Cut Ten To One by Nibeneth

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Chapter 1

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Elrond knew something was wrong as soon as he woke. The air was chill and quiet, and that fragile stillness carried unease like droplets of mist. Mornings, he knew, were never like this.

Shivering a little, he drew the covers around his shoulders and peered out of the casement window near the bed. It was just dawn, but no one was training in the courtyard, and the forge was dark and devoid of ringing hammers and whooshing bellows.

A single figure crossed the half-frozen ground, pushing a wheelbarrow. It was one of the household, dressed in nightclothes and slippers, and the wheelbarrow was full of knives. Kitchen knives. Belt knives. Hunting knives.

Another figure followed, similarly equipped, though her wheelbarrow was fulled with swords, from plain steel guards' swords to the great curved longsword worked with copper and rubies which belonged to Maedhros. They both paused at the stone shed at the far edge of the courtyard, where the woman fumbled for a ring of keys with cold fingers. When she opened the door, Elrond could see more wheelbarrows all filled with sharp objects—carpentry tools, arrows, hatchets, garden shears. The knives and swords joined the rest, and the door was padlocked over them.

Behind him, Elros rustled awake.

“'S going on?” he mumbled, rubbing one sleepy eye.

“I don't know.” Elrond moved back from the window. Elros grabbed for the quilt he was wearing like a cloak, muttering about brothers stealing all the covers.

For a moment Elrond lay quietly, reluctant to leave the warm cocoon for cold stone floors and walls, but the silence pressed in on him and the feeling that something was wrong somewhere in the compound grew within him like a rash.

The main hall, too, was quiet. At this hour the household usually gathered for a communal morning meal filled with shop talk and the kind of jokes that made Maglor reach over the bench and cover the twins' ears as best as he could. Instead, chimneys outside smoked gently—breakfast in the hall was cancelled, it seemed, but still the smells of acorn coffee and bacon filtered up from the hall to the second floor, where the boys and their guardians lived.

Elros, now fully awake, broke first. “Come on. Let's check it out.” He slipped out of bed and reached for his slippers. A strange anxiety curled in the pit of Elrond's stomach at the thought of going downstairs, but his brother was already half out the door and in the end, curiosity won out.

Two voices drifted upstairs. Maedhros and Maglor, and an argument in progress that sounded more weary than angry.

“I'll find a way, I swear by all the Valar—”

“No! You are my brother and I will not lose you, do you understand?” That was Maglor, but he did not sound like himself; his normally rich voice was cracked as if he had been crying.

Elrond did not step into the light. He crouched at the top of the stairs, just around a corner that obscured him from the view of anyone sitting by the hearth at the center of the hall. Elros joined him. Carefully, they both watched around the corner. The fire was low, but still they could see two shadows stark against the far wall. One was shaggy and hunched—that was Maedhros. Maglor's shadow paced, occasionally poking at the fire and sending a few sparks up toward the ceiling.

“You are selfish and cruel.”

“Please don't say that. Is it selfish and cruel for me to want you to be happy?”

Maedhros' laugh held no warmth. “Happy? What is there in my life to be happy about? I do not want happiness. Only an end. And you keep taking that away from me.”

Maglor was shaking his head. The fire popped loudly, but neither of them reacted to it.

“We have a family again,” he began, but Maedhros cut him off by throwing something heavy in his direction. It missed and smashed wetly against the wall behind him, but it made his point. Maglor went still and said nothing else.

“I may not be as slimy and scheming as you, brother, but I'm not an idiot,” Maedhros hissed. “You took them as leverage to get the Jewel. And when that didn't work, you decided to raise them yourself so one day they would follow you in their ignorance. Do not speak to me of family.”

Maglor's shadow flinched as if slapped, but Maedhros had not moved.

“I do love them,” he said softly, after a pause. “I'm not as cold as you make me out to be.”

“I have known 'shrewd politician' Maglor far longer than I have known 'doting father' Maglor. You don't fool me.” His shadow hunched a little deeper, doubling as if in pain. He sucked in a tense breath. Maglor's shadow crossed the doorway to join his on the other side of the fire. Whatever he said to his brother then was in old-fashioned Quenya and inaudible, but Maedhros let out a shaky sigh and straightened up a bit. It seemed to have helped.

Elrond and Elros looked at each other warily. They were not meant to hear this conversation, that much was obvious, but if it had been anyone else, Maglor would have encouraged them to listen in. You have the right to know what people think of you. Especially in this household.

Elrond, young as he was, understood more than some thought he did.

“Eat your breakfast,” Maglor said. He stood and reached for something near the hearth. There was a burble of warm liquid filling a mug.

“I'll just throw it up again.”

“You will not. You'll feel better with some food in you.”

“Your mothering doesn't fool me either,” Maedhros retorted, but he bent his head a little and lifted a spoon to his mouth.

Elros' brow furrowed. His eyes, when they met Elrond's, were worried—of the two of them, he was more likely to be seen trotting along after Maedhros' long strides, asking him questions about castles and swords. Elrond was more likely to sit at Maglor's knee and pester him for stories of Aman before the Darkening. Before the Oath.

“Is he sick? He doesn't get sick,” Elros whispered.

The shadows on the wall jolted alert—they had heard him. Elros chewed his lip. Elrond could read his thoughts as if they were written all over his face. We weren't supposed to be here. Will they be angry?

But Maglor's face, when it rose into view, was not angry. Just pinched with worry and exhaustion and surrounded with a mass of disheveled black hair. Elrond realized that he had never seen Maglor in such a state before. He was always washed and buttoned-up and brushed and braided, his seams pressed so flat that they seemed as crisp (and as fragile) as fine paper. He'd certainly never seen him in a nightshirt before, let alone one worn with muddy work boots.

“You're up already?” Maglor said. Elrond nodded. His guardian glanced briefly at Maedhros, whose shadow gave a one-shouldered shrug. “...It's all right, you can come down. Would you like some breakfast?”

The boys said nothing as they descended the stairs. The whole hall was indeed empty except for Maglor and Maedhros and a few glowing logs on the hearth, which cast deep shadows across the empty chairs and tables and made the hall seem much larger and darker than it usually did. There was a pot of porridge and another of coffee steaming gently on the grate. By the time they reached the ground floor, Maglor had already filled two mugs almost to the top with milk and added a dribble of coffee to each. When they each had one,he dished two bowls of porridge to go with their coffee-tinged milk. It was good and thick, savory with bacon and peas, if slightly dried-out around the edges from being over the fire a bit too long.

Maedhros did not look up when they passed him to sit at an empty bench next to the fire. In contrast to Maglor, “disheveled” was normal for him: on any given day, his hair hung uncombed and wild and chances were even that he hadn't bathed. Elrond, if he was being honest with himself, found him frightening, and that was largely because of his gold teeth, six of which were visible when he bared them in anger or frustration. This morning, however, he was anything but frightening with a blanket wrapped around his upper body and a bowl of porridge balanced between his knees, from which he had taken a few half-hearted spoonfuls.

There was a box in Elrond's mind where he kept many thoughts safe and isolated, not forgotten but stored until he understood enough to think about them. Where his parents had gone. How and why he and Elros came to be part of the household of Maedhros and Maglor. What the future would hold, not if but when and why they would eventually be driven from this house to another. Not knowing whether some of the things he saw and dreamed were really just his imagination.

To this box he now calmly added the sight of fresh bandages peeking out from Maedhros' blanket and the way he held his right arm close to his chest as if trying not to jar it. Maglor's muddy boots and a shed full of knives.

All four of them were quiet for a long time.

“Remember when we used to drink the real thing?” Maedhros said finally. He stuck his horn spoon into his porridge and reached for his mug instead. He pulled a face in anticipation, but took a long drink anyway.

“This is the real thing,” Maglor replied.

“Cut ten-to-one with burnt acorns, as usual.” He grimaced again and drained the rest of it. “Still. Clears out your head.”

Elrond liked it with acorns well enough, but then, his was mostly milk.

Hesitantly, as if he was unsure he was doing the right thing, Elros set down his bowl next to his mug on the bench. Elrond watched as he slid to the edge, stood up, and then took the long way around the fire to where Maedhros sat like a bleary-eyed vulture. He slid again down that bench, this time toward the center. He stopped a foot from Maedhros' left arm, and then scooted another few inches, and then finally tucked himself against the tall elf's side. His head rested gently on the folds of the gray wool blanket.

Again, none of them said anything. Maedhros went utterly still, his empty mug still held up slightly as if asking for another. After another heartbeat, he looked down at the child who had just entwined both arms around one of his.

“Are you all right?” Elros asked before anyone could ask him what he was doing.

Maedhros seemed to consider his words. Carefully, he set the empty mug down on the hearth in front of him. “I had a rough night,” he said at last.

Maglor opened his mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of it. Instead, he took Elros' place next to Elrond. He rested his elbows on his knees, fingers loosely twined, and he looked so bleak for a moment that Elrond almost wanted to follow his brother's lead and curl up next to him, but unlike Elros he did not especially like to give or receive hugs. Maglor, too, preferred to maintain a perimeter.

“Are you sick?” Elros' face went from thoughtful to worried again. Maedhros almost looked surprised.

“A little.” He met Maglor's eyes across the fire. “I guess I don't feel as awful as I did.”

“That's good.” Elros turned his face in closer. “You should eat some more. You'll feel better.”

“I live in an entire house full of nursemaids,” Maedhros muttered. “Fine. But I can't eat if you're holding my arm like that.”

Elros released him but did not move away.

Elrond gave Maglor a pat on the arm and received a tired smile in return.

Maedhros took another bite.