Little Drop of Poison by grey_gazania

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Little Drop of Poison

Elrond and his brother were halfway through their usual weekly chores – in this case, cleaning their bedroom, Elrond wielding a broom and Elros a duster – when the sound of hoofbeats began to echo up from outside the fortress.

 

“They’re back! Just in time for dinner,” Elros said, his face lighting up. He dropped his duster, grabbed his twin by the elbow, and half dragged Elrond out the door, saying, “Come on, let’s go meet them.”

 

Elrond let go of the broom and allowed himself to be towed along into the hallway. It had been over two weeks since they had last seen Maedhros, who had left with a band of the others to sweep the lands around Amon Ereb for orcs, spiders, and any other foul creatures of Morgoth that might have strayed too near to their home. While Maedhros’ absences during his patrol duties had no noticeable impact on the day-to-day functioning of Amon Ereb, which ticked along like well-oiled clockwork, his empty seat at the dinner table and the brief suspension of his usual lessons always left Elrond and Elros feeling like their little family was temporarily missing a limb.

 

And it was a family. Despite what Galwen had said to him once – that at Amon Ereb he and Elros were surrounded by captors, not kin – Elrond had come to think of Maglor and Maedhros as his foster-fathers. Family were the people who loved you, and cared for you, and saw to it that you grew up healthy and strong. And if that was the case, then Maglor and Maedhros were far better parents than Elwing, who had abandoned Elrond and Elros, or Eärendil, who had gone to sea and never come back for them.

 

Elrond was shaken from his thoughts by a shout from down below.

 

“Wait,” he said to Elros. “Did you just hear someone call for Melloth?”

 

“Maybe someone’s hurt?” Elros said, his eyes reflecting the same gnawing worry that had begun to nestle in Elrond’s stomach. Melloth was their healer, and neither boy could think of any other reason why she would be summoned.

 

They rushed to the nearest window, peering down at the party of riders approaching the courtyard. Súletal, Maedhros’ dappled, garlic-loving horse, was riderless, and for a moment Elrond panicked. Then he spotted Maedhros seated in front of Malnas on Malnas’ own steed. But his relief was short-lived. Even from here, he could see that Maedhros was unwell. His eyes were closed in his ashen face, and his head lolled from side to side as the riders entered the walls of the fortress.

 

Exchanging frightened looks, the boys rushed down the remaining two flights of stairs and stumbled outside. By the time they reached everyone, Melloth had already arrived, and she was checking Maedhros’ pulse and eyes.

 

“--poisoned?” Elrond heard her say.

 

“We kept the arrowhead,” Malnas said, pulling a small bundle from his saddlebag. He unwrapped it and held it out, and Elrond watched with horrified fascination as Melloth took the bloody thing, held it to her nose, and sniffed.

 

“I don’t recognize this,” she said, her face dark. “Take him inside. You,” she added, pointing to Elros, “go fetch Lord Maglor. Quickly, now!”

 

Elros took off at once, leaving Elrond to follow Melloth and Malnas as they carried Maedhros to the healing chambers. He hovered just inside the door, watching as they laid Maedhros on one of the beds and Malnas showed Melloth the wound. It was easy enough for Elrond to determine what had happened. Maedhros had been struck by a poisoned arrow, and Melloth wasn’t yet sure what kind of poison.

 

Melloth can heal anything, he told himself, trying to force his racing heart to slow. She’ll make Maedhros better. She has to.

 

He was distracted by Maglor’s arrival, Elros on his heels. Maglor had rushed to Maedhros’ side, but Elros stopped just inside the doorway, waiting beside his brother.

 

“Out,” Maglor snapped, when he caught sight of the two of them lingering. “You’re in Melloth’s way.”

 

“But--”

 

“Out, I said! Now!”

 

The boys fled into the hall, where they nearly ran straight into Doronel, Maedhros’ second-in-command, still in his chainmail, damp cloak, and muddy boots.

 

“Here, now, my lads,” Doronel said, taking in Elros’ bloodless face and Elrond’s quivering lower lip. “My lord isn’t angry at you.” Wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders, he led them to a bench a little way down the hall and sat, positioning a twin on either side of him.

 

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said. “But Melloth needs room to work, and Lord Maglor is worried for his brother.”

 

“What happened?” Elros asked in a small voice.

 

Doronel didn’t answer at first, but tightened his arms around the boys. Silence spooled out between them, broken only by the inaudible murmurs coming from the healing chambers, until he finally said, “We found a band of orcs. One of them struck my lord with an arrow. The wound wasn’t severe, but he fell ill shortly after the battle.”

 

“Is he going to die?” Elrond whispered. The idea filled him with fear, a deep dread that that empty seat at the dinner table might become permanent.

 

Doronel shook his head fiercely. “Of course not. Believe me, boys, it would take more than a poisoned arrow to put an end to Maedhros Fëanorion. He’s the strongest man I’ve ever known. I would follow him into the Void itself.”

 

Elrond considered the words, biting absently at his lower lip. “Isn’t Halfion stronger?” he said, thinking of the blacksmith’s broad chest and burly arms. “He can throw anvils.”

 

Doronel laughed, but gently. “It’s not physical strength I speak of, Elrond,” he said. “It’s strength of the spirit. My lord survived Angband. I don’t believe Prince Fëanor himself could have done the same. Maedhros’ spirit is indomitable.” Ruffling Elrond’s hair affectionately, he added, “Don’t fret. I promise you, Maedhros will die on no one’s terms but his own.”

 

Reassured by Doronel’s faith, by the iron-hard certainty in his voice, Elrond allowed himself to calm down, taking a few deep breaths and sitting in silence as they waited for further news. It helped, sitting there with Doronel’s arm around him, knowing that someone who had known Maedhros for some seven hundred years was so certain of his survival. It helped, knowing that someone much older and wiser than Elrond also believed Maedhros to be indestructible.

 

He had already lost his mother and his father. Elrond didn’t think he or Elros could stand to lose one of their foster-fathers as well.

 

Some thirty minutes later, Melloth stepped into the hall and beckoned to the trio. With a squeeze of the boys’ shoulders, Doronel stood and led them to the doorway. Elrond’s mouth was dry, his heart beating in his throat as he wondered what they would see.

 

Inside the room, Maglor was sitting beside Maedhros, his face drawn and pinched. Maedhros was still unconscious, his skin so pale he almost seemed to glow in the blue light of the Fëanorian lamps. But he was breathing – Elrond could see his chest rise and fall beneath the blanket.

 

“Will Maedhros be all right?” Elros asked, keeping his voice low, as though he feared waking the man.

 

“The poison was very strong,” Melloth said. “But I’ve done my best.”

 

Elrond and Elros exchanged a worried glance. True, Melloth’s answer hadn’t been no, but it hadn’t been yes, either. In the face of that, Doronel’s earlier words suddenly seemed less reassuring.

 

“Can we stay?” Elrond asked Maglor. “I promise we’ll be quiet.”

 

Maglor looked as red-eyed and haunted as Elrond had ever seen him, haunted enough to rival Maedhros on one of his bad nights, but he nodded and gestured for them to join him. Elros took the other chair, and Elrond perched on the end of Maedhros’ bed, careful not to sit on his feet.

 

“I’ll send Ólloth up with some dinner for you three,” Doronel said. Elrond could see that he was watching Maglor’s face closely, and when Maglor shook his head and muttered something about not being hungry, Doronel pursed his lips.

 

“You need to eat,” he said. “You skipping dinner won’t help Maedhros heal. And you should set a better example for the boys.”

 

That seemed to reach Maglor, and he drew himself up and gave a jerky sort of nod. “Thank you, Doronel,” he said hoarsely, and then waved his hand in a vague gesture of dismissal.

 

Ólloth arrived not long after, bearing a tray that held three bowls of venison stew. Elrond ate, but didn’t really taste the meal, and from the mechanical motion of Elros’ fork and the way Maglor only picked at his dinner, he suspected that he wasn’t the only one.

 

Maglor hadn’t said a word since Doronel and Melloth had left, and he didn’t speak until Elrond asked, tentatively, “Can we stay here tonight?” He had guessed already that Maglor wasn’t going to leave Maedhros’ side until Maedhros woke.

 

If he woke.

 

Stop it, Elrond told himself. Don’t think that. Maedhros isn’t going to die.

 

Maglor, though, shook his head. “No,” he said. “You boys need a good night’s sleep. And I don’t want you in the way if something…” He broke off, his throat apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed, and then said, “I mean, if Melloth needs to see to him again.”

 

“But–”

 

“No arguments,” Maglor said, and he sounded so exhausted that Elrond felt like a churl for protesting.

 

“Okay,” he said quietly. He nodded to Elros, and the two of them departed for their own bedroom.

 

***********

 

Elros dropped off quickly enough, but Elrond tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Melloth was worried, and Maglor was worried, and that made him worried. What if Doronel was wrong? What if Maedhros did die? All the reassurances Elrond tried to give himself felt hollow, felt like wishful thinking.

 

Finally, he couldn’t bear it anymore, and he climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of thick woolen socks, preparing to go back to the healing chambers.

 

Just to check on Maglor, he told himself. To make sure he gets some sleep, too.

 

He padded through the corridors on silent feet, and stopped just outside the door to the healing chambers. He could hear Maglor within, whispering, and at first he thought that perhaps Maedhros had woken. But as the words became discernable, he realized that he was wrong.

 

“Don’t die, Nelyo,” Maglor was murmuring, bent over his brother’s sickbed, Maedhros’ hand cradled in his. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

 

For a moment Elrond hesitated, but then he slipped into the room. “Maglor?” he said.

 

“Elrond,” Maglor said, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “I thought I told you to go back to your room and get a good night’s sleep.”

 

“I can’t,” Elrond said, deciding that honesty was the best policy. “I’m too worried.”

 

Something in Maglor’s face softened, and he held out an arm towards Elrond, who went to his side and accepted the embrace.

 

“He’s not going to die, is he?” Elrond mumbled, burying his face in Maglor’s warm shoulder.

 

Maglor was silent for a long moment, and then said, softly, “I don’t know. My brother is strong, but Melloth doesn’t know what specific poison the orcs used, so she can’t tailor her antidotes. He hasn’t had any seizures, which is a good sign, but he’s not breathing well, and from what Malnas told us, he’s been in the coma for three days.”

 

Elrond perched on the edge of the bed, thinking that he had never seen Maedhros look so fragile until now, and reached out to place his fingers against the pulse point in Maedhros wrist. Melloth had started teaching him the more advanced healing arts last winter, after he’d shown a knack for medicine, and now he closed his eyes, trying to focus on the vital energies moving through Maedhros’ body. To his faint surprise, Maglor didn’t scold him, but sat silently as Elrond concentrated.

 

There. He could feel the poison, black and sluggish like tar or old blood. But what to do with it? How to stop it from dragging at Maedhros’ life force?

 

He didn’t know, but he felt moved to try anyway, pushing the silver crackle of his own energy into Maedhros’ body, trying to force the poison out. Out of his tissues, back into his veins, back up his veins to the original wound…

 

The taste of blood in his mouth brought him back to the real world. In his concentration, he’d bitten deeply into his own lip. But there was something oozing through the bandage covering Maedhros’ shoulder, and his breaths, once shallow, had grown deep and regular.

 

Maglor was staring at Elrond, concern, hope, and wonder warring in his face. “Elrond,” he asked, “what did you just do?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Elrond said, swaying a little; he felt lightheaded and a touch weak. “I just…found the poison and I pushed.”

 

Reaching out to steady him, Maglor said, “Do you remember, after the birds started talking to your brother, how I said that I thought he must have inherited a measure of Melian’s power? And that if he had, you must have as well, and that we would have to watch to see how it manifested?”

 

“Yes,” Elrond said, taking a deep breath in an effort to stop his head from spinning.

 

Maglor smiled at him – tiredly, but a real smile – and said, “I think we just found out.”

Chapter End Notes

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