May you live in interesting times by 0ur_Ouroboros

Undistilled fear pulses through the little body as he stumbles through the brambles, unable to keep up with the others ahead. Having seen the sky's newest star, they are deserters of Angband. They are deep in the forest. “Do Sauron’s werewolves follow?” he asks. “No, we are out of their reach. Quiet!” the woman looks back at him. He cannot make out her expression in the dark. She places him behind a fallen tree trunk, in a nest of soft-green moss. “Wait here,” she says, yellow eyes darting over her shoulder. He draws knobby knees to his chest, becoming utterly still. It is beyond his understanding what he feels then, a pure instinct, a drive. His body must survive , even if he cannot identify a reason.

Within minutes he hears shouting. He shrinks further down, knowing one of the voices is hers. A deep thud, followed by dull crunching sounds. He hears words then, spoken in a language he doesn’t understand, but they remind him of water flowing. Hoofbeats and bows pulling back arrows are the next sounds that follow. He looks up, seeing a pale face framed in dark brown. The eyes are a brighter blue than he has ever seen. He realizes then it is one of those of whom the old stories are told, around campfires and steel-forges. “ Moavhas ,” the orc-child cries. “ Moavhas !”

“You know the tongue. Nelyo, what says this demon?” hisses Maglor to Maedhros, who follows a few steps behind.

“Eh, never mind, it matters not,” Maglor shrugs as he raises his sword. Maedhros stills his brother’s arm, and Maglor turns to him with shock.

“ Mother ,” Maedhros responds. “It says mother .”

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At the orcling’s utterance, Maedhros’ mind again drags itself to the past. An experience years before, meaningless at the time, one depravity among many.

Through the iron door of his cell, he watched a group of orcs arguing amongst themselves, having nothing better to do with his time. He had begun to recognize pieces of their speech as a bastardized version of ancient Quenya, a pidgin borne of the necessity to communicate. He chuckled then, hands bound, flaming hair extinguished and shorn. Another base urge he had in common with the animals who tortured him. Just outside, one of them is stabbed in the gut, others bleating accusations of cheating at some game they played, as far as Maedhros could tell, by throwing finger-bones across a table. “Moavhas,” it cried, bleeding out. Black liquid seeped under his door. The sound of metal striking metal in the distance, interminable.

“Brother,” says Maglor in a soft tone, seeing the familiar distance in Maedhros’ eyes. “Put the creature to rest. It is a mercy–”

“No.” Maedhros is resolute and his shoulders are back. “You stilled my hand. With the twins.”

“This is an abomination, a mockery . You are mad to compare--” Maglor starts.  But he is weary and has no energy to waste on argument. He looks briefly at the ones that follow, those elves long loyal to his father’s cause, and sees only resignation without judgement. These ones know what strange behavior can be provoked by guilt. If Maglor was whole, he would have recognized the feeling as regret. Now, he is simply tired. A meal and warm bed awaits.

Maedhros offers the orc-child a piece of raw meat, which it devours. 

In silence they reach the old wooden gates of the fortress, Maedhros leading his host, the small lump at his chest unnoticed. Arriving at the stables, Maedhros opens his cloak to reveal it with a mischievous smile. “ Voids ,” the stable hand says, crinkling up his nose. “It smells like Morgoth’s taint.” Maedhros laughs under his breath, “Aye, it does. We will wash it and see what’s underneath the filth.”

None other than Maedhros dare touch it. Curious, Elrond follows the well-formed one, never having seen an orc-child, or any orc for that matter, alive. 

As Maedhros commands, a bath is prepared, and the house staff whisper.

The lord has lost every bit of his sanity. This is madness, pure and simple.

We should leave here before he drags us with him into the Void.

After the bath is ready, the staff find themselves unusually occupied with other tasks. Maedhros turns to Elrond, still tagging along, unsure what to make of the creature, but he is unable to look away.

“It’s just us then, to bathe it.” Maedhros strips it of its rudimentary garb and attempts to place it into the tub. The scent of the warm water is cloying with the excess amount of perfumed oil added by the staff. The creature shrieks and claws at Maedhros’ chest, ripping his tunic, leaving new scars to compliment his old.

Elrond grabs it by the scruff of its neck and plunges it under the water. “Let it breathe!” Maedhros hisses, and Elrond feels suddenly foolish. Of course, he means not to kill it .

It comes up for air now, coughing and gurgling in some strange tongue. It grasps at Maedhros' stump. He allows it to hang there, damp, while Elrond scrubs it with an old horse-brush the staff left behind.

“Think it can even get clean?” Elrond mused, but Maedhros doesn’t respond. Elrond doesn’t expect it; it is rare for Maedhros to speak under usual circumstances. Layers of dirt and caked blood are removed.

“A mutt, not so different from you and your brother at that age,” says Maedhros, as it is revealed to be male. His laugh is dark, and his mouth curls half-up. It’s unclear whether any of it is intended for Elrond or just Maedhros’ own amusement. Elrond scowls and rolls his eyes.

Maglor comes to stand at the doorway then, arms crossed. His face is expressionless as he leans against the threshold. 

The creature shakes violently after the bath. Its hair is dark, wild, and thick; its body short and stout. It is covered with patches of fur, and its skin alternates dark and light with no discernible pattern. Maedhros gropes for a towel, realizing in their haste to rid the fortress of the smell they had forgotten one. “Use your own cloak,” Maglor snarls, and Maedhros realizes Maglor had been watching. “Whatever,” he says, turning back toward the pathetic creature. It makes eye contact with Maedhros then, a sharp tooth extruding from a lower jaw that projects out further than seems anatomically appropriate. He wraps it up, issuing a command, “Bring us some milk and meat. Something cooked, this time.”

Elrond stares at Maglor, wide-eyed. Mustering all he can of their nascent osanwe , he all but throws his mind at Maglor.

I think he means to keep it, Maglor perceives.

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Maedhros is brought a pitcher of fresh goat milk and a slab of salted pork. “S’all we have in the storeroom, m’lord,” says the kitchen attendant, backing away with a polite bow.

Maedhros scoffs and directs his attention again to the little one. He is nearly exactly the size of Elrond and Elros when Maglor found them. He thinks of Maglor, imagining that the same feelings stir in his own heart now. He reels at the thought of his sword nearly plunging into those children, their children.

He remembers their little bodies huddled together trembling, Elrond’s arm raised up in defense. How Maglor begged him.

He has long suspected he is mad. What he does not expect is the freedom which accompanies the recognition. He is beyond caring, beyond reproach.

He intuits the orc-child before him as doomed as he, and he moves to preserve them both. At some point, the only way is forward , he thinks. So with amusement he notes the disgust of his staff at his new ward.

It is only an afterthought that he considers someone might actually harm his little one, and dismisses them all from his chambers with a wave. He will not trust the boy’s welfare to a guest room tonight, or ever.

He watches as the boy greedily slurps the milk and all but inhales the dried meat. He looks up at him again.

“ Lisää ,” he whispers.

“What says the boy?” Elrond asks from a dark corner of the chamber, and Maedhros realizes he did not hear him enter.

It occurs to Maedhros that Elrond is the only other who considers the little one a boy, rather than an orc.

“He asks for more,” Maedhros responds. “Go to the kitchen.”

Several plates later, the orcling belches and goes silent, black eyes heavy with sleep.

Gently Maedhros places the child on his own bed, and helps him maneuver under the furs. He returns to the sitting-room. Elrond looks at him.

“What now?” Elrond asks.

But Maedhros offers no answer, only gazes at the sky. In the distance, a bright star blazes.

After some time Maglor joins, and Elros too. “We came to see it, we came to see the orcling!” Elros giggles as he enters Maedhros’ sitting-room accompanied by others. He recognizes them as sons of his commanders.

“ Get out ,” he snarls. Only Elrond stays.

When the orcling awakens, the sun is high. Elrond stares. Maedhros stirs in a chair.

“ Missä on moavhas?” the boy asks. The little voice is gravelly for its high-pitch inflection at the end.

“Can you understand him?” Elrond asks.

“It wants its mother,” Maedhros notes.

“And I suppose the mother is dead,” Elrond says, and Maedhros nods. “Think you should tell him?”

“No,” Maedhros says. “I am not good at that.”

“We should ask him where they were going,” Elrond pushes, and Maedhros can’t deny the logic. It was rare for a clan of orc-kin to be spotted at all, and this far south was nearly unprecedented.

“ Minne olit matkalla ,” Maedhros asks the child. Where were you heading?

“ Kaukana rautaporteista,” it answers, eyes darting to Elrond and back to Maedhros.

“He says they were going away,” Maedhros looks at Elrond. “Away from the iron gates, I think.”

“ Angband ?”

“What other iron gates do you know an orc to come from?”

Elrond feels naive and very young. Still, he is too curious and invested to leave. “Ask his name.”

“ Miksi he sinua kutsuvat? ” Maedhros inquires.

“Cizrakh,” he replies.

“ Onko se äitisi vai isäsi nimi ?” Maedhros probes further, keen to see how alike they were. “I asked him whether it was his Amilessë or father-name.”

“ Minulla on vain yksi nimi, ” the child replies.

“And?” Elrond asks.

“He has but one name,” replies Maedhros. “ Cizrakh .”

“It sounds like Quenya, a little, when he speaks,” Elrond wrinkles his nose.

“Know you the origin of orcs?” Maedhros turns his head and stares at Elrond now. His gaze is piercing.

Elrond offers a sober nod. “As well as anyone, I suppose. Do you know more?” Elrond knows it is a daring thing to ask this question. Discussion of Maedhros’ time in the Enemy’s claws is verboten.

“Aye, I do.” Maedhros rocks back in his chair and crosses his arms behind his neck.

“And? What more?” Elrond cannot hide his interest.

“Some look like me, after I was released. Twisted and scarred,” he said, his voice distant. “But most of them look like you and your brother, little half-breeds,” he adds and smiles at the Peredhel .

Elrond has the thought he cannot recall Maedhros making a joke. Elrond throws a pillow at him, laughing. Maedhros catches it and throws it back, with a little more force behind it.

Cizrakh stands with a chirp. Before either can stop him, the boy pisses on Maedhros’ bed. 

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Maedhros laughs as the house staff change the sheets. “Little one,” he says to the boy in what he hopes is his own language, “There are many things to teach you. First, relieve yourself in the proper location,” gesturing to the chamber pot. Cizrakh looks at him with understanding and no small amount of shame.

Elrond attends to the orcling frequently. He starts to learn his language. He grows fond of Maedhros’ boy.

Maedhros rarely leaves him alone, and only in Elrond’s presence.

Cizrakh gestures to his calf, where his skin is broken. He must have scratched it in the brambles, thinks Maedhros. It looks minor. Elrond is eager to put his skills to use, and gathers herbs to apply there.

Yet the next day, the wound becomes red and angry-appearing. Dark brown fluid leaks around Elrond’s poultice. Maedhros calls the more experienced healers. He dare not leave the boy with them, alone, and beckons Elrond to stay.

“This wound, it should heal soon,” they remark.  “It is nothing,” they say. They apply no more poultices or herbs. Elrond trails after them, asking why. They cannot give a response that satisfies him.

Desperate, Elrond goes to the hills in search of rarer herbs. Still, Maedhros stays behind with Cizrakh. He starts to rigor. Maedhros folds him in his robes to keep him warm.

“It hurts,” the boy tells Maedhros when he accidentally brushes against the wound.

“Shh,” Maedhros hushes. He rocks him in his arms, and sings to him the only song he remembers from his childhood. Hearing his brother’s lost singing-voice, Maglor looks inside, but remains at the threshold. He only watches the larger man and tears spring to his eyes. The boy sickens.

Elrond returns, a small quantity of herbs with him.  “I don’t know if this will help,” he says.

“Thank you,” Maedhros looks at him and Elrond thinks it is for the first time he feels seen. Maedhros kisses the top of the boy’s head. The three of them remain with him through the night into the next day. 

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The boy’s breathing grows erratic, his lips turn blue and with what strength remains he twists in pain. After a time, his face stills. Through it all, Maedhros holds him.

“Listen for Mandos’ summons,” Maedhros whispers. “Go you now to his halls. Rest there, little one.” He kisses the boy’s crooked brow and strokes the sweat away from his eyes.

_____

Soon after, Maedhros’ purpose betrays him. He throws himself into the fire, and he leaves the world.

_____

Cizrakh greets his mother. Her hair is shining, and her face is newly symmetric. Her skin is clear and her body sings with healing. She greets him with bright eyes, joy in her voice and freedom in her heart.

“Oh, my son, my son,” she cries, and as she holds him, he feels peace surrounding him. It is eternal, complete.

“Here, we can heal.” She gestures about the Halls, and he sees his family. They are whole. They smile at him.

He glimpses Maedhros in the distance then, head hanging low, bereft. Cizrakh runs to him. He takes Maedhros’ one hand and feels his new scar. He pays it no mind.

Maedhros looks at him.

“Mother, come!” Cizrakh gestures her over. “Come meet the one who showed me how to find you.” 

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