When All Other Lights Go Out by sallysavestheday

Phoenix

Elros and Elrond both dream of death.

For Elros, it is a soft and welcoming warmth, a lightness felt pulling at his wrists, his chest, his throat. He is drawn forward like iron to a magnet: rising, singing, sighing. There is no fear.

For Elrond, it is a nightmare of Sirion: blood and flames and the cries of terror that rang through the city as they fled to the tower in their nightclothes, barefoot and gasping in the dark. Over and over he climbs the stairs, turns to face the dim, armed menace behind them, and falls, over the balustrade, into the burning air.

He wakes with his mouth full of his pillow or his face tangled in the sheets, having flailed himself into strange contortions in his sleep. He knows he screams, or sobs, when the dream catches him: Elros has hushed him, furiously, desperate not to draw attention in Amon Ereb’s gloomy nights. Their captors’ bright eyes well out of the darkness when they wander the halls after sundown, gleaming with some hunger that neither Elros nor Elrond can name. Better to stay behind the solid door of their room, small and still and unobtrusive, until the sun rises and they can breathe again.

But they cannot always remain unseen. The circles under Elrond’s eyes catch Maglor’s attention at breakfast. Frowning, he asks after their health, their diet, their patterns of exercise, with an air of exasperation that tries to mask a guilty fear. Elrond yawns before answering and Maglor pounces: Is he not sleeping? Is he afraid?

Maedhros scoffs into his tankard with sarcastic verve and Maglor rounds on him without thinking, fists clenched in impotent rage. Their eyes meet and something bleak and bitter heats the air between them as the twins watch with trepidation. Maglor’s eyes fill with tears; the moment drags out until Maedhros, abruptly, relents. He finishes his ale with deliberate care, then scrapes his chair back to rise, leaning in to kiss Maglor’s cheek as he does so.

“You took them, Kano. You manage them. Call me only if they fall in the river or get stuck in the armory gate.”

He thumps Elros gently on the shoulder with the stump of his arm as he passes, grinning when he startles. Tossing a wink to Elrond, he vanishes into the hall, whistling so perfectly out of tune it can only be deliberate.

Maglor winces. He tries again, more gently.

“Elrond, if you are having trouble sleeping, I have something that may help.”

He draws the twins to his own room, then digs through crates and chests and the piled belongings of what seems to be a small host, muttering under his breath. Elros and Elrond take in the chaos from the corners of their eyes, careful not to appear to be looking. Maglor’s room is heaped with detritus: a pile of rich velvet robes, long out of style; antlers mounted on a silver crown, twined with chains and gems that flash dully in the firelight. Rolled, moth-eaten weaving. Dusty account books. A pair of matching bows.

These remnants of other lives have taken over the space; Maglor’s own neat bed and worktable are crowded under the window in the small pocket of order that remains. But he seems comfortable with the clutter, caressing the piled flotsam as he sorts and searches with focused determination. He huffs in satisfaction as he unearths a traveling pack of antique make, then unfolds a bundle of cloth that has been stored inside.

The lamp gleams in the sunlight that slants through the window. The ancient glass shines as richly as when it was made, imbued with Fëanor’s power and Maedhros’ Song. Maglor bends a canny glance in Elrond’s direction, then holds the lamp out to him, smiling.

“This will help you to keep those dreams at bay. But you will have to let me teach you its song.”

That was the beginning of it, Elros always says, when they are older, and perhaps wiser, and better guarded against the kinds of tricks of feeling that snared them into Maglor and Maedhros’ hearts. Elrond could not resist – neither the promise of peaceful sleep nor the invitation to music – and with that concession, half the barrier was gone.

The rest of it fell when Elros caught Maedhros turning the lamp in his trembling hands and weeping. All the tall terrifying keenness of him had shrunk into a grieving heap, and Elros could never stand by and watch sadness. His small hands touched the metal fingers, then the flesh. Maedhros’ great scarred hand caught his and tightened, wonderingly, as the lamp steadied and shone.