The Love of Small Things by janeways

Chapter 3

In which Maglor is his mother’s son; or, the difference between kindness and weakness, justice and prudence.

—And all I get is an, “Oh, by the way?” Really, brother? What did you expect the poor lad to do, casually drop it into conversation—"Oh yes, Ada, I did very much enjoy that book you lent me, oh and by the way, Atar has adopted the High King, who, by the way, is actually one of Dior’s sons, whom Atar saved and never told you about, just so you know?” Ilúvatar above, Maedhros, I’m happy for you—beyond happy! overjoyed! bursting with emotion! I have a new nephew!—but you might have written me and saved your poor son the trouble.

As it so happened, Elrond and Gil-galad had come to see Maglor together. A hesitant knock, followed by an, “Ada? Are you busy just now?” had preceded what Maglor considered possibly the most awkward encounter of his life—certainly, of this age. They had all sat together in the small area he kept for visitors, discomfort radiating off Elrond and Gil-galad as though they were small children caught in the act of something they weren’t supposed to be doing. There had been much “um”ing and “uhh”ing, much fidgeting, much hedging—but very little coherent speech. Maglor had always thought Elrond tended towards silence when nervous, and that day his son had sat unnaturally straight, tugging at his sleeves and studiously avoiding eye contact. Gil-galad, usually unruffled even in the most trying of circumstances, had seemed utterly lost, starting and stopping and starting over in the search for the right words. Finally, in desperation, Elrond had all but thrown a letter at him, hurriedly making an excuse for why they had to be off, before the two of them flew out of Maglor’s room in a most undignified manner.

Maglor smiled to himself as he turned the memories over in his mind. ‘No matter how old you are, your parents can still make you feel like a naughty child,’ he thought to himself. He was a son of Fëanor and Nerdanel; he knew that feeling well. He thought of his mother, then, and tried to imagine her reaction to all this. Not unlike his own, he ventured to guess. Unimaginable joy and unfathomable rage, neither tempering the other but swirling together like oil and vinegar, an emotion with a unique flavor Maglor couldn’t quite name. He was unsure if he cared for the taste of it.

Brother, I am not upset by the action itself—I think, all things considered, it was not unwise to remove the boy in haste and secrecy—but it is beyond my comprehension why you did not think at least to tell me. Surely you did not think me capable of such barbarism, to make war on a child? Or such indiscretion as to let slip the truth and send soldiers running in pursuit?

Maglor paused, his breathing quick and shallow. Putting words to paper had helped steady his emotions—it always did, the physical movement and linear nature of writing forcing a distillation of the roiling feelings within. As he sat with his thoughts, a new one rose to the surface—

—No, worse; once you made up your mind—I will spare you the “without consulting me,” for I would have agreed with you in that instance—you thought if you told me, I would be imprudent enough to insist on keeping him for the sake of morality, unnecessarily endangering a child who had already had one attempt on his life.

You shock me, brother. I thought of all people, you were among the few who had never mistaken my kindness for weakness.

Maglor thought then of Sirion aflame and two small, scared faces, their fear mirrored for the briefest moment in Maedhros’s. He had wondered about that, thinking, perhaps, that in that flicker of distress across his brother’s face, he was witnessing a moment of regret, acknowledging the horror of what they had become. Maglor’s kindness had not been weakness then—but Sirion was not Doriath. In the back of his mind, Maglor repressed the uncomfortable thought that without the hard-learned lesson of Dior’s children, the discovery of Elwing’s sons might have seemed a very different situation to some of his and his brothers’ followers. Elros and Elrond were by blood Gil-galad’s—Eluréd’s—nephews, Maglor remembered dimly.

Maglor realized what he had seen then in his brother’s eyes was not only fear but memory: the anxiety that in reaching out to hold these children, Maedhros would only hurt them; the unspeakable sight of history regurgitating itself in front of him, offering a terrible glimpse of all the possibilities could have been and could come to be. The fear, he realized, had been Maedhros’s own fear of himself, but not in the way he had believed. No, this was worse, this was intimate. Had Maedhros, every time he thought of his sons, thought also of a small boy, lost in the forest?

The anger in Maglor’s stomach cooled to pity. Whatever the circumstances, he had a new nephew—Maglor had the fleeting thought that, speaking of nephews, someone really ought to tell Celebrimbor about all this—and both Gil-galad and Maedhros would need his support in the years that followed.

Picking up his quill again, he continued:

I have often though that kindness is often justice as it is weakness. We are all of us capable of things we never thought we would be capable of, both good and ill. Yes, good, even if history remembers only the ill—for we have sons, and they will remember the good for us.

Now, brother, on the subject of sons, let me tell you of yours—

Chapter End Notes

A point of clarification: in my headcanon, I see Maedhros and Maglor essentially co-adopting the boys—or at least, that’s how it works out in the end, trepidation on both the twins’ and Maedhros’s part being eventually overcome. I think Elrond was perhaps closer to Maglor, and so calls him “Ada,” the Sindarin diminutive for father (like “Dad” or “Papa”), whereas Maedhros he calls “Atar,” the Quenya for the more formal “Father.” It’s reflective of his relationship with each, but it’s also a simple way to distinguish between the two.