The Warrior and the Stone by 0ur_Ouroboros

The Warrior and the Stone

The first few weeks at Amon Ereb are hard. Maedhros barely speaks. Maglor does, but only out of a sense of obligation for the twins’ basic psychological welfare. Maedhros finds he is better at attending to their purely physical needs, and makes himself scarce hunting in the forest nearby. “I could use some help,” Maglor says. Maedhros shrugs and responds, “Boys need meat.” Maglor rolls his eyes.

If ever children lived within the fortress’ walls no evidence remains of it. No child-sized beds among the dusty rooms. No clothes for them save the ones they arrived with. Maglor wraps the naked boys in furs on the rare days their garments become so foul-smelling to even his nose, desensitized though it is, as to require washing. There is nothing to entertain them with, save his own voice and song.

So Maglor takes to allowing the boys to explore the unused wings of the crumbling fortress to entertain themselves. He has wandered through them at all one point or another, and thinks there is not much among the dust they could harm themselves with. Thank the One they have each other at least, he says with a heavy sigh. He still has a brother too, but he is unsure whether divine gratitude is exactly what he feels for his own.

As the weeks pass, the spells of crying and begging for their mother wane, and Elrond and Elros begin to simply exist as children do. They fashion make-believe swords from broken furniture, vestiges of the former glory of this place. They create elaborate rules for their games, demanding Maglor play the role of a great foe; they, two kings of far-off lands, wage a righteous war against him.

He’s good at this game, so he tends to oblige them.

One day, they bring him a carved piece of wood they found. A toy of a sort, shaped like a man holding a shield. They only find one, so they argue over who gets to play with it. Elros grabs it from Elrond, who wrestles him to the floor. Maglor’s heart sinks at the thought of having to discipline them.

He’s not so good at that, so he tends to avoid it.

“Hey, hey now—boys, stop it! Let me tell you about that man you found—want to know his story?” Maglor will attempt a distraction. They nod with the enthusiasm only children can muster. Maedhros raises an eyebrow; it’s too cold to go hunting, so he sits, watching Maglor and the boys, silent. He finds a suitable piece of wood among the dry-rotting furniture and starts at it with a knife using his left hand, his stump stabilizing it against his knee.

“He lived here, long ago. He was a great man. A warrior,” Maglor begins. He is making it up as he goes, but the boys sit cross-legged in rapt attention.

“He was also a great craftsman. He created powerful objects, magic never seen before or since. He had many sons, seven in total, none as great as he.” Maglor’s eyes dart to his brother, who is frowning and shaking his head. Maglor needs to talk about it all with Maedhros somehow, and if this is the only way, so be it. Maedhros says nothing.

“Once upon a time, he created the beautiful stone in the world. But an evil man caught a glimpse of it and decided to take it from him. The warrior craftsman had to keep it with him at all times lest the evil man steal it. Until one day, he had to leave this castle. He left his own father to guard it in his stead.” Maglor pauses and looks to Maedhros, still silent, still stabbing at the piece of wood.

“The evil man heard the warrior had gone, so he went to his house and found his father. The warrior’s father fought well, but the evil man used a spell and killed him. He stole the magic stone and took it far away.” Elrond looks as if he may cry. Maglor considers whether continuing is a good idea.

It isn’t, but Maglor will keep on anyway.

“Well, what happened?” Elros asks, impatient.

“The warrior craftsman and his seven sons gave chase to the evil man. They followed him to lands far away. They had to leave their home and the rest of their family behind, and they lost everything and everyone they knew. But they had to do it, because they had to take back the magical stone from the evil man. After a long time and many hard battles, they found the evil man’s castle and stormed it. They fought long and hard, for the evil one was strong, but they got the magic stone back.”

Maedhros is looking down as he whittles away. Elrond wants to say something, so Maglor tells him to go ahead.

“They left everything behind? All of their families?” Elrond asks.

“Yes.”

“All for a magic stone?” he asks.

“Yes. A very special, very magical stone,” Maglor says, unsure why he should have to justify his deeds to a child.

“But what if the evil man had killed the great warrior and his sons instead? What if he never got the magic stone back, never saw his family again?” Elrond asks.

Before Maglor can think of a non-answer to provide, Elros interjects. “So what was so special and magical about the stone? What could it do that was so great?”

“It reminded people of—something beautiful. Something that was destroyed long ago that they could never see again. It made people feel beauty and wonder and many splendid things deep in their hearts.”

“Doesn’t really seem that magical,” Elros says.

“It does to me,” says Elrond. “Mother has something like that.”

“That’s enough,” Maedhros says. He stands and walks to the others.

“Here,” he says, handing them a crude wood figure approximating a man. “Now there is one for you both.”