Sirion by Grundy

The Weight Of The World

It was astounding, Maedhros thought, what a difference a handful of days could make.

Elvish memory was not so fragile as that of the Aftercomers – it was as enduring as the Eldar themselves. So he had not forgotten what it was like to have little ones looking to him. He had just chosen, for many years now, not to think on it.

That was no longer an option.

Since that first morning, when the slip of a girl who had been Elwing’s handmaiden had been so upset, he had a pint-sized shadow as often and as long as he would allow it. While Elrond had been happy enough to ride quietly with Makalaurë, his twin was a cat of a different color.

They might be identical in appearance, but definitely not in temperament.

Maedhros had watched six younger brothers, not to mention half again as many younger cousins grow up, and seen a few of their children as well. He had long since learned to spot the difference between calm children and rambunctious ones. Elros was definitely one of the latter.

Fortunately, Maedhros had both height and age in his favor, not that either one had awed the child for long. Even the missing hand that repulsed most Eldar, young and old alike, was to the boy a subject of covert fascination. Maedhros had already resigned himself to the fact that the child would ask at some point how it happened.

He was already prepared. He might be a marred shell of what he had been in the days of his youth, but he hadn’t lost all sense. The little one would hear just enough to satisfy his curiosity and no more. The day might come when Elwing’s sons were ready to hear the full tale, but that would be years yet.

He is not sure he will ever be ready to see the look in Elros’ eyes when he learned how little his older cousin deserved his regard. The child’s borderline hero worship was not something he had seen since before the Darkening.

Indeed, Makalaurë had pointed out with a suppressed laugh the first evening that none since Findekano have been quite so set on following Maedhros around. He had shushed his sole surviving brother before the peredhil twins heard. Because it was plain enough to him why the children have each latched onto the Fëanorion most like themselves.

The twins had been woefully short on kin and sorely lacking in male elders to look to in Sirion. A few quiet words with Glinwen had confirmed his guess on that score. There had been fewer neri in the settlement from the outset. With their father and his trusted retainers at sea, the boys were left in their mother’s care, and Lalwen’s. Over the past year, even their mother’s attention had been taken from them more often than it should have been.

Of course, it was not just that they were the twins’ elder kinsmen - he and Makalaurë were now the only kin present to care for the children. Maedhros was rather troubled by this. The children were far too young to be deprived of both parents. That they were twins probably helped, but he and Makalaurë were not close kin – the twins’ father was Turukano’s grandson. He and his brother did not have the sort of bond to the young ones that older siblings or even first cousins would. He had been keeping a vigilant eye on them, terrified he would see signs that their fëar had been damaged, or still worse, that they were fading.

So far, to his relief, they seemed to be holding up better than he would have dared hope. Whether it was the blood of men, or simply that there had been kin, in whatever degree, with them almost immediately, he did not know or care.

It was enough that they were in good health, for no matter his worries, he was unable to change how things were. Elwing and Eärendil were both gone, and while Maedhros might tell others he hoped to exchange the children for the silmaril, privately he did not expect to see either Elwing or his father’s jewel again.

In truth, he was not all that sure anyone believed him when he spoke of trading the children for the jewel. His brother certainly didn’t, but he’d hoped perhaps that was just Makalaurë. His brother had known him since his begetting, and for all they had often teased him about having his head in the clouds listening for the Music, Nerdanel’s second son missed little.

But it was more than just his brother. He had discovered that the longer the children had to settle in among their followers, the less seriously anyone took his statements about exchanging them as hostages for the silmaril. He suspected he’d have a mutiny on his hands if he tried to send them away. There were far too many neri and nissi vying for the children’s attention for any of them to be pleased at the thought of giving them up – even to their parents in the unlikely event that either of them returned.

Just last evening, he had overheard one ner quietly soothe another that Lord Maedhros was only talking such nonsense so everyone wouldn’t realize he was just a big softie.

“It’d be one thing if their mother or father came to claim them, but how likely is that?” the first ner had said to the other. “Lady Elwing jumped off cliffs high enough to kill our lord himself, and she wasn’t built anywhere near as strong. No one’s seen hide nor hair of Itarillë’s son in years. Like as not he met the same fate as every other fool who tried to return despite the Ban, for all he was born in Beleriand.”

“Then why say it at all?” the more upset of the pair had demanded. “If he has no intention of doing it?”

“Doesn’t want the world to realize he’s not nearly as fearsome as they think,” had been the knowing conclusion. “Bad for his image.”

Maedhros had snorted quietly to himself, but not revealed that he had overheard. If caring for one’s young kin was being soft, so be it. He would look after his own – what little was left of them.

He has already been thinking on what must be done to make Amon Ereb safe for children. Carnistir’s fortress had not been designed with young ones in mind, and so far as he can recall, there had never been any within its walls.

It has been many years – since Tyelpe was small, in fact – since the House of Fëanor last needed to worry about sharp corners, slippery floors, or bladed weapons kept low enough for little ones to reach. Maedhros was out of practice, and it didn’t help that Curvo’s son had been more in the Elrond mold, quiet and biddable, than of the Elros ‘into everything’ variety. Painful though it was, he found it necessary to cast his mind back to Ambarussa’s youth.

The list of changes necessary was not a short one, and he had no illusion that it could wait. It required no great foresight to see that keeping Elros from damaging himself, his brother, or his immediate surroundings would be a full time job even without obvious hazards. From what he had seen, the boy was as inventive as Tyelko when it came to mischief.

Then there was the problem of where to put the children. They had empty rooms enough in the fortress, for even aside from their recent losses at Siron, the number of their followers dwindled with every cycle of the sun. Some slipped away of their own volition, weary of the fighting with no end in sight. Some faded. Far too many died, one way or another. Tears unnumbered had they been promised…

The girl was easy enough; she could either be given a bed in Nyellië’s room, or the unoccupied chamber next door. He would consult the young craftswoman on that score – she kept close to her young charge, doing such a fine job of keeping her calm that Maedhros was thankful she had been chosen to assist their armorer in place of the usual smith.

The twins he could not simply put in any unoccupied room. They were still young enough to need to be near their guardians when they slept. A child in his own room was out of the question, for even now Maedhros was plagued by nightmares he would not willingly inflict on an elf grown, let alone elfings. Unless they put trundle beds Makalaurë’s suite- probably unwise given how often his brother’s harp was heard long into the night- the only option left was to settle them in Pityo’s chambers.

Which meant someone would need to clear the room of Pityo’s things first.

The last time such a task had been necessary, Maedhros had taken it upon himself, sparing his younger brothers. Unfortunately, he could not see where that was an option this time. He doubted that any of the children would be sufficiently at ease in the somewhat forbidding and completely unknown surroundings of the fortress to let their chosen adults out of their sight for the first few days. As such, neither he nor Makalaurë would have the time for such a task. Particularly not when he recalled the likely state of his youngest brother’s room.

Maedhros was not the only one whose sleep was troubled more often than not, and Pityo had been uneasy about the trip to Sirion for several weeks before they set out. Whenever bouts of insomnia took him, his youngest brother had been apt to read, or paint, or any other activity that took his fancy, nonstop, until he either reached a state of exhaustion sufficient to allow him to find rest, or until one of his older brothers dosed him with something to achieve the same. He rarely troubled himself about tidying up during such manias.

There was nothing for it. Loathe though he was to admit it, he would have to trust one of the stewards to pack it all up and move it to some other empty space. He and his surviving brother could sort through it later.

Maedhros frowned. At the rate they were riding, they would reach the road on the morrow. At that point, he needed to be ready to dispatch his orders. Well-armed riders on fast horses could reach Amon Ereb in a few days, while the wagons would take a week at the least. Though they had pushed on even by night to put as much distance between themselves and Gil-galad’s forces as they could, neither his people nor their horses could keep this pace much longer.

He reached for pen and paper and began first to list everything out for himself, to ensure he overlooked nothing important. Though he had taken a hand in the upbringing of younger relatives in Aman, never before had he been so wholly responsible for any – they had always had a father of their own to see to their protection and comfort.

It was painful to think that this was likely the closest to fatherhood that he would ever come.

It was then that his eyes fell on little Elrond, trying once again to make progress in the improbably weighty history of the Noldor that someone had packed in the bag he’d had with him in the sea cave. Maedhros recognized the work, of course – he sometimes wondered what the royal historian Rumil, tutor to all the princes of the House of Finwë in turn, would think of his former charges could he but see them now. Rumil ought to have had the teaching of these children also…

He shook his head to clear such wishful thoughts from his mind. The children’s education was a worry for when he had them safely settled in at Amon Ereb. First he had to get them there, and ensure that all was ready for them.

Not just rooms and physical safety, he decided, watching the younger twin puzzle out a word in a chapter that was really not the sort of thing an elfling so young ought to be reading – though it was possible these children knew enough of orcs already not to be frightened by descriptions of the first time the Eldar had encountered them. He added another note to his list. The origins of the orc were not the only thing in his library he had no wish to explain to one so young.