From the Claws of the Beast

by SunflowerSupreme

Summary:

After the fall of Eregion, while they are clearing the area of Sauron's taint, the company of Gil-Galad find Maglor Feanorian being held captive.

Chapter 1: Found

Notes:

It takes place sometime after the Fall of Eregion, but before anything else too exciting can happen. So yes I’m playing with the timeline a bit because I don’t think Gil-Galad was technically present at this point, but OH WELL.

Gil-Galad is the son of Fingon for plot angst and simplicity.

A forgotten fortress, once built by elves, although which band had long been forgotten as the place faded from memory. Even Cirdan had shaken his head, murmuring that he did not know where the place originated.

Whomever had created it was long gone, and only the taint of Sauron remained.

The company of Gil-Galad had found it after clearing the remnants of Eregion, and it seemed to them that the Deceiver had used it during his time in the city, in order to have a base for the darkness he had kept hidden from the Eldar. Elrond had insisted upon searching the ruins for possible survivors, by himself if needed, and knowing that arguing with him was hopeless the King and the Shipwright had hesitantly followed him into the imposing structure.

Elrond raised his lantern, casting light through the narrow halls peering cautiously around the corners in case orcs remained after their master’s departure. Gil-Galad understood the reason for the half-elf’s insistence upon the search – Sauron was well known to keep slaves, and, ever the healer, Elrond would not live with himself if he did not try to rescue every one of them singlehandedly – but that did not make the Elven King any happier about stepping into the darkness.

“Something is here,” Cirdan spoke suddenly, having remained quiet for most of their journey. “I can hear its pain in the Song. I know not if it means us harm, but there is a swell of darkness about it. It may be of our kin, but I cannot say for it also has the wildness of an animal, caged for too long a time.” He paused, then finished, “We would do well to tread with caution.”

Elrond nodded, taking the older elf’s words to heart with utmost seriousness, but Gil-Galad found himself biting back an amused sigh. His young herald had yet to figure out that most of what Cirdan said was needlessly complicated, preferring long thoughts when only a few – ‘there may be an elf here, most likely insane because of obvious reasons’ for example – would suffice.

“Check the doors,” Gil-Galad ordered. “If you suspect you have found them give a shout. Do not attempt to face them alone.” His last sentence was punctuated by a stern glance at the half-elf, who was well known to attempt to heal anything, no matter how sharp its teeth. Elros had once told Gil-Galad he had attempted to bring home a wounded warg in his youth, at the time Gil-Galad had assumed it had been a jest, but having come to understand Elrond he no longer doubted the validity of the story.

“Safety in numbers.” Elrond had a way with words, with seeming to agree while in actuality leaving open the possibility of disobeying. If he gave his word he would not go back on it, but if he gave anything less than a solid answer he would use it to bend the orders at will. Gil-Galad blamed Maglor Feanorian for his way with words, no doubt the damnable minstrel had found it amusing.

“Do you understand?” A lesser man would have fled at the tone of the King’s voice, but Elrond was difficult to rattle, either because he had faced far more terrifying at a young age or because he knew Gil-Galad’s threats were mostly empty. Although the first was far more likely, the King preferred to believe the second, otherwise he would never stop pitying the half-elf.

“Of course my king, if I find a wounded dog or any other creature you shall be the first to know.”

Although there was no doubt that Elrond could argue over the definition of creature, and whether or not that applied to the Eldar or Edain, Gil-Galad decided it was not likely he would try such a move and let the teasing notes of his voice slide. “Stay in sight of one another.”

It was slow going, the three elves made their way down the hall, pushing open doors and peering inside for Cirdan’s mystery being. The place was neat and orderly for having belonged to such a foul being, but Gil-Galad had heard tales, supposedly passed from Maedhros and the other slaves of Angband, that the lieutenant Sauron was obsessed with order in both his abode and methods of torture and abuse.

It was Gil-Galad who found the locked door – if he had a frightened being in his home, he would keep it behind a locked door – and without speaking a word to his companions he slid a pick into the lock, easing it open. He supposed lock picking was a strange hobby for a king, but Celebrimbor had decided to teach it to him nonetheless, and for that he was grateful.

He slowly pushed open the room, and the sight inside nearly caused his breakfast to make a reappearance. Closing his eyes to ground himself, Gil-Galad took several deep breaths before opening them again and assuring him that what he had seen was real, and not a strange trick of the light. “I’ve found them.”

His friends both rushed toward him and both recoiled at the sight as he had, but Gil-Galad stopped them at the door, shaking his head. “Wait.” The king stepped forward alone, his sharp eyes able to make out more of the room, everything he saw causing his hatred of Sauron to grow.

At first glance it appeared to be a normal bedchamber, with everything one would expect from a washbasin to a writing desk and wardrobe. Even the large bed in the center would have been easily indistinguishable from a chamber of the same function in Lindon, had it not been for the man occupying it. Swallowing his revulsion Gil-Galad approached the bed, noticing the dichotomy between the opulence and care given to the material items and the obvious mistreatment of the elf. Although, knowing what he did of Sauron, it seemed he was as meticulous in the state of his slaves as he was his quarters.

He would have thought the elf dead if it were not for the waves of distress even Gil-Galad could now feel, for surely no one was meant to survive in this state. Is this how it felt father, he wondered to himself, reaching a hand out and making a wordless noise to alert the other to his presence, when you found our cousin on Thangordhrim, so close to death as to be near unrecognizable as an Eldar? He appeared to be made of bones spun from fine glass, with only a layer of paper passing as skin atop them. His hair, thick and long and dark was neatly brushed and braided, a task Gil-Galad doubted he had done himself, as both his wrists were bound to the headboard. Even his many wounds had been clearly cared for - there was not a drop of blood nor dirt on him or his surroundings – and it even seemed they had a pattern to them, carved deliberately into his skin in fine lines, vining across his naked body. But the true horror was only revealed when he raised his head and as though to meet Gil-Galad’s eyes with his own, empty ones. Instead of the clear blue Gil-Galad remembered from his youth, Maglor's eyes were pure white, with no iris or pupil. He could no longer hold in his sound of disgust and Elrond made to step into the room, but Gil-Galad motioned him back with a sinking suspicion growing in his chest.

The elf groaned in response to Gil-Galad’s disgusted noise, pulling back as though waking from sleep and mumbling, “Mecin. Mecin. Alanan.” The words, the forbidden Quenya of the Noldor, only served to cement Gil-Galad’s suspicions, but in one last attempt to prove himself wrong he took ahold of the elf’s hand, rubbing his palm and feeling the silken scars there. Perfectly round, just like a Silmaril.

“Imni tele incë lá raxë.” His Quenya was poor, but the meaning was in his tone and Maglor the singer relaxed, his head falling back to his chest with a sigh.

“Go and fetch healing supplies,” he ordered Elrond as he removed his cloak, spreading it across Maglor protectively. Pointedly he did not use the Half-Elf’s name, not until he knew more about Maglor’s state. “He needs care.” And the king needed space to determine what was happening and what had led to the last son of Feanor being a prisoner here. Cirdan remained in the doorway, silently watching, and Gil-Galad could not help but wonder if he had known from the beginning who they were going to find, if not it certainly seemed he knew now, even if Elrond remained blissfully ignorant.

Once Elrond was out of earshot Gil-Galad returned his attentions to his cousin, changing the conversation to the more common Sindarin tongue. “Maglor can you understand me?” He flinched at his own name and nodded so Gil-Galad continued, “Do you know who I am?”

“Your voice is like that of my cousin Findekano, so I would say you are most likely his son, Erenion, King of the Noldor.” Startlingly, Maglor’s voice was as Gil-Galad remembered it from their brief interactions during the end of the First Age. His tone was dull and lackluster, as though the conversation held no interest. Perhaps he was truly mad then, for there seemed to be no indication that he knew rescue was upon him.

“Yes,” he said gently, using his lock pick once again on Maglor’s shackles, which thankfully were not enchanted as his brother’s had once been. “I am here with Cirdan the Shipwright and-“ Gil-Galad paused, almost stopping there and keeping Elrond a secret. But the herald would return soon, and it was best to give Maglor a forewarning. “-Elrond Half-Elven,” he finished.

The Feanorian did not respond at first, seeming more interested in flexing his newly freed wrists. Finally he spoke and his words did nothing to ease Gil-Galad’s confusion, “Cirdan is new.” He offered a wry smile, which would have looked so very much like one Elrond often displayed were it not for his haunting eye sockets. “Are you running out of tricks Gorthaur?”

Gil-Galad and the mentioned shipwright shared a confused look. “Macalaure,” Gil-Galad tried again, easing once more into Maglor’s native tongue in an attempt to elicit a better response.

But the Feanorian would have none of it. “I will say, you almost convinced me this time, finding orcs that do not reek of their kind’s foul odor was a nice touch, and releasing my hands is something you have not risked of late, but I am not fool enough to believe that the King, the Shipwright, and the Herald would all stray so far from their city at once.”

Realization that Maglor’s torture had not been solely physical dawned on him, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks that he had sent Elrond away before Maglor’s madness had been fully revealed. “You think this is a vision sent by Sauron?”

“What else would it be?” Maglor slid down in the bed, a movement that could either be interpreted as him relaxing now that his hands were unbound, or his weak muscles refusing to support him any longer. “No one is coming for me. None shall even know I have been taken.” For a moment they sat in silence - Gil-Galad stunned and Maglor resigned to his fate – then the Feanorian added, “As you have neglected to provide me with food as of late, shall we finish the mind games and skip to the part where you tear open my skin and then feed me?”

Gil-Galad’s mind snapped to attention at that, and he gently took ahold of Maglor’s wrist. “You have not been fed because Sauron is gone, he and his foul creatures have fled this place. What must I do to convince you?”

Maglor was silent, then he trailed his unscarred hand across Gil-Galad’s arm, his fingers lightly brushing their way up his arm and coming to a halt at his hair. “You do not feel like an Uruk,” he said, a hint of hope entering his voice for the first time.

Wordlessly the king took ahold of his hand, pressing the flat of Maglor’s palm against his own cheek. “I am no uruk.” Maglor clumsily felt along his cheek to his chin, then back up to his forehead before finally returning to his hair, this time at the top of his head. “I promise you, this is real.”

Maglor’s face had softened, but he abruptly closed off again, snarling, “No,” and pulling his hand back. “None shall come for me.”

“It is true,” Cirdan spoke for the first time, coming to stand behind Gil-Galad and taking ahold of Maglor’s hand and guiding it to his own face. “You said it yourself, Sauron would not have envisioned the three of us at the same time.”

His hand tangled into Cirdan’s beard, a frown tugging at his lips. “This would be a delightful trick for Gorthaur,” he said slowly. “To find a way to alter the feel of an uruk.”

“Or it could be real,” Gil-Galad urged, “we could be true and here to rescue you. The elfling you raised could truly be about to return through the door to take you to freedom.”

Maglor was clearly wrestling with himself, caught between a need to believe and a fear of being wrong. Gil-Galad glanced at Cirdan imploringly – if there was ever a time for the Shipwright’s love of wordplay, this would be it – and Cirdan did not disappoint, suggesting, “What have you to lose? If we are true you shall be free of this place, but if we are not you will not be any worse than you were to before we arrived.”

Maglor’s hand dropped to the bedspread, then his slender fingers knotted in Gil-Galad’s cloak as though only noticing it’s presence for the first time. “You speak as I recall.” His realization was cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps, signaling the return of Elrond. Gil-Galad thought quickly and ripped a strip of cloth from the bedspread, fashioning it over Maglor’s empty eyes as a sort of blindfold, although in this case it was not meant to hide anything from Maglor, but from Elrond. There was no need for him to see the extent of Maglor’s condition at once.

As the healer stepped into the room, Cirdan moved back, away from the bed to give Elrond room to work. Maglor’s head dipped to his chest and he tensed, leaving Gil-Galad to wonder what Sauron’s projections of Elrond had done to him, or if it was only the guilt in his own mind. Elrond seldom spoke of his time in the Feanorian’s care, and though he would not allow anyone to speak of it as captivity, or to accuse them of being abusive, nor was he quick to defend them or even search for Maglor in the many years since the First Age. He had no way to judge how Elrond would react.

“How is he?” Elrond asked, sitting beside Gil-Galad and focusing on the satchel in his hands, having known from just a quick glance where he needed to start.

“Coherent.” Gil-Galad swallowed, glancing slightly over his shoulder to Cirdan, hoping he would have something to say on the matter. Unsurprisingly he did not, focused instead on perusing the room. “Blind. Elrond he-“ there Gil-Galad cut his words short and Elrond looked up, a slightly confused expression on his face.

“Amatúlie pia Ilmanya.” It was Maglor who spoke first, and although Elrond was still looking toward Gil-Galad, his back to the Feanorian, it was easy to see the recognition settle across his features. He turned slowly, staring at Maglor who had turned his head up. His grip on the satchel slackened and Gil-Galad caught it before it could hit the floor, standing and setting it gently where he had been seated before moving back to give them space.

“Kana?” he whispered in disbelief, barely noticing as Maglor’s hand came to rest on his cheek, feeling his face to see how he had changed since the First Age. Elrond cupped his own hand over Maglor’s, curling their hands together and bringing his other hand to Maglor’s face in kind, pressing their foreheads against one another. “What has happened to you?”

Maglor merely shrugged and let out a puff of air that ruffled Elrond’s hair. “Nothing I did not deserve.”

“No, no, no, no.” Elrond’s grip tightened and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head furiously. “Do not say such things.”

Gil-Galad had the distinct impression that he was intruding on something personal which he had no right to see, and yet he still could not pull his eyes away as Elrond clutched Maglor and promised him that he did not think him deserving of such treatment. It was a relief when Cirdan cleared his throat, pulling Gil-Galad’s attention away. In the Shipwright’s hand was a letter, on his face a look of horror.

Before Gil-Galad reached him he folded the letter and shook his head, “Take my word for this Erenion, you would do far better not reading this.”

There was something in his expression that prevented Gil-Galad from objecting and demanding to see the letter himself, so he simply nodded and asked, “Sauron?”

“It is written in blood. Addressed to Elrond.” Cirdan sighed, and checked to ensure that the Half-Elf’s attention was still occupied, then finished, “It seems he viewed taking Maglor as revenge for turning Annatar from the city, we were meant to find him all along.”

If possible his hatred of the fallen Maia grew at that. He had never been fond of his cousin, and in all honesty, it would not have affected him at all had the elf followed his brother into the fiery chasm. Elrond’s feelings for Maglor was the only thing stopping the elf from outright hating him for what he had done to so many – a part of him even went so far as to blame the Sons of Feanor for his father’s death, resentful that they had survived the massacre when so many better men had fallen – but this was too far, and he felt much of his anger fading away at the idea of what Maglor’s life had become.

“We need to take Maglor to safety,” he said softly, “Can we reach as far as Lindon?”

“Doubtful,” was Cirdan’s reply. “However, I have heard tell of a small contingent of Sindar, under Lord Celeborn, who have taken refuge in a valley not far from here.”

“We shall meet with them then, and plan our next course of action. I will have to return to Lindon soon, however, it seems Sauron has openly declared himself at war with us.”

Cirdan sighed, tapping his fingers against the letter in thought, and watching Maglor and Elrond. “We cannot have him recognized, there are those with enough hatred in their hearts to become kinslayers themselves to exact revenge.”

“There is not enough left of him to recognize.” Maglor was not the proud, frightening prince he had once been, he was a shadow of his former self, a walking husk. There was no more of the Light of the Trees in him, his eyes were too badly damaged to show their light, and his skin had become translucent. So long as they could keep him from rambling in Quenya, or being too obvious about the Silmaril burns on his hand, it would be nearly impossible for anyone who had not known him personally to recognize him.

On the other side of the room Elrond was giving Maglor a cursory examination, feeling his spine and ribs for fractures, flexing his joints and asking what pained him. For his part, Maglor gave no word of complaint, nor did he say anything to suggest he still thought them an apparition. Perhaps he had seen the truth, or – far more likely – he was simply too tired and desperate for kindness to care if this ended well. He amicably allowed himself to be shaken and touched, every hiss of pain was met by apologies from Elrond which he waved away.

Gil-Galad watched the pair of them for a moment, still mulling over what Cirdan had revealed to him, but he knew that they would have to get Maglor moving – as unlikely as it seemed – if they were to catch up with their forces and make it to Celeborn. “Elrond can he walk?”

Elrond turned quickly, looking at Gil-Galad with surprise, then turning back to look at Maglor who shrugged. “I can try.”

 It fell to Gil-Galad and Cirdan, being the largest of the two, to attempt to pull Maglor to his feet. His legs wobbled and his fingers dug into their robes but he did not fall. After taking a moment to gather his balance he slowly nodded. “I can manage,” he whispered.

Soon they were making their way down the hall, it was slow going as Maglor was still too weak to stand properly by himself, but with their assistance he was able to manage. But his burst of energy was not to last, and within only a few moments his knees gave way completely and he would have fallen to his knees if not for the elves on either side of him.

They lowered him carefully to the floor, but it was evident he would not be able to stand anytime soon, his breath coming in short gasps and his voice coming out more weakly than before as he whispered, “I will be fine, I-I need but a moment.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Gil-Galad shook his head, muttering several choice swears under his breath, and dragged Maglor up and into his arms, thankful that though the other elf was several inches taller than he, his slight frame was light enough to easily carry. The Feanorian protested, but only for a moment, his exhaustion quickly over coming him until he settled down and accepted the help with a quiet sigh.

Maglor didn’t move again until they neared the exit, when they could hear the noises of the small guard they had brought moving around outside. The soldiers fell quiet as they exited, staring with great curiosity at Gil-Galad’s burden and awaiting an explanation. “This elf has been a captive of the enemy, his faer is badly wounded so you must not trouble him.”

One of his men, a trained healer whose skills were surpassed only by Elrond, stepped forward to assist them in lowering Maglor into the back of one of their wagons. “Ride with him,” Gil-Galad said as Elrond moved to fetch his own mount. “He may have further need of you.” And it seemed to him cruel to deprive them of this chance to reacquaint themselves with one another.

Elrond nodded and swung himself into the wagon beside Maglor, thanking the healer who responded by asking, “What name shall we call him by?”

“M- Lindir,” Elrond said quickly, swallowing his mistake. “His name is Lindir.”

The healer turned his bright eyes to Maglor who had managed to prop himself up against a crate of supplies and was now panting from the effort. “I wish you fast healing and the blessings of Lady Estë, Master Lindir.”

The muscles in Maglor’s neck clenched, as though biting back a laugh at the suggestion that Estë would have her eyes on him, but he managed a tight smile and weakly replied, “And many blessings upon you.”

“And it is time we take our leave as well,” Gil-Galad said, motioning for his mount. “Safe travels to you both.” He resisted the urge to evoke the protection of Tulkas, the warrior of the Valar, knowing that as much fun as such a jab might be, Maglor was still hurt and there was no need to be overly cruel. Instead he offered a smile to them both and cheerfully said, “Feel better, Lindir.”

“Original,” Maglor remarked dryly. Gil-Galad snorted in spite of himself and the tips of Elrond’s ears turned a soft pink.

Notes:

If Elrond and Maglor seem a bit awkward/distant, don't worry, that will be explained soon. I want to try a different spin on their relationship than the one I usually write.

Lindir simply means singer, which is why its such a silly name. And yes I am implying that Maglor is the Lindir from the Lord of the Rings.

Translations:
Mecin. Mecin. Alatan ----- Quenya ----- Please. Please not again.
Imni tele incë lá raxë. ----- Quenya ----- I mean you no harm/danger.
Amatúlie pia Ilmanya ----- Quenya ----- Hello little star of mine
Faer ----- Sindar ----- Soul

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Notes:

There's some pretty rough stuff in this chapter. Nothing is explicit, but a lot of things including rape, child abuse, alcoholism, and torture are discussed.

Elrond and Maglor fell into a strained silence as soon as Cirdan and Gil-Galad left, Elrond wordlessly finding him a change of clothes and helping him to pull them on, swatting away Maglor’s fumbling hands and doing the buttons himself. Maglor mumbled a quiet thank you before settling back against the boxes, once again wrapping himself in Gil-Galad’s cloak. Elrond thumbed through his satchel as the wagon bean to move, wishing he could think of a way to lessen Maglor’s pain without causing too many ill effects. 

It was Maglor who first broke the silence, awkwardly asking, “How has life treated you?”

“Better than expected, which is surprising considering I have lost my parents, my foster father, my brother, and now my cousin.” He took a breath, finding that the words had come out of his mouth too quickly and too sharply, so he slowed himself and added, “But I have found you, so I am less alone than I was this morning.”

“And what am I?” Maglor raised his head hesitantly, before remembering that he would not be able to see and dropping his head back to his chest mournfully.

Elrond gave him a strange look, then set his hand on top of Maglor’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Surprisingly sober.”

The Feanorian let out a barking laugh. “Well, Sauron is a rather inconsiderate host.”

The silence fell between them again, Maglor beginning to hum softly and Elrond watching the scenery pass by. After some time Maglor pushed himself up, moving so that his head and shoulders were no longer beneath the canvas cover, so that he could feel the warmth of Arien on his skin. Elrond turned his attention to him, watching as Maglor settled back and resumed his soft humming.

“This isn’t him, you know.” Maedhros had stroked Elrond’s head as they watched Maglor on the other side of the hall, who had been glowering at anyone who dared come close to him or to look at the wine bottle in his hand.

Elrond hadn’t cared, shaking his head furiously. “We’ve been here a decade, Nelyo,” he had argued, “and he’s been sober only a handful of weeks.” Never mind that those weeks had been some of the happiest, as though Maglor could not even remember the foul monster he often was.

Maedhros had sighed. “What did he say this time?”

“That it would have been better for us to be devoured by Orcs in the wild than to become the next victims of your oath.”

Elrond’s truthful reply had clearly angered Maedhros, who had turned his sharp eyes on his brother and given him a look that would have sent a lesser man – or perhaps just a sober one – running for his life. “Don’t let him get to you.” He had said, turning his attention back to Elrond. “He does love you, in his own way.”

“When he is sober.”

Maglor was certainly sober now, and Elrond took the time to study him and wonder what his life might have been like if the minstrel had not relied so heavily on his drink. Maedhros had never given a straight answer to questions regarding what had started his brother’s habit, but Elrond had been able to put together the scant details he had offered along with his knowledge of elven history and determine that it had most likely gone back to the time of the trees. He had found pages among Fingon’s notes – carefully preserved in the Library at Lindon – reminiscing about Maglor’s crazed antics at a party in Tirion. There had been other signs, other mentions of Maglor’s mood swings which could have been attributed to trouble with alcohol, but none of it had been serious, suggesting that he merely was unpredictable when drunk as a young elf, not that he had relied on it.

Moving forward he had once managed to get Celebrimbor talking – after a few drinks, because it seemed all Feanorians had a weakness for the same thing, though Celebrimbor was nowhere near as bad as his uncle – and he had mentioned that Maglor had begun to rely on alcohol during his time as High King, although his duty to his people and younger brothers seemed to have kept it from becoming too severe.

All records of Maglor’s Gap had been destroyed in the fire that had raged there, and although all outside accounts described him as a competent (and likely sober) leader, Elrond had located a letter sent between Maedhros and Fingon shortly after Maglor had fled to Himring, in which he had mentioned Maglor’s “poor coping skills.” But nothing else suggested that Maglor’s problem could have been considered more than a mild inconvenience at that time, possibly even a rational reaction to having one’s home destroyed by dragon fire, leaving Elrond to draw the conclusion that it must have started after the second Kinslaying. There were no records of the lives of the sons of Feanor at all after that, they had completely cut themselves off from the world and retreated to Himring before moving to launch an attack on Sirion.

If he were honest with himself, it made sense that Doriath would be what had finally broken Maglor.

“I don’t need sight to feel your eyes on me, Elrond.” His eyes snapped open and he turned to face Maglor who was still laying exactly where he had been before.

“What happened to your eyes?” He reached for Maglor’s makeshift blindfold, but the elder elf’s hand shot out and gripped his wrist, preventing him from taking hold. “Let me see, please.”

“There is nothing you can do for them, pia Ilmanya.”

“Let me determine that for myself.” He easily shook off Maglor’s grip before gently untying the cloth and peeling it back from his face, revealing that Maglor had scrunched his eyes shut. “Open your eyes,” he requested. “Please.”

He finally did as requested, fluttering open his eyelids and allowing Elrond to take in the scared remains of his once silver eyes. “They cannot be healed,” he said softly, “the connection to my brain has been severed.” 

Elrond felt as though a great weight was crushing down on his chest, and he brushed his thumb along Maglor’s cheek bone in thought. “Does it pain you?”

“On occasion, though, no less than anything else.”

Elrond nodded, swallowing back a lump that had formed in his throat and pulling his hand back. “Well, I suppose that is some small comfort.”

Maglor’s face fell slightly at the removal of Elrond’s touch. “You learn to live for the small things.” Unable to see him in distress, Elrond moved his hand to rest atop Maglor’s, and did not pull back when the other threaded their fingers together. They once again fell into silence, although this one was not as strained as the last.

After a while, Elrond met Gil-Galad’s eyes as the King moved to the back of the group to check that all was running smoothly. Judging by the smile he was given, it was obvious that Gil-Galad thought Elrond was overjoyed to be reunited with Maglor. Of course, Elrond hadn’t told him of Maglor’s alcoholism: it was hard enough convincing people that two sober kinslayers had never once abused him, and had been perfectly loving parents. He couldn’t imagine what would be said if it was discovered that Maglor – whom everyone seemed to assume was the sane one of the two – was in truth a distant, mean-spirited (if harmless) drunkard. So Elrond returned the King’s smile as though he were the most overjoyed elf in all Arda.

To spare himself having to meet Gil-Galad’s eyes any longer he removed his water skin from his satchel and took a long sip, then pulled his hand from Maglor to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. Maglor stirred at the disturbance, having apparently fallen into a light sleep, and sat up abruptly, striking his head on the edge of the wagon and causing himself to panic.

“Kana! Kana!” Elrond leaned forward, grabbing Maglor’s upper arms and holding him still. “Kana you’re safe. Do you remember what happened?”

Maglor was still shaking, and the sudden sound of an approaching horse, moving faster than those around it, did nothing to ease his panic. Gil-Galad was hurrying his mount toward them, apparently having noticed Elrond’s sudden move to grab Maglor. Holding up a hand to slow Gil-Galad, Elrond brought the water skin to Maglor’s mouth. “Drink this and calm down.” He gulped the water as though he had been rescued from the desert, leaving Elrond with a twinge of guilt that he had not thought to offer him any sooner. “Do you remember where you are now?”

Maglor nodded, still clinging to the water skin as though it was his life line.

“Is he alright?” Gil-Galad had finally reached them, pulling his horse up alongside the wagon and peering in to look at Maglor suspiciously. 

“He startled himself is all.”

“I am sorry for the trouble,” Maglor said, the water skin falling to his lap as he curled forward to hide his head in his hands.

Elrond rubbed his back gently, turning to face Gil-Galad. “He’s skittish.”

“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.” Gil-Galad seemed to be of the opinion that Maedhros had jumped at his own shadow – perhaps he once had, or perhaps that was just the way Fingon had seen him – and he had spent many years believing that Elrond’s natural shyness came from having a foster parent haunted by nightmares, not from having lost everyone he ever grew close to. Elrond still wasn’t sure he completely believed him when he said that Maedhros’ only trouble was at night when he was alone, and that he had gone to great lengths to keep that hidden from the twins so they would have at least some semblance of sanity. Gil-Galad nodded, giving Maglor one last uncertain look, then rode off to resume his rounds. 

Elrond continued to rub slow circles on Maglor’s back, and soon he was breathing at a normal pace again and able to sit upright. “I want you to try and eat something,” he said after a moment, digging in his satchel for supplies.

As he began to unwrap the bread Maglor sniffed and furrowed his eyebrows. “That isn’t of Artanis’ creation, is it?”

“Waybread,” Elrond explained, breaking off a chunk and handing it to Maglor. “And yes, I believe Galadriel may have had a hand in its creation.

Maglor sniffed the offering uncertainly, then carefully licked it to determine the flavor. He took only a small bite before lowering his hand and mumbling, “I cannot stomach any more just yet.”

Elrond nodded and took the bread back, finishing it himself as to not let it go to waste, returning the rest of the loaf to his pack. Remembering that Maglor could not see his nod he said, “Let me know if you would like more.”

Maglor hummed an agreement. “What have you told Gil-Galad of me?”

Startled by the question Elrond did not answer straight away. “That it seemed to me you went out of your way to ensure my safety and happiness; that I was never harmed in your care; that you are not the soulless monsters many would like to believe.” He watched Maglor’s face for any reaction, then softly added, “I did not mention the drinking.”

For a moment Maglor was silent, then he whispered, “They thought we had harmed you?”

Elrond chose his words carefully, lest Maglor decide to start shouting at someone and give himself away, “It seemed it had never occurred to them that we had ever been anything more than hostages to assure Maedhros that Gil-Galad was not going to attack. They took our preference to speak to one another as proof that we had never been taught to speak with anyone else, and seemed surprised by our understanding of court ettique and manners.” He almost stopped there, but found himself compelled to add, “I was asked once if we were kept in the basement, or if we were allowed the, ah, freedom of the stables.”

Maglor growled, much as he had when Maedhros had suggested his drink too much, a clear sign that he was angry with someone. “Are they kind to you?” he asked finally.

“Exceedingly.”

There was another short pause, then, as if afraid the question would not be welcome, Maglor murmured, “Are you happy?”

The question caught Elrond by surprise. He thought carefully on his answer, before replying, “As happy as I can be.”

Maglor seemed to think on his words for a moment, “I am glad.” He laid back down, though the sun had changed positions in the sky and no longer fell across his face, and knotted his hands behind his head.

“What of you?” Elrond blurted without thinking. Maglor quirked an eyebrow and he quickly explained, “Before Sauron.”

“There is not much to tell, even I cannot spin a story out of nothing.” Maglor shifted, as though contemplating ending his story there, but he continued anyway, “I wanted – needed – to be alone, I do regret leaving you and Elros – I left you in good hands, did I not? – I wasn’t – am not- a good influence on you. You needed to be-“ his voice had grown quicker and his hands were wringing together as he stumbled on, his golden throat failing him and leaving him reduced to a stuttering mess, pleading for understanding.

“Kana,” Elrond cut him off, taking ahold of his hands and squeezing them gently. “Kana I understand.” Maglor quieted, relaxing and gripping Elrond’s hands. “I-“ The words, I forgive you, rose in his throat, but he could not force them out, instead swallowing and repeating. “I understand.”

“That is more than I deserve.”

Elrond patted his hands distractedly, beginning to see why Maedhros had never truly fought against his younger sibling’s addiction. For the first time, he was beginning to see that Maglor simply could not live with himself, that he pulled everything inward and found a way to bring it all back to himself and place the blame squarely on his own shoulders. With a personality like that, it was no great wonder that he preferred to drown himself in alcohol. “May I ask you something else?”

Maglor hummed his assent and Elrond swallowed his nerves before saying, “If I am going to treat you, I need to know what happened.” The Feanorian tensed, so Elrond laid his hand gently on his shoulder before continuing, “I don’t need any details, anything that is too distressing to talk about, I merely need to know what needs treated and how.”

After a moment of silence Maglor softly said, “He healed most of my wounds, so that I would always be ready for more torture, and those that remain are places I would not have seen.”

It took some time for Elrond to process what he said, nodding numbly at the dawning implication. “He raped you,” he said dumbly. Immediately he regretted his words, afraid that the sharp reminder of what had happened would be too much, but Maglor simply snorted, further proof that he was completely mad.

Before he could apologize Maglor spoke, “Quite often and none too gently,” he said plainly. “And my foster son is the last person I want treating my ass, which is no doubt why Sauron chose not to heal it.”

Elrond was still dumbstruck, feeling his heart shattering in his chest, tightening his grip on the tunic Maglor was wearing protectively. “I- I thought that the Eldar – that is to say, when – the soul-“

Maglor’s hand brushed Elrond’s face, quieting him. “It’s true that many of our kind fade under such circumstances, but Sauron has ways of controlling and trapping the soul if he chooses.”

“I am so sorry,” Elrond murmured, leaning into his touch, “I should not have asked. I did not think of the harm my questions would cause.”

“What harm?” Maglor almost laughed. “Pia Ilmanya, I had six brothers, I am unused to secrets. You asked out of concern and a desire to render aid. I cannot fault you for that.”

“Still I should not have forced you to tell me about this.”

“Why? You no doubt knew I was tortured.”

“He violated you.”

Maglor huffed. “Yes. He beat me, raped me, burned, starved, mutilated, flogged, blinded, branded – anything he could think of. None of them are any more traumatic than the others.”

Elrond still didn’t believe him, but he nodded, then remembering Maglor’s blindness said, “Of course.”

“Do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t pity me.” Maglor rolled onto his side at that, a clear sign that he had had enough of the conversation, and Elrond allowed him to fall into silence and what was hopefully a much needed sleep. He sat beside his former care-giver and rubbed his shoulder, a signal to them both that they were no longer alone.

The rest of the day’s journey passed uneventfully, Maglor was still resting when Gil-Galad finally announced that they would take a short break and Elrond jumped from the wagon as it stopped, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs.

“How is he?” Cirdan walked up beside Elrond, tying his mount loosely to the wagon so that it could graze, his silver eyes flicking over the unconscious elf.

“Worse than he looks,” was all Elrond could manage.

Cirdan stared thoughtfully at Maglor for several more seconds, then looked at Elrond with a strange weight in his eyes. “I can still remember when Erenion’s father returned with Nelyafinwe. We had a loose treaty at the time, and I will never forget the young one – what was his name – Ambarussa – arriving in a panic to trade for healing supplies.”

Elrond wondered if Cirdan even realized he had used the Feanorian’s forbidden Quenya names, or if he was so lost in thought that he still remembered them only by those first names. “I refused payment – what can you take, when a child’s beloved brother is so close to death – and returned with him to their camp to offer my help. I will never forget what he looked like, but he was not the one whose face would haunt my dreams.” He went silent, and for a moment Elrond supposed he had stopped talking, or if he thought that he was speaking – the few of the elves who had been the first to awake that Elrond had met all seemed to have a strange relationship with words – but before Elrond could say anything he began again, “Kana was the king then, and he was sitting with his brother, holding him so close that they seemed to be one. The crown was astray and he had tears on his face, and in his eyes was something terrible. Many have spoken to me of how he appeared at Doriath and at Sirion – of the fellness in his eyes – but I do not believe it could compare to what I saw that day.”

When he fell silent yet again, Elrond asked, “What then?” As much as it hurt to hear Maglor described in such a way, he was selfishly glad that Maedhros’ condition had been spared such description. There was a larger soft spot in Elrond’s heart for the elder Feanorian, and he did not think he could stomach hearing any more about him.

Cirdan shook his head. “His cousin Finrod pulled him from the room and that was the last I saw of him for a time. I am told he was sedated with wine.” Elrond did not miss the way he had quickly switched back to the Finwean’s Sindarin names, but he said nothing, simply nodding and absorbing the information.

“Laudanum.” Cirdan and Elrond both jumped at the quiet voice, turning and looking for the speaker. “Wine does not cause me to sleep, they spiked it with the poppy’s milk.” Maglor was still lying on his side in the wagon, but his body was less relaxed than before, and he seemed somewhat more alert. He gave a quiet groan as he sat up, and Elrond jumped back into the wagon to steady him.

“We’re taking a break,” Cirdan said, “But it won’t be overlong.” Then he nodded to Elrond and departed, giving the impression that he hadn’t liked the interruption of his story.

“I need to relieve myself.” Maglor spoke stiffly, as though embarrassed by his body’s requirements. “I may need help to stand.”

Elrond resisted the urge to say he would probably need more help than that, but he bit his tongue and instead said, “Of course, lean against me.” He helped Maglor from the back of the wagon and they made slow process toward the nearby trees. Now that he knew more of Maglor’s injuries it was clear that his pain and trouble walking came from closer to his genitals and backside rather than his legs themselves. That allowed Elrond to provide better leverage and help Maglor to move without needing a second person.

“I can manage from here,” Maglor said, once they were hidden in the shadows of the trees.

“How?” Elrond asked, giving him a curious glance. “Kana you can barely stand.”

“I will manage,” he repeated firmly, attempting to shake free of Elrond’s grip. His face was bright red and Elrond found himself reflecting on how utterly humiliating it all must be for someone as proud as the last Feanorian.

“I am a fully trained healer, Kanafinwe,” he said, not trying over hard to restrain his budding frustration. “I’ve helped my fair share of bedridden patients urinate and worse.”

Maglor let out a stubborn huff, grumping under in breath in garbled Quenya. “Just – just look away.” Elrond turned his back obediently and wrapped his arm around Maglor’s waist to steady him. As he fumbled with his pants the healer snuck a quick glance downward and scowled at the flash of angry red skin he saw across Maglor’s exposed buttocks, but he couldn’t see any more than that as Maglor finished and adjusted his pants, mumbling a sullen thanks.

Elrond patted his shoulder awkwardly and shifted so that they could once again manage their slow walk. “Shall we find the fire and see what food they’ve found for us?”

Maglor stumbled awkwardly, his face turning a nervous red again. “I don’t want to need to do anything more than urinate,” he muttered. “It wouldn’t be comfortable.”

Elrond nodded, patting his shoulder. “I’ll find you something liquid.”

Upon their emergence back into camp, Gil-Galad, who had been loitering near the wagon, swooped in and supported Maglor on the other side, speeding their journey to the fireside. Maglor accepted the added help grudgingly, still red-faced and muttering an annoyed thank you.

Once at the fire Gil-Galad tightened his grip on Maglor, turning to Elrond and saying, “I can manage him from here, go and find you both something to eat.” The herald nodded, admittedly startled by the other, and hurried off.

Returning with a water skin filled with broth – he didn’t relish the idea of helping Maglor eat neatly, and had decided that would be far easier – and a plate of food for himself Elrond stopped short at the strange sight in front of him. Maglor was slumped against Gil-Galad, his eyes closed and his brow tensed as it did when he slept, and the king was talking to two of his captains as though there was no one else beside him, although both captains kept shooting Maglor startled looks. Gil-Galad dismissed them as Elrond approached, telling them to feed themselves and try and get what rest they could before the camp disembarked.

Elrond set aside the food and reached for Maglor apologetically, “Let me take him.”

Gil-Galad waved him off. “He’s doing no harm, let him rest, he seems to need it.” He handed Elrond his plate, reaching around Maglor to do so. “Worry about yourself, he can eat once he’s awoken.”

Elrond nodded obediently, and almost immediately shoved food into his mouth, just then remembering how hungry he was. “How is he?” The king asked, glancing at the elf slumbering on his shoulder.

Elrond swallowed a large bite, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Bad.” He wanted very badly to unload all of it onto Gil-Galad, everything Maglor had said, what Sauron had done to him, what the Feanorian had really been like. He wanted Gil-Galad to reason away his fears, his conflicting thoughts, to ruffle his hair and promise him that all would be well. Instead Elrond shoved more food into his mouth, turning his head and imagining himself ripping his thoughts apart as his teeth ripped apart his food.

Why couldn’t Nelyo have lived instead?

Notes:

I wouldn’t go so far to say the bread Elrond feeds him is Lembas, let’s just call it a rough prototype

Maglor’s head is really messed up right now, and even he has no idea how badly. Sauron has definitely scrambled his brains quite a bit and its going to take a long time to unscramble him. He’s also still at least a little in shock over the rescue and so don’t expect him to remain this chatty. That’s also why he’s sleeping a lot and with his eyes closed.

Laudanum is a form of Opium, and for quite a while it was used as medication. It comes from poppies hence “poppy’s milk.” So basically they just gave Maglor a ton of drugs because they didn't know how to help him, which certainly would have added to his tendency to addiction later on.

I think its pretty rational of Elrond to want Maedhros to have lived, its actually common to want 'the other/better person' than the one you have, no matter how much you love them (think, the grass is greener on the other side). And because of Maglor's drinking problem in this story, he would have certainly been closer to Maedhros.

One of these days I'm probably going to write a fic about Elrond dealing with people asking him questions about the Feanorians and having to defend them against claims of child abuse and all that nonsense.

Yes Elrond and Gil-Galad are very probably banging (and that's very probably the only reason Gil-Galad allowed Maglor to use him as a pillow), if you read the short prequel Sauron calls Elrond "the king's bedwarmer" however, thats not going to be a huge part of the plot.

Chapter 3

Tensions were running high as they packed up once everyone had a chance to eat, the constant travel and threat of attack, mixed with the confusion and fear of the survivors of Eregion, meant that it was a very unhappy group that left. Maglor, blissfully, slept through most of it, barely waking as Elrond and Gil-Galad helped him to the wagon. “He should not be sleeping this much,” Elrond had hissed to Gil-Galad, but the king had waved away his fears, blaming it on shock and stress, and Elrond immediately felt a twinge of guilt at having bothered him when he clearly had others matters on his mind.

Elrond busied himself trying to keep track of everything – moving an army, no matter how ragged – was never an easy task, particularly when there were refugees to worry about as well. He had always thought that Maedhros had made it seem easy, but the older he got the more impressed he was by the older Feanorian, and the more he came to resent how little Maglor had ever seemed to do to assist. Preoccupied with his thoughts he didn’t notice his companion awakening until Maglor’s head was leaned against his hip, one hand reaching for him lazily and smudging the charcoal Elrond was using to write.

He grit his teeth and took a deep breath before setting aside his work, making sure his voice hid his emotions before asking, “How do you feel?”

“Ve múko,” Maglor grumbled, and Elrond took a moment to contemplate what he found more vexing about his word choice: the vulgarity or the use of forbidden Quenya.

Finally, he decided not to choose, and instead said, “I have food if that would help.”

Maglor seemed to contemplate the offer, then finally nodded and mumbled, “Please.”

Elrond nodded and dug into his bag, then handed Maglor another piece of the waybread. The minstrel rolled over, still leaning on Elrond’s leg, and ate slowly. Leaving him to take care of himself, Elrond went back to his work, attempting to make sense of the smudged letters.

“You’re quite,” Maglor said after a moment.

Elrond scowled. “You’re talkative.”

“I am trying not to focus on anything else at the moment.” 

“So you are focusing on me?”

“That is the general idea, yes.”

Of course. If Maglor wanted a distraction, Elrond was expected to provide it. Nevermind that he had never bothered worrying about what Elrond and Elros had wanted when they’d been younger. But Elrond bit back his objections, trying hard not to focus too much on the past, instead falling into the routine of a healer with a patient. He would treat any patient the same, no matter his feelings for them.

“I have work to do.”

Maglor fell silent. But, Elrond noted bitterly, did not apologize.

Soon the minstrel was asleep again (and Elrond was beginning to be concerned, no one should be sleeping that much).

It was growing dark out, even though the band continued moving, not able to risk stopping incase they were being followed. Eventually it grew too dark to see, so Elrond set his work aside (out of Maglor’s reach) and sat, staring at Maglor. Unbidden, the same thought he’d had earlier came to his mind: it wasn’t fair that he had survived when Maedhros hadn’t.

Elrond swallowed and looked away, unable to entertain such a thought. It wasn’t fair to either man to compare them in such a way (and, he told himself firmly, Maedhros would not have wanted him to think such things).

Beside him, Maglor rolled slightly, mumbling to himself. Elrond didn’t try to catch his words, simply placing his hand on the other’s shoulder reassuringly and looking out of the wagon at the night sky. Above them, Earendil shone brightly, proof of Maglor and Maedhros’ crimes. Elrond pulled the wagon covering shut, brushing against Maglor in the process. The Feanorian mumbled softly, swatting him away, but didn’t wake.

“Lump,” Elrond muttered softly. There was almost a hint of endearment in his voice, almost, but not quite.

Elrond leaned back against the box he’d been sitting on all day, yawning and closing his eyes. A part of him knew that he ought to be keeping an eye on Maglor, but that part of him was rapidly giving in to the rising exhaustion. Telling himself that it wouldn’t hurt to rest for just a moment, he soon found himself falling into a deep sleep.

The youth leaned his head around the corner, peering down the deserted hall. He grinned over his shoulder to his brother, motioning Elrond forward. “Come,” Elros whispered, “there’s no one here!”

Giggling, they both rounded the corner and broke into a run, dashing down the hall, their laughter becoming louder. Unfortunately, they didn’t think to check around the next corner, having too much fun racing, and Elrond slammed into something then spiraled to the ground.

The thing he’d collided with grunted, stumbling backwards and cursing. Immedately both twins knew who they’d found, and neither of them were interested in waiting around for the verbal tongue lashing from Maglor.

The younger Feanorian bumped into the wall, his silver eyes narrowing dangerously. “What do you two-” he began, but they were both already running.

They made they way quickly to Maedhros’ study, flinging open the door and rushing inside. “Kano’s mad!” was all Elros had to say.

Maedhros nodded, motioning them both inside paitently. “Alright, alright,” he said, sounding distracted. “Just sit down, he won’t bother you here.”

---

Elrond wasn’t telling them something. Cirdan watched with sharp eyes as the two spoke in low tones in the wagon. He couldn’t hear all of what was being said, but he didn’t need to. He could see the Peredhel’s face quite plainly and his frustrated emotions were written clearly across it.

Gil-Galad was still proud of himself, too pleased by the supposed happy family reunion to see the cracks beneath the surface, but then again, Cirdan supposed he probably knew more about the sons of Feanor than the king. After all, Gil-Galad had only met the minstrel once before, and he’d been younger then (and it was long before Maglor’s decline).

The shipwright was more than aware of Maglor’s mental state, even if he preferred not to mention it. He had always promised himself that while he wouldn’t be the one to bring it up, he would discuss it with Elrond if the other asked (although Cirdan had pointedly pretended not to notice Elrond digging into old letters, reasoning to himself that Elrond hadn’t specifically asked him). 

It was also easy for the Cirdan to argue to himself that it was Celebrimbor who ought to discuss the matter with Elrond, as Maglor’s nephew the smith had no doubt been aware of his issues. But Celebrimbor liked talking about his uncles even less than he liked talking about himself (metal, however, he could and would talk about for hours, one of the many reasons Cirdan limited their company). Whether it was Celebrimbor’s responsibility or not, however, was beside the point seeing as how the smith was now dead.

With the benefit of hindsight, Cirdan probably should have reached out to him long ago, and let the younger elf discuss whatever convoluted feelings he was now wrestling with. But Cirdan couldn’t change the past, no matter how much he wished he could, and instead Elrond was merely going to either learn to swim or sink.

Hopefully, he didn’t sink, they didn’t have time to deal with that.

Notes:

Ve múko - “like shit”

Chapter 4

“Kanafinwe, are you in here?” The noise felt like a dagger through his ear.

Maglor’s head spun, but he didn’t get up from where he was curled in Ambarussa’s bed. Guilt gnawed at his stomach, and he curled in on himself.

“Kana-“ Maedhros sighed. Footsteps approached the bed and gentle hand rested on his shoulder. “Kana, please, tell me you’re alive.”

He forced his eyes open and whimpered slightly at the assault from the bright light coming in through the window. He heard his brother let out a sigh of relief. 

But he didn’t trust himself to speak, not with how his stomach felt after he’d drank a glass - no, a bottle? Maybe two - of wine on an empty stomach. 

Maedhros shifted so that his shoulders shaded Maglor’s face. “The twins - Elrond and Elros - were asking after you.”

Maglor blinked.

His brother cupped his cheek. “Kana-“

“They’re not ours.” And he rolled back over and resumed ignoring his brother.

But Maedhros knew what to say to get a reaction out of him. “Elros is worried about you.” 

Maglor grunted.

“Elrond, on the other hand, I think would not care if you choked on your own vomit.” When Maglor still didn’t speak, Maedhros drummed his fingers on the mattress. “He’s Mannish, that one, hardly an elf at all.” A dry, humorless chuckle. “Elros… Elros I should think will be a scholar, he reminds me a great deal of Turukano, though hopefully wiser.” 

Maglor snorted. He couldn’t tell the twins apart half the time and he certainly didn’t care what they thought of him. “And what about Maitimo? What does Maitimo care for?” 

A hand brushed his hair, tucking it behind his ear. “I would care a great deal, little brother.” 

---

Maglor did a good job of pretending not to be interested in the discussions happening around him. Of course, the discussions had - more than once - involved him, so it was hard to blame him. 

“He should return to Lindon with the wounded,” Elrond was saying, his voice low. “The wilds are too dangerous-“ 

An amused snort. Cirdan. “I’m not certain he will allow that.” 

“You know who I am going to meet!” 

“Gil-Galad-“ 

“Is not with us at the moment, so I can freely say he does not know what he is suggesting.” 

“It seems I do not know what he is suggesting either,” said the shipwright with a sigh. Maglor had to bite back a laugh. Cirdan was always a step ahead of everyone else. 

“He is suggesting that I take a wounded man into the wilds, to whatever old fortress Celeborn has found.” 

“Ah.” A pause. “That is what he is suggesting, yes.” 

“He knows Celeborn is a Prince of Doriath-“ 

“I would hope so, as I don’t believe I neglected that part of his education.” 

Judging by the strangled noise Elrond made, he found the shipwright about as vexing as Maglor always had. 

“Then why does he think I can take him there?”

“Do you believe Celeborn would harm him?”

Maglor could answer that. Celeborn wasn’t a monster, he wouldn’t harm a defenseless man. It still wouldn’t exactly please him to be around Maglor, however, and he had no doubt it would make everyone’s life miserable. 

Mostly Elrond’s, most likely.

“Of course he would not,” said Elrond, after a rather long pause. “But-“ 

“Celeborn and the survivors of Eregion need you, Elrond-“ 

“I am not refuting that nor refusing to go!” 

To Maglor’s disappointment, the conversation suddenly ended, and a moment later he heard Elrond greeting Gil-Galad as though they hadn’t just been speaking about the king. 

He laid awake as the king talked with his friends and then they split up for the night, each heading to mind different areas of the camp. Efficient. Better than we ever managed with my brothers. Of course, it helped that Gil-Galad, Cirdan, and Elrond actually seemed to like one another and value one another’s opinions. 

Elrond’s footsteps approached the tent where Maglor was resting. He waited for a moment, letting the man shrug off his armor, then sat up. “If you would prefer I went to Lindon, I won’t argue against that.” 

The ground crunched as Elrond turned studied Maglor. “Your hearing is as impeccable as ever.” He wasn’t surprised that the Feanorian had overheard his conversation with Cirdan, but that didn’t make him any less annoyed. 

He lifted a piece of his armor, turning it over to inspect it for damage. “You should resist the urge to spy on the King’s advisors.” 

Maglor couldn’t help himself, replying, “You need eyes for spying.” 

Elrond’s hands tightened on the leather strap he was adjusting. “Overhearing then.” 

“I will admit my guilt for that.” 

“You’ve always loved your guilt,” Elrond said softly. 

He couldn’t argue with that, not when it was painfully true. “I do not mean to trouble you, pia Ilmanya.” 

Elrond said nothing. Maglor could practically hear the internal debate he was having with himself. “You’re no trouble, Kana.” 

Maglor hummed, tipping his head back and opening his sightless eyes to the sky. “I think, after two thousand years, we ought to try being more honest with each other.” 

Elrond was tired, and he was stiff from riding, and he had pulled his wrist in a fight with orcs, and his judgement must have escaped him, and Maglor told himself that was why the half-elf felt the need to announce, “I liked Maedhros more.” 

And Maglor was also tired, and his head spun, and his ass still ached in all the wrong places, because he snapped, “I preferred Elros.” 

Elrond sighed. “You cannot help yourself, can you Kana? You cannot have a conversation without a litany of half-truths and veiled lies.” 

Then he stood. “I need to check on the men. I’ll let Erenion know what you’ve decided.” 

Maglor thought about shouting for him to come back, offering some apology - for his words, his actions, his damned Oath, Elrond’s childhood, Elrond’s parents… it was a long list - but he caught himself, deciding it was best if he let Elrond go his own way.

---

In the end, Maglor’s decision didn’t matter. The decisions were made for them. 

They had known they were surrounded, they just hadn’t known how badly. 

The sentinels they had set around the camp didn’t even have time to warn them before they were overrun. Thankfully, the attack didn’t happen until the packing had already been finished, when they were just getting ready to head out. 

Maglor was sitting by the King when the orcs suddenly emerged from the woods. Elrond was off with Cirdan - doing one last check of their supplies - and the King had been sitting on a fallen log with Maglor, happily telling him about the city of Lindon. 

Maglor decided not to tell the king that he loathed the ocean. 

He heard them first - his ears had always been sharp, even for an elf - and he’d shot his hand out, grabbing Gil-Galad’s wrist. “The woods.” 

“Cousin-“ 

“Something is in the woods.” 

Thankfully, Gil-Galad hadn’t questioned him, leaping from the wagon and shouting, “On guard!”

They’d emerged only a moment later, screaming and roaring, and the camp had fallen into chaos. To Maglor’s surprise, Gil-Galad had come back for him, shouting for another elf - someone by the name of Erestor - to grab Maglor and get him to safety. 

Erestor didn’t question who Maglor was - and that was truly a blessing, wasn’t it? - just grabbed his arm and pulled him along. “Hurry!” 

Maglor stumbled, nearly lost his footing - he no longer ached so badly, but he was tired - and Erestor had wrapped an arm around him, hauled him up, and kept moving. 

They wove through the chaos of the camp, not stopping to speak to anyone or question where they were going. 

Then Maglor heard it, a shout in Black Speech. “Find the king!” 

He swore, first at their luck and then at his own stupidity for what he was about to do. 

He pulled back from the man who had been helping him, hissing “Erestor run-“ 

“The king-“

“You won’t want to be here for what I’m about to do.” 

Glamours had always been Finrod’s area of expertise - but Maglor had been the one to teach him, even if his cousin had eclipsed him in that particular gift - and one elf wasn’t hard to glamour. 

His voice began, low and quiet, a song about the sea that Gil-Galad loved so much. 

“What are you-“ began Erestor. 

He threaded in a verse about Fingon, about loyalty and bravery. About the king’s spear, which had served him during the War of the Wraith. 

Maglor hadn’t seen Gil-Galad with his own two eyes in over an Age, but he didn’t need that. The orcs had never seen the Elven King.

He wove in a second command, even as he knew he was pushing his frail body too far, pushing back any elves that might try to stop him. 

The Song twisted around him, warping his appearance. He didn’t need to look like Gil-Galad, he just needed the Orcs to know that something - someone - powerful was standing there. And he needed a lot of luck, and possibly the blessing of the Valar, so it was a good thing the Valar would probably be just as happy if Maglor died there. 

“Stop!” It almost sounded like Elrond. 

“There he is!” An orc. 

“Kill the King!”

”Erestor stop him!” 

They were close enough he could smell their breath. 

Then pain; a knife in his stomach. 

“Kana!” 

Then nothing. 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of Shadows of Pain