Deeds of pity are ever strange by 0ur_Ouroboros

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Deeds of pity are ever strange

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“Sit down, boys,” Maedhros says, already seated when they enter the room. He leans forward, both elbows on the table, and folds his left hand over the scarred remains of his wrist.

Elrond looks at Elros to ascertain whether his brother is as caught off guard as he, but Elros only looks ahead unblinking. They take their seats beside each other, across the the council table from Maedhros and Maglor. The twins' ósanwe is but a nascent ripple, more like a bleed into the other’s mind. Still, Elrond can perceive Elros' current thoughts are the same as his own.

Keep your mouth shut, asshole. Something is happening.

“We’re not boys, you know,” Elros says in flagrant disobedience of his own instincts, because it is precisely his nature to do so.

“No, you’re not,” Maedhros sighs with a sober nod. “Not anymore.”

But neither are Elrond and Elros fully adults, with all the freedoms and hazards afforded that station. They cannot leave these two stone-faced relics and head out on their own anytime soon. But the twins have always assumed they wouldn't live together forever. For isn't that why Maglor forces them to sit for hours, mastering his history lessons? And why Maedhros insists on endless fencing drills, ensuring they know the moves using bothhands? They want the twins to forge their own lives. Eventually, Elrond thinks. But that's still a long ways off. He wonders if the speech tonight has something to do with Elros' unsanctioned visits into town where the men live. They're fond of him in the tavern, Elrond has heard.  

Maglor’s eyes are wet and his face is blotchy. He sniffles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. The whole situation is starting to make Elrond's stomach churn.

“You’re being weird,” Elros says. “This is weird.”

Formal sit-downs among the quartet are rare, but when they occur, it is Maedhros who does the talking. And Maedhros has already said more than he has in weeks.

They must really be in for it.

“We’re going north,” Maedhros says.

“We?” Elros asks. He folds his arms and leans back in the chair.

“Yes. All of us together, for a time. Then," Maedhros pauses to swallow before he continues. "We must part.”

“Why?” Elros demands. “What’s happening up there?” They've all felt the ground rumbling and seen the new star in the sky.

“P–art ?” Elrond says, but the impact of the word is undermined by his voice cracking at the end. “Fuck. My voice did that thing again.” Maedhros scowls, and Elrond covers his mouth in contrition. As a rule, Maedhros abhors profanity.

“Eh, it’s your age,” Maglor waves a hand to dismiss Elrond's embarrassment. "It's normal," he says, grateful to have something certain to offer.

“Anyway,” Maedhros goes on, never one to belabor the point. “There’s a war. The great Western host has come. The Enemy will likely fall, but the land is breaking. We cannot stay here. All will flood.”

“Just how do you know that?” Elros hisses, dubious as always.

“We know," Maedhros lowers his voice the way he does when he won’t be entertaining further questions. “We leave soon. Tomorrow, if the weather holds. Pack light.” He makes to sit up from the chair but Maglor grabs his brother by the wrist, preventing him from leaving.

The twins stare at Maglor now. “Is it true?” Elrond squeaks.

Maglor nods. "Boys," he starts. And sensing Elros' urge to correct him again, Elrond elbows his twin in the rib. “I want you to know –” but Maglor's voice chokes off. “You’re my - you are - ah, a moment.” Elrond reaches across the table to take Maglor's hand.

When Maglor is able, he continues. “You know, many years ago, we swore an oath to-"

“Stars. Yes, we know,” Elros rolls his eyes. "Everyone knows about that."  

“I want you to know that if ever we had a chance to renounce the oath, to overcome it, then it was only because of you. Both of you,” Maglor is weeping outright now, so it takes awhile to get the words out. “You're my sons, same as my own blood. I just want you both to know it.” Elrond knits his brows and squeezes Maglor's hand tighter, before Elros’ thoughts bleed again into his again.

He gets like this, you know.

Asshole, Elrond responds, unamused. He’s fucking heartbroken. Look at him. Something’s different, and I'm worried.

He’s not our father.

Ever heard of a thing called nuance?  Elrond isn’t sure why his brother can't just accept a simple statement of affection from a man who's been dying since the day they met him.

Fuck off and—

Elros, stop. Can’t you see they're trying their best to be parents?  Not that either Maedhros or Maglor were ever any good at it, Elrond thinks, though he keeps that last one to himself.

“Can you just tell us what this all means?” Elros demands, and Elrond is thankful he does.

“We're sorry, that's all,” Maglor responds. “You both deserved more.”

“Forswear the oath, then!” Elrond raises his voice. “Who remains to care whether you kept your word? Request an audience with the Valar when we go north. Plead your case - beg for mercy!”

Maedhros' lip quivers. Maybe it's pride. Maybe hope. Regardless, Elrond continues. “They will hear it, surely. I’ll – I’ll go with you, and Elros will too. We’ll tell them how kind you’ve been, the care you’ve shown for us, whatever we need to say.”

“We’ll say you’re our father,” Elros offers. “If you want."

“The oath was sworn in the name of Ilúvatar,” Maedhros explains. “It cannot be broken, lest we be doomed to everlasting darkness.”

“Seems to me you're both fucked either way,” Elros says. “So what's the harm in asking?”

"Elros, I will not tolerate that language in my halls. For someone of your stature, it's unbecoming." Maedhros conveniently ignores the question.

“If you ask me –” Elros starts.

“We’re not,” Maedhros replies.

Elros shrugs. “I just think you take the oath way too literally. It was a different time.”

“I stand corrected,” Maedhros scowls. ”You are still a child.”

“Maybe we should listen to them, Russo,” Maglor chimes in.

“Maybe you should keep your mouth shut,” Maedhros counters.

“We're not leaving you,” Elrond says, for he is accustomed to their bickering. “Either of you.”

“That’s not your choice to make,” says Maedhros.

“You even think about what you’re going to do with the Silmarils?” Elros snaps. “What happens when you get them back and still feel like shit, hmm?"

"Elros. Can you please stuff it,” Elrond begs. Maglor just looks at Maedhros like a wet dog.

“Silence. Enough, all of you!” Maedhros bangs the table with his hand and nub. As he rises to stand, his chair moves back across the stone floor with an echoing screech. “I can’t have a simple conversation with you people. Any of you,” Maedhros says, storming out of the room. "Just be ready at dawn."

“You’ve really done it now,” Elrond says, turning to Elros. “Why can't you ever shut up?”

“Boys, please,” Maglor begs. “We don’t have much time. Let’s not spend it like this.”

“Why are you saying it like that?” Elros' voice is becoming high-pitched and tight. "You're scaring us."

“One day, the end of Arda maybe, we'll make it up to you. Somehow. I swear it–” Maglor looks to the heavens.

“Stop. I can’t handle this right now,” Elros continues. “Stop talking like you’re both going to die or something.”

Maglor’s lip is quivering again. The twins' lips quiver too.

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At dawn, the pair of brothers meet in the stable of the once-great fortress of Amon Ereb. Maedhros and Maglor are dressed in full armor. Elrond and Elros, having neither armor nor any battle experience, wear what they normally would on a long ride.

They saddle the horses. As the sun rises, four figures ride north.