Steel Rose by HannaGoldworthy

Oyunjargal had promised Steel Clan a new home, warm and welcoming in comparison to the high steppes in the East from where they had come.  This “March of Maedhros” was home to none, and colder than anything they had ever imagined.

Oyunjargal had promised Steel Clan richness, jewels that tumbled out of the mountains by themselves, rather than the metal they had to trade to the dwarves for their best furs at home.  These mountains had little to offer but granite, which they as a nomadic tribe could not afford to carry.

Oyunjargal had promised Steel Clan open land and plentiful game, when their land back home had been fraught with strife between too many clans, fighting over too few resources.  This land was much the same, only it was filled with different clans with pale faces and heavy hands, who looked at newcomers with open hostility.

Oyunjargal had promised Steel Clan peace.  And Gansarnai’s mother had died in an orc attack the moment they crossed the mountains.

Obviously, Oyunjargal’s word was not to be trusted.  That was why, when their new hosts made an effort to welcome Steel Clan to the neighborhood, Gansarnai was inclined to accept them.  Oyunjargal had woven a picture of this strange people – these elves, the sons of Fëanor at their head – that made them easy to hate.  They were supposed to be arrogant, and murderous, and faithless even to their hateful people, unkind to their vassals, uncaring to strangers.  And five of them stood before her father now; their eyes were distant, perhaps, but they made a point of carrying the heaviest parts of the three slaughtered deer they had brought as a gift.

Gansarnai looked these men in the eye, and saw nothing of the bloodthirsty marauders of which Oyunjargal had waxed poetic.  Instead, she saw Steel Clan; lonely, wounded, and homesick people, who had come to this spirits-forsaken, barren land at the behest of bad advice and poor decisions.

“Thank you,” she said, scrambling to find the correct words in Sindarin; her mother had been quicker to learn the language, but her father and brothers still could not string a sentence together, so she was the only one left to translate.  “We thank you much.  Please, eat with us tonight?”

The two elves at the front – she supposed they were Fëanor’s sons, judging by the color of the one’s hair and the circlet on the other’s head – shared a glance which exchanged a thousand words, most of which seemed to be an argument.  Then they nodded, first the scarred redhead with firm decision, then the black-haired one, with a glimmer of hesitation.  “We will.”

***

“Who taught these Elves to butcher meat?” groused Ganbaatar under his breath in their tongue, as they ate in their father’s yurt.  “There’s no flavor.”

Her younger brother severely underestimated the strength of their guests’ ears; all of the men looked toward him, and then to her for translation.  The red-head – Maedhros, she reminded herself – seemed almost amused.

“My brother asks about…about…how you kill deer.”

“With arrows,” answered one elf, and he received a gentle swat on the leg from his companion.

“They know that, moron.”

“You ask how we cut up the deer – butcher?” Maedhros inquired gently, with the patience of someone who had taught languages many times.

Gansarnai shook her head, though she gladly filed away the vocabulary for reference.  “No, kill…uh, what you did after you killed deer.  Did you keep blood in the body?”

Maedhros’ younger brother, Maglor, furrowed his brow in confusion.  “How…?”

“They probably get the body upside down as soon as they can, so the wound drains into the meat.”

She nodded, relieved that someone, at least, understood.  For his part, Maglor looked somewhat sickened.

“They eat blood…?”

Maedhros laid a hand on his brother’s knee.  “Yes, brother.  The taste of the meat is probably considerably altered compared to what they usually eat.”

“Bland, is the word, I think.”

Just to illustrate the point. Ganbaatar pulled a face and made a retching noise.  Maedhros laughed, and all the other elves blinked in surprise; obviously, the hardened warrior had not done that for many moons.

“Well, to make it up to you, shall we hunt with you?  See how your people do things?”

Gansarnai repeated the question to her father, who made a show of considering before he nodded once.  “We’d like that,” she said, and felt her cheeks burn when Maedhros returned her smile

Chapter End Notes

Steel Clan is based (somewhat) on nomadic Mongolian tribes, with accompanying names.  I am trying to do as much research as I can (and speaking with my uncle, who has lived with Mongolians in the past), but if anyone is more familiar with the culture and sees something terribly wrong, don't hesitate to correct me.

Also, Oryunjargal roughly means "blessing of wisdom."  Guess who's been giving out gifts again?

Maedhros ordered his men to make sure they lay down while resting that night.  Megilagor gave him a questioning look in response.

“Sire, we rest on our feet amongst the Atani.  They seem to be grateful for it.”

“The Atani know our customs.  These people seem not to have encountered elves in their lives as of yet.”

The swordsman huffed.  “If they want to stay here, they will have to get used to our ways sooner rather than later.”

“And they will.  Just not on their first week in a strange new land; you remember how unsettling it was to see men sleep the first time.”

“Creepy, more like,” Lhathron drawled from somewhere under his bedroll.  “Who can imagine staying in one place for so long?”

“Not you, that’s for certain,” Pengon put in, now that the conversation was fully ruined.  “So help me, if you try to hug me again, I’m dropping your pillow in the nearest beehive.”

“I can’t help it!  I’m affectionate, and you’re warm!”

“Stop touching me!”

If Nerdanel could have beheld her eldest son’s infantry captain in this moment, she would have sworn long and loud that he had to be a distant relative of hers, judging only by the unparalleled duration and exquisite execution of his eye-roll.  Maedhros covered his ears and walked away; his part of the discussion was over, and he was not in the appropriate mood to listen to Megilagor ream his soldiers again.  Maglor had wanted to talk with him, alone; now was as good a time as any.

His brother looked fairly impressed by Megilagor’s rant; likely, he found the cadence well-timed, or some other musical thing that escaped him.

“No, Maedhros, I’m noting that he’s progressed well in Mannish grammar.”

“Quit reading my mind.”

“Quit thinking so loudly.  And yes, Adȗnaic does indeed seem like the perfect language in which to yell at someone.”

Maedhros sat heavily on the ground beside the rock where Maglor perched, and leaned back on his elbows.  “What think you?” he asked softly in Quenya; their guests’ Sindarin was not far advanced, but that had not prevented them from listening.  Fortunately, Megilagor was only barking orders about military discipline, not anything important; he would draw any prying ears away from anything his lords had to say.

Maglor fidgeted briefly with his fingers, likely wishing he had brought his harp or lute along.

“No, my tambourine; it would be much more suited to slapping you upside the head.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me.  I’d never expected you, as devotedly single as you are, to be entranced by a fluttering pair of eyelashes.”

Maedhros blinked; that came out of nowhere.

“No, it did not.  You have smiled more often today than you have in centuries.  Hell, you even laughed once, at a childish joke that didn’t even deserve it.  And don’t pretend it’s not because of that girl; she’s been hanging on your every word.”

“That’s because she’s still learning the language!”

Maglor scoffed.  “She knows a greater amount of Sindarin than I would credit to someone who has only just encountered Sindar this very day.  Eastern Elves are reclusive, if indeed they aren’t all orcs by now; more likely than not, they all spoke different dialects besides Sindarin either way.  And it would not be beyond Sauron to send an attractive female to a famously unmarried enemy in an attempt to get deep into his counsel.”

Maedhros snickered.  “No, it wouldn’t; he’s attempted the ploy before.  But Makalaurë, Sauron has never, and Eru willing, will never send an attractive female to me.”

There were precious few times when it could truly be said that Maglor Fëanorion was truly speechless and his older brother privately enjoyed every one of them.  The musician boggled gracelessly for a few seconds, then smacked Maedhros lightly on the shoulder when he began to chuckle quietly at his brother’s discomfiture.

“Whatever convinced him that you were inclined toward men?”

“It was a popular rumor before the Darkening; I was not inclined to court ladies, and was ever in the presence of Fingon.  Therefore, in the minds of many, we must be involved.”

“And Morgoth only had court gossip to inform him of our family life.”

“And Sauron had only Morgoth’s word to inform him.”

“Gracious, and you never dissuaded him?”

Maedhros flashed a smile that was all teeth.  “Never correct an enemy when he makes a mistake.”

His younger brother smiled back, briefly, but his eyes remained guarded.  “It does not mean that this is not a ploy, just because one girl is attracted to you.”

“No, it does not,” Maedhros agreed, lying back against the grass with his hands behind his head.  “But if it is a ploy, the fact that her brother is not the one to make eyes at me means that the ploy is not proceeding as planned.  And that is always good news.”

***

Gansarnai pushed the door-flap of her father’s yurt aside slightly, allowing herself a peek at the elves outside.  The three lower-ranked elves were chatting animatedly; the lordly brothers had removed a short distance to discuss something more privately.  She tried to keep up with their conversation, but found she could not; fortunately, it seemed to be nothing important.

“Examining your mark, sister?”

Leave it to Ganzorig to remind her of the task they had come here to fulfill.  Not wanting to let him know how hateful the idea of treachery had suddenly become to her, she made her face blank, as if she knew nothing.  “My mark?”

Her elder brother looked at her with commiseration in his eyes.  “Yes, your mark.  Oyunjargal wanted one of us brothers to get in the red one’s favor, but he seemed to have lied again; you have caught his eye more readily.  The plan has to be adjusted.”

Sarnai did not even bother to hide her frustration.  “We have done a number of things for Oyunjargal, but he has yet to keep his end of the bargain.  Who says we have to do what he has told us to do?”

“Our sisters, Sar.  He knows where each and every one of them live.”

Her heart sank, and her brother’s eyes looked the same way she felt.  Of course there was no easy way to get out of this; they had made a bad choice, years before, but they could not unmake that choice.

Zorig nodded grimly, clapping her on the shoulder.  “Get some sleep.  We need to make a good impression in the morning.”

Sarnai glanced out again at the elves, who seemed to be winding down to sleep.  Maedhros was stretched out on the ground, his brother having opted for first watch.  They looked so much like she and her siblings had been on long hunts, when it was warm enough to sleep outside; she could almost believe that they had been born and raised with the Clan, rather than far away in a distant, light place that bore no description.

It pained her, to think of what she must do to them.

Chapter End Notes

Truthfully, I've never headcanoned Maedhros and Fingon as a couple.  This is because they remind me of a relationship I have with a female relative; we look nothing alike, but we are fast friends, so many come to the (understandable, but wrong) conclusion that we are a same-sex couple.  Most of the time we get kind compliments; occasionally, however, there are people we find deserving of messing with.

Oh, and Fingon and his romance are another story, one that I'm going to put in a series with Steel Rose.  I'll see if I can have it posted in a few days.