Things You've Done by StarSpray

Things You've Done

Read Things You've Done

There's an albatross around your neck,

All the things you've said,

And the things you've done,

Can you carry it with no regrets,

Can you stand the person you've become,

Ooh there's a light

Ooh there's a light

- Bastille, “The Weight of Living Pt. 1”

FA 542

Maglor really wasn’t sure what he had expected to happen with the boys. That Gil-galad would send someone for them, or that he would find a way to send them back to Balar himself, perhaps. He had not really expected the weeks to stretch to months to stretch to years. But here he was, juggling the upkeep of their small fort and its defenses with caring for two quickly-growing boys. It was a good thing all of the clothing they had was far too big for them anyway, because if they did have proper children’s clothing neither Elrond nor Elros would be able to wear any of it for more than a season.

Now they were almost ten years old and prone to climbing anything that could be climbed—particularly the old tree that grew near the gate in the outer wall. From there Elrond said they could see for miles and miles. He did not say whether they were still watching for someone to come to get them, and Maglor did not ask.

It was also swiftly becoming apparent that they would need to leave the Amdram—and soon. The fort was falling apart around them, and there were too few of them left to make the necessary repairs, let alone replace the whole roof. The walls still stood, at least, but when the armies of the north came, as they surely would, neither Maglor nor Maedhros believed they would be able to hold out.

But while Maedhros consulted with their scouts and pored over maps, Maglor turned his focus to what repairs could be made. On this day that was a leak in the roof over one of their storerooms—until then the only one without a problem—that had made itself known the night before when a thunderstorm had moved over the hills. He and Ellomir spent the morning atop the roof with hammers and nails, and Maglor sang many songs of strength and stability.

It was a hot afternoon, and by the time Maglor made it back down off the roof he was sunburned and tired, and with the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind his eyes. He filled a cup with water from the pump in the courtyard and dumped it over his head before refilling it to take a few long gulps. It was cold and refreshing, and he felt better already as he turned to go sit in the shade.

His hopes for a nap in said shade were dashed when, as soon as he sat down in the grass, Elros appeared. “Where is your brother?” Maglor asked immediately. Elrond and Elros were not prone to mischief, but at their (relative) age Ambarussa had been, and he was tired enough at the moment to forget it. Where one twin was missing there was likely to be trouble—stolen tarts from the kitchen, or a broken vase, or an impromptu abstract mural on a palace wall.

Elros frowned, recognizing a tone on the verge of scolding. “With Ruineth,” he said, “doing his writing. I finished mine.”

“Oh, yes of course.” It had been agreed that, dire as the circumstances were, Elrond and Elros were still princes of both Noldor and Sindar—and probably of the Edain, too—and they should be educated accordingly. Maglor didn’t know what a proper Sindarin royal education consisted of, but he did know about a Noldorin one. Ruineth had the best hand, and so she had been set to teach the boys their letters, and the different modes of writing. “I beg your pardon, Elros.”

“You forgot I am not Amrod, or Amras,” said Elros. Maglor flinched mid-sip, and spilled water down his chin. “You were talking about them yesterday.”

“You were eavesdropping,” said Maglor. Elros shrugged, unrepentant. “Well, you are far better behaved than they were at your age, anyway. At least you finish your lessons.”

Elros shrugged again, and sat down on the grass by Maglor’s knees. He plucked a few clover flowers and began to weave them together. His fingers were losing the pudginess of a young child, and were quick and nimble. A child of Melian, Maglor thought, who was said to have woven both threads and enchantments throughout Doriath. They sat in silence for a little while, until Maglor finished his cup of water and sighed. “There is something on your mind,” he said. “Out with it.”

To his vague surprise, Elros did not look up. He carefully plucked another flower and added it to his growing chain. “Why did you do it?”

“Why did I do what?”

“Not—just you. You and—everyone. Why did you come to Sirion?”

Maglor set the cup down. He should not have been surprised. They were bound to ask eventually. He and Maedhros had even discussed, once, what they would say. He could no longer remember what they had decided, or if they had made a decision at all. Not that Maedhros really needed to worry about it. It had been three years and while Maglor didn’t think Elrond and Elros were afraid of Maedhros, exactly, they certainly did not seek him out.

“Do you remember the Silmaril?” Maglor asked after a moment.

“Naneth kept it in a chest,” Elros said. “She didn’t like looking at it. But she wore it on high days. And—she had it when she flew away.”

Maglor had seen the Silmaril shoot out of the water and away westward, though he had his doubts whether Elwing herself had been the one to carry it. But he would never say such a thing aloud, not to her sons. “So she did,” he said instead.

“Was that why you came?” Elros sounded incredulous, and he finally looked up. “But Naneth didn’t even like it, why didn’t you ask?”

“We did ask,” said Maglor. “Maedhros sent her letters.”

Elros pursed his lips, furrowed his brows. Both he and Elrond took so strongly after Lúthien and her line that it was easy to forget that they were also of the House of Finwë. But that expression could have been copied off the face of Finwë himself. “Did he say please?” Elros asked finally.

That startled a laugh out of Maglor, short and bitter tasting. “I don’t know,” he said. “But Elros—I cannot make excuses, and I will not try. It was a terrible thing we did.”

“You didn’t have to,” Elros said.

“We…” Maglor sighed. “I do not know how to explain to you the Oath that we swore with our father, long ago. He made the Silmarils, and the Enemy stole them, and so we swore to get them back—never really thinking that we would have to fight anyone except the Enemy.”

Elros wrinkled his nose. “It’s just a shiny jewel,” he said. “It’s—it’s beautiful, and lots of people said it was what kept us safe, but that can’t be true if it didn’t stop you.”

“The Silmarils contain the Mingled Light of Telperion and Laurelin that are no more,” Maglor said quietly. “They were hallowed by the hands of Varda Elentári herself. They are not mere trinkets, Elros. But you are right. They aren't worth what we did.” He reached to his side out of habit, thinking to end this talk with a song, but of course he did not have his harp. “Elros, will you fetch my harp for me?”

Elros gave him a slightly baleful look, but got up and trotted off obediently. Maglor leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. His head ached. Somewhere above, Ellomir was still hammering—finding other spots in need of patching before they sprung leaks of their own. Overhead the sky was clear, but for a strange smoky haze that had descended upon all of Beleriand. If he inhaled deeply enough Maglor almost fancied he could smell smoke, or sulfur.

He wished Ambarussa were still there. For that matter, he wished all of his brothers and his father were there. Surely if Fëanor had lived things would not have gone so ill. Perhaps they would have gone worse, thought a small voice in the back of his head. Maglor could not imagine how.

“Maglor?” Elros had returned with Maglor’s harp, and Elrond had come with him, fingers still ink-stained. “Are you all right?” Elros asked.

“Only tired,” Maglor said. Tired to the very bone. “Thank you, Elros. Hello, Elrond. How goes your writing?”

“Everything keeps smearing,” Elrond said, pouting as he held up his hand to show where the ink had smudged on it.

“The perils of writing with one’s left hand,” said Maglor. “Has Ruineth showed you other ways to hold your pen?”

“Yes, but I don’t like them.”

“You’ll find a way.” Maglor ran his fingers over the harp strings, playing a few chords at random. “What song should I play first?” He let his fingers continue to pick out simple scales as the boys bickered before finally settling upon one of the songs about Túrin Turambar, their kinsman. Maglor obliged, though his thoughts wandered as he sang.

After he entertained Elrond and Elros for a while, they grew distracted and ran off to climb their tree. Maglor went in search of Maedhros, who had retreated to the top of the northern wall, where he stood gazing at the ever-darkening horizon. “We need to be gone from here soon,” Maedhros said after a few moments. There were dark circles under his eyes, and though he stood straight and tall, there was a slight tremor in him.

“You need to sleep,” Maglor said.

Maedhros ignored that. He always did. “I sent Glamren west again.”

“What? Why? We know all the ways to the coast are closed to us.”

“There may be secret ways,” Maedhros said. “The boys should be returned to Gil-galad.” He glanced at Maglor. “We should never have taken them away.” He let the other arguments hang between them unspoken. They’d already had it out more than once, in the beginning days.

“I do not regret not leaving them to an unknown fate,” Maglor said. Maedhros did not flinch, but he did look away. “Anyway, what is done is done. They are here now.”

“If there is anything bright and good to be hoped for in the future, it lies with them,” Maedhros said in a very low voice after a long stretch of silence. “But not with us, Maglor.”

“It may be that Gil-galad’s people will have to flee eastward in time,” Maglor said. “But I do not think Glamren will find a way. And since the boys are here with us, let us give them the best chance that we have. Let them carry as much of the knowledge and skill of the House of Finwë with them as we can give them.”

A shout from the courtyard made them both turn. The boys had found sticks to use as pretend swords, and were chasing one another with them. “They are too young to begin to learn to wield proper blades,” Maedhros said.

“Right now I don’t think anyone is too young,” said Maglor.

“I will speak to Glamdor. We must have something in the armory for them.”

“Will you teach them?” Maglor asked.

Maedhros huffed something that might, generously, have been called a laugh. “No. When they’re a little older, perhaps—if they are still with us.”

The next morning Glamdor produced two short swords, dulled with age and long gone unused, that were suitable for the boys to begin learning. Maglor added that and a few other lessons to their schedule, while Maedhros awaited Glamren’s return.

It took her a month. The ways west remained closed—in fact it was even worse than it had been before. Not even a mouse, she said, could escape to the coast. After allowing her a little time to rest, at Maglor’s insistence, Maedhros sent her east, to find a way for them into Ossiriand where the lands were still green and the forests thick enough to hide their small company.

Then the Silmaril appeared in the western sky. Maglor stared up at it on that first evening, hovering above the branches of the tree where Elrond and Elros were perched. It meant more than only that the Silmaril was secured from all evil, that it was there for all to see who cared to look up. It meant that the Valar were moving. Even if he and Maedhros remained doomed, there was still a chance for a future for Elrond and Elros, the sons of she who had borne that star into the West. Maybe even a future as bright as that Silmaril.