Twenty-Two Copies by Luxa

Chapter 1

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When Elros asked what he was doing, he blushed and told him the truth. He was recording, he told him. He was recording his memories. His Ada and Elros looked incredulous, while Maedhros betrayed nothing. Maedhros never betrayed anything.

It was difficult to explain. He was doing it because he could feel that things were changing, that his life was changing. Soon, he knew, he would say goodbye to Maglor and Maedhros and he knew, he couldn't say how, but he knew he would never see them again.

He also knew how the world saw them. He couldn't bear the idea of going to live with people who only heard one side of the story, who only the people who raised him as murderers. They knew who they were, and they knew they would pay for their sins. The rest of the world didn't need to judge.

Elrond was determined that there was going to be record of what it was like to love the sons of Fëanor.

---

 

"I liked Celegorm least of my brothers."

Elrond's heart nearly stopped when Maedhros' gravelly voice started speaking, and by the time he was done, he had his parchment in front of him and his quill dipped.

Maglor didn't speak, but his fingers stopped toying with the strings of his harp. Elrond could have sworn he was smiling.

Maedhros didn't look at anyone as he spoke, not even Elros, whose face was so close to the fire it looked like it would soon melt off.

"After Fingon saved me, I overheard Celegorm wishing that Morgoth had left my face alone, because it would have saved him from being reminded of my ordeal every time he saw me."

Elrond chanced a glance at Maedhros while he wrote, and was shocked to see that he too was smiling, the scar that split his lips shining in the firelight.

"Don't forget that he also said once that he was grateful for what he did to your face because it made him the best-looking son of Fëanor," added Maglor.

"Fickle, wasn't he?" said Elros, yawning and rolling over on the rug. "Besides, you've only got, what, five scars on your face? Adds character."

"Yes, well, Celegorm wasn't revered for his intelligence," said Maglor, plucking out a high note that made them cringe.

"I think he was jealous I was so tall," said Maedhros. "Idiot, if you ask me. No one wants to be this tall. Turgon and I based our entire friendship off it..not that we were great friends after we got his wife killed."

And he stood up and left without another word.

---

Elrond always copied out his unruly scribbles onto a special book he'd saved for this purpose, making sure the lines were neat and straight and the ink was dark. It marked the beginning of what would become Elrond's life-long love of lore.

Elrond knew that when he grew old (not Man-old but Elf-old, because he knew already what he would choose, just like he knew what Elros would choose, but he couldn't think about losing his twin, his other half, not yet) he would turn the yellowed pages of this book and run his fingers down the page and try to remember the feel of his Ada's harp and the way Maedhros' hair shone in the sun.

He thought Maglor knew too, because he began to pepper his speech with tidbits about his life and about Maedhros' too. Not just them but their brothers, the impetuous twins he grew misty-eyes over, the dark one, who, if he believed his Ada, would do anything for a sweet but never thank you for it, the way one smiled in the forge, his clothes sooty and stained and his eyes lit with passion, the way one played with his hound and loved so whole-heartedly he could not form a full sentence around his love, even when she threatened to skin him like an orc.

When Maglor and Elrond were alone, he would tell him about the mother he left behind in Valinor. He never talked about his father, and Elrond never asked.

---

"You couldn't help but like Finrod."

Elrond, who had been hoping that this might happened, only needed to dip his quill to start writing. Maglor, who was restringing his bow (a process that Maglor made far more difficult than it needed to be), stopped trying to wrangle the bowstring on and listened.

There was no fire, so Maedhros chose to rain his brooding stare on Elrond instead, something he wasn't quite comfortable with.

"Finrod had this charm about him. In Valinor, everyone always fought to be the one he went hunting with. He was kind and polite to everyone he met. Even our father liked him, and that is easier said than done."

Elrond suddenly found it difficult to swallow. He was glad Elros was down by the stream looking for that litter of pups, because he didn't think he could deal with his beloved brother's callousness right now.

"When we came to Beleriand, our brother started trying to hate Finrod. I don't know why. Looking back, our brothers hated a lot of people they shouldn't have."

Maglor made a soft noise of agreement.

Maedhros' dark eyes were still trained on Elrond as he said flatly, "I was so angry with them when they tried to overthrow Nargothrond. So, so angry. I think they were jealous of Finrod. They were always jealous of someone."

He returned his gaze to the empty fireplace and stopped speaking. It was Maglor who finished the conversation.

"In the end, so were we."

---

When Elrond makes his choice and says goodbye to those forsaken sons of Fëanor, he takes his book with him. When he is forced to let Elros go to the sea, he reads the book of memories, this time looking not for memories of his foster parents but for the tidbits about his brother.

When Elrond grows old, Elf-old as he knew he would, he does not forget the book. Every few centuries he puts time aside and takes a copy out, flipping through yellowed pages. He has not lost his love of lore, and he basks in the memories as he puts ink to paper and copies it down again.

When he finally leaves Middle-earth, there are twenty-two copies of the book in the Imladris library, and he leaves twenty-one.