

He lets go of me. "I am in no position to lecture you on how you want to handle your troubles. I can, however, tell you that you will not sleep at night knowing you have killed for any reason but a last resort to protect yourself or others."

"Can you sleep at night?" I ask without looking at him.

There is a pause. "Yes." Briefly, his eyes flick away. "That came with time."

"I'm sorry," I say again.

"We make mistakes."

"I would have regretted that one."

"Yes."

"I have been acting like a child."

There is a gentle smile on his face. "You have."

Can I stay with you forever?

He puts a hand on my back, and together we walk back to the company.

***

I look up from my book on anatomy and lean back in my chair. The great hall is empty save me and a couple of people talking in low voices in a corner. Sunlight seeps through the long windows and warms the slate floor. It had rained earlier in the morning, and a smell of wet earth hangs in the air.

My brother enters the hall and advances towards me. He sits opposite me at the trestle table and takes a sip from my cup of tepid tea.

"Forgive me?" I ask quietly.

He says nothing, but smiles, eyes lazy and soft.

Outside, the greyhounds bay, signalling the return of a hunting party. One of the elves in the hall begins to strum a small harp.

I close my book and feel a grin spread across my face.

-finis-