Scorched by polutropos

Elrond, Again

An envoy comes, garbed in gold and green, a silver snake coiled around her helm. She speaks the old tongue in syllables sharp as crystal: “Finwë Arafinwë, High King of the Noldor, orders that the outlaws Maedhros and Maglor release his kinsmen, the sons of Eärendil Ardamírë.”

She comes with a Vanyarin guard, soldiers whose eyes shine so bright they hurt to look upon. These tall elves with their tall spears will escort them to the safety of Balar, they are informed.

Maedhros is not there to receive them, but Maglor stands silent and defers to his wards.

“We have sworn fealty to no king,” says Elros, “and we are not children to command. If you will grant my brother and me time to consider our kinsman’s offer, we will give you our answer in good time.”

The envoy looks between them. They have both grown used to the way strangers puzzle over their peculiarity. She assents to the request.

Elrond does not confer with Elros at once, but goes to Maedhros.

“Was that goodbye then?” Maedhros asks him, afterwards. Even with Elrond on his lap, hips pinning him to the chair, he is not quite forced to look up to meet his eyes. Almost.

His cock is still full in Elrond’s hole, and though Elrond can feel the sticky trickle of his spend escaping, you would not know to look at him, or to hear the steady timbre of his voice, that Maedhros has just come undone to the rocking of Elrond’s hips, Elrond’s teeth scraping at his neck, nails at his back, as Elrond has learned he likes.

Elrond tightens his thighs, still trembling from his release, around Maedhros’ waist. “Should it be?” He speaks low, seductive, hoping to mask his uncertainty.

Maedhros hums. His skin bunches around his eyes until nothing but a slice of silver remains for Elrond’s gaze to meet. He is so beautiful, Elrond thinks. It is a compulsive thought, one he is not sure he will ever be free of. Maedhros trails fingertips down the side of his face — but just as Elrond feels the pull to lean into the touch his heart clenches, shivers.

There was a grotto on the exposed side of Cape Balar, where the cliffs were open to the great expanse of Belegaer. On days the wind blew from the west, the waves rolled in huge and heavy, pouring into the mouth of the cave with a great roar. For many years Elrond had nightmares about that cave, imagining himself caught up in the ocean’s rush and hurled against the rocks.

That memory comes to him now, too vivid to be ignored. He shuffles off of Maedhros’ lap and tugs his tunic down to his thighs, ties a sash around his waist. His other clothes he gathers from the floor and bundles to his chest.

“Goodbye, Maedhros,” he says, and pads out the door, feet already cold on the bare stone.

Elros holds him for long minutes, hands clutching at his back, cupping the bowl of his skull, when Elrond tells him he is coming.

A wet and laboured breath in one ear, and Elrond cannot recall the last time his brother cried.

“I am glad,” says Elros. His tears drip into Elrond’s hair. “I am glad you have returned to me, brother.”

They go together to inform the envoy of their decision. This time Maedhros is there. He looks ragged but perilous, more guard than lord beside his smaller brother.

“We accept the King’s order to leave this place,” Elros says, “but we will not retreat back to the sea. You will take us to the King to fight alongside our people.”

Maglor flinches, the movement too small to be of note to any but Elrond, who has been watching him intently.

“On condition,” Elrond adds, “that no judgement be brought on Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorion until they have been given fair trial.”

Behind Maglor’s back, Maedhros’ hand rises and lands, gentle but assured, on Maglor's shoulder blade.