Vodka by ford_of_bruinen

Vodka

A big thank you to Enismirdal for the beta.

Read Vodka

Maedhros paused in the doorway, gathering his strength. The small room that his brother used as an office seemed at odds with itself, the brightly coloured rugs and wall-hangings contrasting garishly against the wooden walls and floor of the bleak room. His suspicions about what he would found proved accurate as his gaze fell on his brother: the cold sobriety of the day had been deserted. Maglor's hair fell carelessly across the table over which he leant, cradling a crude glass in his hands.

A sardonic smile played over Maglor's face as he looked up. “Welcome back, brother,” he said, raising the glass towards Maedhros. “How was Morgoth's care?”

Maedhros entered, carefully sinking down in an empty chair. “Inhospitable.”

Maglor nodded, his eyes returning to the glass in his hands. “So I imagine.”

“A late celebration of my return, Káno? Or did you find another reason?” Maedhros nodded at the half-empty bottle on his brother's right.

Smiling grimly, Maglor looked up, meeting Maedhros' eyes. “What better reason than to celebrate the return of a long lost brother.” He emptied the glass in one mouthful before refilling it to the brim. “A brother I left to rot in hell, I may add.”

Maedhros snorted as he reached out, taking the glass from Maglor's hand. “Guilt does not become you. If it helps, I would have done the same had it been you.”

Maglor leant back, balancing the chair on its back legs as he looked at his older brother, emancipated, bruised and broken even now. “No,” he said carelessly. “You would not. You, of all of us, still have that thin thread of honour. The rest of us shook that off at Losgar.”

“And so you consider yourself honourless now?” Maedhros’ voice was dry; he had long years of experience in dealing with his brother in this state.

“Close enough.” Maglor sounded unconcerned. “You know the boy only saved you because he fancies himself in love?”

“Be that as it may my desires never ran towards boys.”

Laughing, Maglor let the chair drop back on four legs. “Perhaps I should bed him instead. He has a pretty face.”

“From what I recall your tastes never ran to our own any more than mine did.”

Maglor shrugged. “You take what you can get in this life, male or female. They are equally able to spread their legs or open their mouths.”

“An very romantic view of love, brother.” Maedhros raised the glass, sipping at the clear liquid. The strong burn of raw alcohol tickled his throat, sending him into a fit of coughs and splutters. “Morgoth's hells, brother, I swear you find a fouler liquid every time. What is this rot?”

“Something the local tribes makes from potatoes, I am led to believe. It does the job.”

Shaking his head, Maedhros pushed the glass back at his brother. “You can keep it.” He nodded at the thick mound of parchments resting to Maglor's left. What are you working on now?”

Maglor looked down at the notes, tapping his fingers over the sheets. “A pretence of regret.” He emptied the glass and met his brother's eyes, deliberately picking up the bottle with his right hand. “Another of these and their voices will come to me.” He saluted his brother with the bottle before taking a deep swig. “I call it the Noldolantë.”