Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The children were, for lack of a better word, unruly. When Maglor ordered them to bed, the taller one would stamp his foot and shout, and the shorter boy would glare at him. Maglor would try his best to convince them to go to sleep; bribe them with sweets that they didn’t have, perhaps, or with a bedtime story. When Maglor told them to stay in their room, they made as much noise as possible; the last that had happened, a group of orcs had found the fortress. The little scouting group was dispatched quickly, but the incident was not forgotten; not by Maedhros, anyway.

The arguing group stood in the hall in front of the twins’ room, bickering and shouting louder than those mountains of fire that Morgoth had made in the Angfauglith. Maedhros was sure that anyone nearby, however few people could be nearby, heard every word shouted and every entirely true accusation. 

Maedhros’s office was in the same hall and he always heard every word. From his seat at his old, rickety desk, he heard every word. The faint flicker of the little fireplace and the scratching of his pen on paper did nothing to quiet the noise from the hall; his tapping boot did nothing, as well. 

“I don’t want to go to sleep!” one of the boys shouted, and Maedhros looked into his deep memory and found that none of his brothers had ever been so belligerent when they were young.

“I can sing you a song, if you’d like?” Maglor offered in an attempted soothing voice that sounded more nervous than anything. “Or a story–”

“We don’t want a story, or a song!” the other boy shouted. It seemed that he had found his breaking point. “We want to go home!”

Didn’t everyone want to go home? Back to a land of soft grass and clear water and cool breezes, where the only item of concern was what was for dinner? Didn’t everyone want to go home again? Maedhros certainly did, though it was a fool’s hope. No one-handed kinslayer could return to Aman and Aman would never be the same as it had been. No, everywhere Maedhros had found to be home was gone. Tirion, Formenos, Himring, all of them further from his grasp than a silmaril from Morgoth’s crown.

“I don’t care!” one of the boys shouted, and the feather pen in Maedhros’s hand snapped. “I hate bedtime! I hate all of it! I hate y–!”

Maedhros stood from his seat and the legs of the chair scraped against the stone floor. He left his office, scowling, and approached the little twins. He remembered two other sets of twins, one pair he had the chance to meet and the other lost in the snow. 

The boys kept shouting and wailing and caterwauling and Maedhros felt a sharp ache in the middle of his head, like an iron spike being driven into his skull. He picked one of the boys up under his arm and then the other, and for one, blessed moment, they were silent. But then the screaming returned, far louder than before.

“Put us down!”

“Let us go!”

Little flimsy fists banged on his arms and shouted and screamed and wailed until Maedhros was sure that their voices must have gone hoarse. Outside the thin windows, lightning flashed and heavy rain pelted against the stone walls, almost at the same time as the boys shoved and hit at Maedhros in their futile attempt to escape him.

When Maedhros found their room, he kicked the door open and promptly dropped each of them on the ground. They stared up at him for a moment, but the brevity of the pause did not give the children enough time to react.

“Go to sleep,” Maedhros told them. “The both of you.”

“But we’re–” one began.

“My word is final,” Maedhros said, and felt irritation wash over him. “And be quiet, lest I have you sleep on the roof.”

Before the children could say—scream—anything else, Maedhros slammed the door behind him. 

“That was cruel, brother,” Maglor said as Maedhros exited the room.

“They’ll live,” Maedhros told him sharply. “They’ll shout their throats raw, but they’ll live. They’ll get so tired from all that shouting that you won’t even need to give them a story.”

Maedhros ignored his brother’s disappointed frown and returned to his study.

— — — 

“–won’t be long, I promise, you’ll just need to stay with Maedhros for a little while,” Maglor’s familiar voice said through Maedhros’s door.

“But–”

“We need to go speak with the Edain leaders nearby, and,” Maglor suddenly quieted, though Maedhros could still hear him, “my brother is not the finest of negotiators.”

“You could send us!” one of the boys said, sounding a little too eager to discuss the trade of horse feed and arrowheads.

“You could!” the other added. “We’re part Edain!”

“Oh, I have no doubt that you could sway their minds, little ones, but I must do this myself, which means that the two of you must stay with Maedhros for the day.”

“If you’re going to be leaving today, then when will you be back?”

Maglor’s voice sounded again. “Tomorrow morning, at the latest.”

“Then who will tell us our bedtime story?”

“And who will help us with our prayers?”

“I’m sure that you can make one up yourselves,” Maglor said soothingly. “And anyway, you may even convince Maedhros to tell you a story.”

Maedhros rolled his eyes; he hadn’t told anyone a story, much less one for children, in years.

“Now go on, he’s just in there,” Maglor said, and the door to Maedhros’s office opened. 

Two pairs of wide eyes stared up at him; Maedhros suspected they hadn’t yet gotten over the time he—quite literally—threw them in their room. No matter. If he was to watch them for the day, then so be it. All he needed was quiet. 

“Good morning, brother,” Maglor said cordially. Maedhros glanced over his paper and continued his writing. Maglor’s smile turned stilted. “Well, I’m off for the day, and I need you to look after the children. Just as we spoke about.”

“Alright then,” Maedhros sighed. Maglor nodded and patted both of the boys on the head before leaving. The door closed with a faint click.

Maedhros looked up and found the boys looking up at him with critical eyes; either that, or they were terrified. Maedhros couldn’t tell the difference. 

“Sit down, if you’d like,” Maedhros told them absently. “And don’t get too close to the fire.” Maglor would skin him if one of them were hurt under his watch.

With permission given, the boys sat down in the creaky chairs in front of Maedhros’s desk; they must have been dwarfed by them. They sat in silence for a long while; Maedhros finished writing and signing and editing three papers before he realized something was wrong. Children were not supposed to be so quiet, and the silence was unnerving; in all the times Maedhros had seen them, not even these little kidnapped children were so quiet.

“Which is which?” Maedhros asked abruptly, glancing up from his paper. He dipped his pen in the dregs of the inkpot. “I’ve gone more than half the year without knowing your names and until now, I have had no reason to.”

The boys did not move to speak or do anything. 

Finally, “I’m Elrond,” the boy with grey eyes said. He pointed to his brother. “And that’s Elros.”

“Good to meet you,” Maedhros answered drily, and continued writing. His hand had begun to hurt.

“We’re bored,” Elros said in the distinctive, whiny tone of an irritated child.

“Then go to the archives,” Maedhros told him. “You can find something to read there.”

“But Maglor doesn’t let us go by ourselves,” Elrond said, frowning.

Maedhros finished his signature with a flourish and began looking over another page. “Maglor isn’t here.”

For another moment, the only sound in the room was the scratching of Maedhros’s pen.

“But we don’t know the way,” Elros said quietly, and Elrond nodded with him.

Maedhros looked at the scratchy handwriting on his page and the last drops of his ink; it would not hurt to get more ink from the archives, and it was a trivial necessity that would not draw any eyes. He stood and again, Maedhros’s chair scraped loudly against the floor. 

“Alright then,” he said, resigned,  and Elrond and Elros scrambled down from their too-large seats. “Let’s find you a book.”

In the end, Elrond and Elros found themselves a nice history book, one of the only books like it that the archives had in Sindarin. After Maedhros retrieved his ink from their dwindling store and the children found their book, the little group left the library.

“Where are we going?” Elrond asked when they bypassed the turn in the hall that led to Maedhros’s study.

“The courtyard,” Maedhros grumbled, and said nothing else.

In the center of Amon Ereb there was an open area; it served no real purpose save to provide a view, or to perhaps allow light into the inner rooms of the fortress. Maedhros had no idea, but his brothers must have had their reasons for its aesthetic construction. In the center of the space there was a tree, almost dead, with a fallen branch laying off to the side; there had been a storm recently and no one had yet picked it up for firewood. And, to top off the grandeur of the courtyard, there was a little stone bench just under the tree. 

Maedhros sat down on the bench and the children followed like little ducklings. Maedhros sat there on the bench, quiet. Elrond and Elros remained so as well. 

“Why are we here?” Elrond asked, looking up at Maedhros. Maedhros would have expected him to squint against the sun, but the dark clouds that Morgoth let float in the sky almost completely blocked it out.

“Patience is a virtue.”

“What’s a virtue?”

Maedhros sighed. “A good quality.”

“Alright.”

Maedhros watched as the shadow of a bird flew overhead. The scene was peaceful, and as he relished the calm silence and tranquility, he found himself fiddling with the little stopper of the jar of ink.

“Will you help us with the book?” Elros asked. 

Maedhros frowned at the dead grass spanning the width of the courtyard, broken from his delightful stupor; it was the middle of spring, and not even a dandelion had grown. He felt a weight fall in his lap and looked down to see that one of the boys had slipped the storybook in his lap.

They looked up at him with hopeful eyes; their gazes were not entirely innocent, nor did they give the impression of trust, but they were hopeful. Maedhros glared at the book in his lap with its leather cover and faded paint on the front. He never knew that his youngest brothers had kept childrens’ books in their home, especially since the establishment wasn’t made to house little ones. The ornamental weaponry on the walls cemented the fact. 

Maedhros picked up the book. The boys looked up at him, though any excited hope in their eyes had faded to be replaced with poorly concealed joy.

Maedhros opened the dulled cover and turned the page. “Do not interrupt me,” he said, and began reading.

Upon further inspection, the book was not a storybook, but a scientific textbook on the properties of common plants in Beleriand. However, to Maedhros’s curiosity, the boys seemed enamoured with it. 

“I am about to go into depth about toxic plants. I will show you pictures, and you must be sure not to look for these plants.” Maedhros said blankly.

Elrond nodded. “We won’t look for them.”

“Good. Especially oleander.” Oleander was one of the only flowers that grew in the region, and Maedhros suspected that it was only because the plant was toxic. And, unfortunately, Maedhros knew from Maglor’s long-winded rambling that the boys greatly enjoyed picking flowers.

“Yes, sir,” Elros said, and Maedhros began again.

By dusk, Maedhros had expected the children to be bored with the book, but the opposite was true. They scanned the faded watercolors on the dull pages with rapt interest as Maedhros read the story; he was certain that his voice was as lively as a dead tree. By the seventh chapter, Maedhros’s throat had grown dry and any light from behind the clouds had dimmed far too much for any words to be legible.

Maedhros closed the book with a short snap and the boys’ eyes widened, surprised by the sudden sound. “Go on to your room,” he ordered, handing Elros the heavy book. “I shall find you for dinner.”

The boys remained silent, still sitting on the worn bench. Finally, Elrond spoke. “We don’t know the way,” he said timidly, and his brother nodded lightly.

“Maglor is always with us when we walk around,” Elros added, and Maedhros frowned.

“So be it.” Maedhros stood and beckoned for the children to follow. He found it odd that the children had yet to remember their way around the keep. They trailed after him in single file, and Maedhros wondered if that was how they followed their mother around Sirion.

Maedhros’s eye twitched at the thought, and closed it away for later—or, even better, never—rumination. When they entered the stone halls, the flameless lamps had been set in the little alcoves with candles lodged over the ledges set in the dark walls. Warm light spilled out of the rooms, and Maedhros walked quickly through the halls, not looking back to see if the children followed. 

When Maedhros reached the boys’ room, he shoved open the door, saying, “Wash up, and I’ll find you soon.”

There was a little chorus of “yes, sir,” and the boys returned to their little room.

Chapter Text

When Maedhros arrived to retrieve the children, his ink put away and papers tidied, he found them waiting in their room, their new book propped up between them. As soon as the door opened, they stood from their seats on the floor.

“What’s for dinner?” Elros queried, looking up at Maedhros.

Maedhros did not deign to answer. “Where are your shoes?” he asked instead. 

Sure enough, the little boy’s socked feet were fidgeting on the stone floor, tapping to some unheard rhythm. Elros looked down at his feet, and then up at Maedhros again; Maedhros felt a surge of irritation. He had not dealt with the irrational foolishness of children in years, and he found that he did not quite enjoy the new change of pace. 

Then, Elrond, giving away the plot, glanced up. Maedhros followed his eyes to find a pair of little embroidered boots sitting on the ceiling’s rafters. 

“We were hoping that you could get them down,” Elros said, his voice almost a whisper. But Madhros could not find himself to be angry, nor was he entirely displeased. In fact, he was more confused than anything; indeed, it took much to confuse Maedhros One-Handed.

“And if I could not?”

Elros shrugged. “Then we would’ve got Maglor to get them.”

Maedhros found this plan to be utter folly. Maglor didn’t even reach his shoulder.

There was a brief pause where no one dared to speak. Elros broke the silence, however, saying, “You will get them, though, won’t you?”

Maedhros sighed and reached up to the rafter and pulled down the boy’s boots. They fell to the floor with twin thumps .

“What’s for dinner?” Elros repeated as he hopped around in his attempt to put his shoes on.

Maedhros could not fathom how he had ever enjoyed the presence of children.

— — — 

Dinner was, as usual, venison stew and barley. Maedhros did not know why Elros would not expect the same thing they had every night, but he chalked it up to childish optimism. The great room of Amon Ereb was not all that great, in Maedhros’s opinion; the dining hall in Himring had been much larger, but, then again, Himring had housed far more soldiers. 

Rows of long tables lined the room, with a huge bonfire raging in the center of it all; a short table sat in front, reserved always for the leaders of the keep. Since the kidnapping of Elwing’s sons, Maglor had insisted that the boys join him and Maedhros at dinner. 

Elrond and Elros sat in their too-short chairs, gazing wistfully at their bowls of stew and cups of watered-down beer on the table, waiting patiently for everyone to be served. Maglor had instilled Noldorin manners into them as soon as they joined the rest of the keep for dinner; don’t put your elbows on the table (Maedhros doubted they were even tall enough to do so), wait until everyone was served to eat, and don’t slurp. The final rule was greatly stressed by Maglor, for he hated grating noises almost as much as he hated Morgoth and the late Ulfang.

Once the last bowl was poured and the end of the last loaf served, dinner finally began. At first, the crackling of the fire and the scraping of bowls was the only sound before a soft chatter filled the room. Elrond and Elros, however, happily devoured their meagre dinner, delighting greatly in the poor fare. 

“I love bread,” Elrond muttered cheerfully as he dipped the crust in the leavings of his stew. Maedhros had no idea why he would enjoy the coarse, dense loaves that the kitchens made, but did not remark on the comment.

“I like it when there’s the pretty scratches in it,” Elros added. “And when it's in the oven, it expands–” Elros dropped his spoon in his bowl and raised his hands, imitating a growing loaf of bread “–and the scratches get huge! It’s pretty. ”

Elrond nodded eagerly at the wise assessment of the merits of bread and the two of them continued with their meal. Maedhros sat in silence, glaring at the remnants of his bitter wine.

Before long, the minstrel began striking up a tune on his lyre; there were only two musicians in Amon Ereb that could even fathom holding the title of minstrel , and only one of them was in the keep at the moment. Interestingly enough, the minstrel—Thaneriel—did not seem to be in a very cheerful mood, for she began straight away with a dirge. It was by no means a poor song, but it was certainly in poor taste. Maglor always had the minstrel to wait until the children had left for bed until she began anything too troublesome, or, on occasion, raucous.

The dirge was definitely made in poor taste, for it was about the young Elurin and Elured and their terrible night in the cold. For one, the event was certainly one that Maedhros did not like to hear about, and he doubted that the children greatly enjoyed hearing about the untimely deaths of their young uncles.

Rain pelted the thin windows seemingly in tune with Thaneriel’s song, and Maedhros felt an inkling of irritation; he did not know what had riled Thaneriel so to bring her to such dreary music, but she was certainly doing a fine job of making the night unhappy!

Maedhros looked again at his uneaten slice of bread; it was no mean slice, but he had not the heart to eat it. Frowning, Maedhros took his moth-eaten napkin and wrapped it around the bread before sliding it over the table to the children and returning to his stiff position. 

The boys happily divided the bread between themselves—Maedhros marvelled at their shared cooperation, for his brothers at their age never would have been so cordial with each other. Before long, the boys had finished eating and reached up to stack their bowls together to be collected for washing. By then, Thaneriel had begun another song, and this one was, shockingly enough, even more depressing than the first. The rain on the windows continued, and Maedhros began to wonder if it would hinder his brother’s return.

There was a strange sound to Maedhros’s right, some strange, strangled noise. He turned around to find Elros wiping at his eyes with his palms, his eyes red-rimmed; Elrond looked no better. It was a sad song, to be sure, but it was nothing to cry over; time had passed and the events had all happened, so there was no use in weeping over them. But the children did not seem to understand this, and with every passing moment, looked closer and closer to a teary outburst.

Maedhros stood abruptly, tapping the table in front of the twins. “Come on,” he said gruffly, “off to bed with you.”

The boys slowly nodded and slipped out of their too-tall chairs, following Maedhros out of the great room and through the halls and back up the worn stairs to their bedroom. The entire way, Elrond and Elros lagged behind, almost sluggish, and Maedhros began to wonder if something was amiss. 

The children had dwelt in Amon Ereb for almost a year, and, if Maglor were to be believed, had long since passed any fear they held for anyone in the keep. Maedhros absently wondered if that included himself; they were skittish around him, unlike their behavior with Maglor, though Maedhros could only ever recall one instance of his getting truly angry with them, he supposed that one moment of irritation had been enough.

Rain continued to batter and crash against the windows and the walls of the keep, and Maedhros began to ponder the likelihood of the courtyard flooding. 

When they reached the boys’ room, Maedhros opened the door for them. “Wash up and go to bed,” he ordered blankly.

“But Maglor always tells us a story,” Elrond protested, looking up at Maedhros reproachfully, all timidness from dinner gone.

Maedhros suddenly remembered the overheard conversion past his door that morning. “Tell each other a story,” he said gruffly. “I’m not coming to check if you’ve cleaned up, and if Maglor finds you dirty in the morning, he won’t be happy.”

Elrond nodded dejectedly, and he and his brother said another “yes, sir” before entering their room. Maedhros closed the door behind them and returned to his office; the papers he hadn’t seen while reading to the children needed to be addressed.

— — — 

As Maedhros scratched his signature onto another paper, a boom of thunder shook him from his reading. Frowning, he looked up from his paper-strewn desk and turned around to pull the moth-eaten curtains away from the window. Violent rain pelted the old glass, and Maedhros seriously considered the notion that his brother might be late; he had stayed up later than usual to wait for Maglor, but it seemed that his brother’s journey might be prolonged.

Lightning flashed through the gloom, a blinding, spiked arc in the dark, and not moments later thunder echoed through the room, almost shaking the floor. Maedhros let the sun-faded curtain fall from his hand and turned back to his work. Thunder flashed again, and through the hall, Maedhros heard the eerie sound of a door creaking open; a pause, another flash of lightning and subsequent sound, and the quick patter of little footsteps.

Through the door, there was whispering.

“Do you think he’ll let us in?”

“Maybe, but we’re supposed to be asleep!”

“Well, we’re just going in to ask for a bedtime story. Nana always says there’s no harm in trying.”

Another moment passed with Maedhros purposely staring down at his desk, reading his folios and trying to decipher Maglor’s chicken scratch of handwriting. Then, very slowly, his door creaked open. Two little faces were illuminated by the flickering fireplace, their hair dark with water and dressed in their nightclothes. 

“Don’t just stand in the doorway,” Maedhros told them. “Come in or go out.”

The boys quickly scurried out from the doorframe and came to stand at Maedhros’s side, shockingly enough. 

“Will you tell us a story?” Elros asked, determination set in his voice.

“If I do, will you go to sleep?”

The twins nodded, and Maedhros resigned himself to reading more from the herb book.

Another jarring shock of thunder sounded, and Maedhros frowned at the disturbance. However, much to his shock, Elros rushed forward and latched onto his leg, and Elrond even climbed into his lap. It was shocking, to say the least.

The little boy in Maedhros’s lap had his eyes squeezed shut and his arms firmly latched around Maedhros’s neck. Hmm. Maedhros supposed that under pressure, one would take comfort wherever one could find it. 

Maedhros awkwardly patted Elrond on the back, but the boy’s grip on him did not lessen. “I’ll take you to your room,” Maedhros began, “and I’ll read you both a story.”

Elrond’s grip on Maedhros’s shirt loosed, and he haltingly nodded. Next, Elros was an issue; he was still firmly holding on to Maedhros’s leg, rendering him unable to walk without considerable difficulty. Maedhros leaned forward slightly, looking at Elros. 

“I can carry you or you can walk, Elros,” he said. “But you’d have to let go of my foot.”

Elros, his face still pinched as if the thunder had never stopped, climbed into Maedhros’s lap. Mildly satisfied with the turn of events, Maedhros grabbed hold of the children and stood, heading for the door. It was strange to hold one of them without a hand, but he persevered. He nudged the door open with his shoulder and quickly strode through the hall until he found the twin’s room.

When he entered, he was surprised to find that the small room was mostly clear of detritus, save for the two, small unmade beds. His brothers had never been so tidy, and Maedhros wondered what spurred the children to such cleanliness. He would have to ask them later.

Maedhros gently dropped each child on each bed—he did not know whose bed was whose, but at the time he did not much care—and sat on the foot of the one closest to the door. While the boys sleepily climbed under their blankets, Maedhros spied a small, sparse bookshelf by the gated hearth; he stood, and the bed creaked under the lesser pressure. Maedhros looked through the thin books laying haphazardly on the shelves and finally chose a simple thing about a bear cub. He had never seen that book in particular at all, but he supposed that it would be sufficient for bedtime.

Maedhros returned to his previous spot on Elros’s bed and opened the book, the pages and binding creaking with disuse. “I am going to read to you both The Little Bear,” Maedhros said. “And then you will go to bed.”

The book was about a bear cub who had seen a beehive in a tall tree and had successfully managed to capture himself a wad of honeycomb; however, as the day progressed, it seemed that the cub was unable to climb down. While the cub was trying to figure out how to escape, it began to rain. Eventually, the cub’s mother found him and took him home, and together, they shared the sweet snack.

Throughout the story, Elrond and Elros took it upon themselves to ask many questions, and Maedhros wondered if his aim to soothe them to sleep had failed.

“Have you ever had honeycomb?” Elrond asked. “Because I've had honey, but not the comb. Does it taste like wax?”

Elros wrinkled his nose, grimacing. “Wax is gross! It tastes weird.”

“And how would you know that?” Elrond asked critically, and Elros became suddenly silent.

“It’s chewy,” Maedhros answered simply, and continued reading.

When the bear met a lizard, Elros asked, “Lizards have scales, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Then are dragons just the babies of really weird lizards?”

Elrond looked at his brother as if he had lost all sense. “Lizards are tiny, El! A lizard egg couldn’t make a dragon!”

“A dragon grows after the egg, doesn’t it?” Elros retorted; Maedhros thought that the two of them arguing, both snuggled under their blankets and glaring at each from their pillows, was very funny.

“Yeah, but not that big!” Elrond protested, and Maedhros began reading again.

Finally, after Maedhros had finished the book, Elros spoke again. “I think the little bear was very brave,” he said. “She wasn’t afraid of the thunder.”

Elrond nodded. 

Maedhros sighed. He supposed that he should give them some kind of encouraging words.

“Thunder is not dangerous,” Maedhros said. “It is only noise.”

“But what about the lightning?” Elrond asked. “It touches the ground.”

“And elfling is not a lightning rod,” Maedhros answered. “And anyway, you are nowhere near tall enough.”

Elros’s eyes widened in shock. “But you are.”

Maedhros sighed again. “I am not made of metal.”

“But your armor!” Elros countered. “It’s all metal!”

Maedhros frowned. Great. He had only managed to frighten the children more.

“Neither lightning nor thunder can go through the fortress,” he assured them, and stood to leave. 

Suddenly, Maedhros heard a faint gasp from behind him. With great irritation, he turned around to find Elros staring at him, horror evident across his face. 

“But you’re tall enough to be a lightning rod,” Elros whispered, and Maedhros felt that instead of soothing their worries, he had simply given them another nightmare.

Maedhros sighed. “I enjoy rain as much as any reasonable elf, so you will not find me in armor in the middle of a storm unless necessary. Good night.”

As he opened the door, Maedhros was assaulted with another shout.

“Wait!” Elrond said, and Maedhros closed his eyes against an oncoming headache. Staying up late waiting for Makalaure was enough of a trial, but the children only made it worse.

“Yes?” Maedhros answered.

“Maglor always prays for us before bed,” Elrond told him. “Just like Naneth did.”

Pray? Really? To whom, Manwe? Varda? Ulmo? Maedhros had not prayed to any Ainu since, well, the Second Kinslaying. He had prayed to Nienna, to pity the children that he had never found in the forest. But Maglor? Maglor, who had not sprouted one kind word about the Ainur since the First Kinslaying? Maedhros almost could not believe it!

He turned around to the children for a third time, and briefly understood why his brother would humor the boys’ request: the sincerity in their eyes was everything. Maedhros guessed that bedtime prayers had been a constant in their lives with their mother, something to rely on, regardless if they even believed in who they prayed to; it was a constant in their changing lives, and Maedhros knew that the twins needed some stability.

“Can you not do it yourselves?” Maedhros asked. “I’m sure that Manwe or Varda or whoever you speak to will listen without me.”

Elros shook his head against his pillow. “Nana always prayed to the Allfather.”

Oh, even better! Maedhros knew that Eru hated him. It was obvious; Maedhros had sworn an oath in his name and then killed people by it.

“Even so, I am sure that I will only hinder your efforts,” Maedhros told them.

“Please?” they chorused together, and the ache behind Maedhros’s eyes grew.

“Alright!” Maedhros snapped, and they quieted. He turned around for the fourth time and rested his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave at the moment’s notice. 

Both boys closed their eyes and clasped their hands, and Maedhros sighed. His prayer was quick and concise, but Elrond and Elros were satisfied, for they finally bade him goodnight.

— — — 

That evening, Maglor did not return, and Maedhros knew the reason why: the storm had stalled his brother’s return. As Maedhros mindlessly scribbled notes on a document regarding their meagre grain production, he briefly wondered if Maglor had been struck by lightning. Huffing a silent laugh, he dismissed the notion; the children’s harebrained ideas were going to his senses.

By dawn, Maedhros heard a door creak open and knew that Elrond and Elros had awoken. Their speech filled the hall, growing louder, until they paused at his door. 

“Should we ask?” one of them wondered.

“Maglor said that it's very important, so we will,” the other answered suredly, and a little knock sounded on the door.

Maedhros stood from his desk, his back creaking, and opened the door. “Yes?”

“Maglor always brushes our hair in the morning,” Elros said pointedly.

“No ‘good morning,’ or ‘did you sleep well?’”

Elros shook his head. “You didn’t sleep.”

Well. It was true, but how did he know that?

“No excuse for poor manners. Now what is it?”

“Will you brush our hair?” Elros wondered, holding an old-looking, bristled comb high above his head for Maedhros to take.

“Can you not do it yourselves?”

Elrond and Elros looked between each other for a moment, sharing a secret thought, before staring back up at Maedhros. 

Maedhros snatched the brush and ushered the boys back to their room. “Go on,” he told them. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

Elrond and Elros ran back to their room, and Maedhros finally saw how horrible their hair looked from the back; they definitely needed help with it.

When Maedhros found them, the boys were sitting on Elros’s bed, swishing their feet over the edge of the thin mattress. Maedhros chose Elrond first and began the irritating task of brushing with only one hand.

“Maglor usually braids it as well,” Elros told him, a cheerful glint in his eye. It was astounding how happy these boys were in the early morning; none of Maedhros’s brothers—save for Celegorm—could tolerate rising before eight o’clock.

“I’ve only got one hand, boy,” Maedhros told him tiredly. “Makes such things a little difficult.”

“Oh.” Elros looked down at the bed, likely feeling chastised, though Maedhros had not intended to admonish him.

When he had finished with Elrond’s hair he moved on to Elros, who told him that he had decided that he and his brother would simply braid their own hair.

“Why don’t you braid your hair?” Elrond asked, looking up at him curiously.

Maedhros did not like people touching his hair; it was long and straight, but far from well kept. He let it loose or in a tight knot behind his head, but he never let a soul touch it. He did not enjoy someone brushing his hair, not anymore.

“I’ve only got one hand, remember?”

“Oh, right. I forget sometimes.”

The day passed in the usual manner, dissimilar to the day prior: Erestor taught the boys their letters, both Quenya and Sindarin; they had a small lunch of bread and goats’ cheese; and finally the boys were let loose to care for the few hunting dogs the fortress kept.

In the evening, Maedhros had been unable to join the children for dinner; a part of the outer wall of the fortress had fallen, and he was needed to oversee the plans for its reconstruction. However, he was able to meet the children before bed.

He found them in the only drawing room of the fortress, sitting next to the fire in the hearth. It was well-past their bedtime.

“What are you doing awake?” he asked them from the doorway.

Elros turned around and looked over the moth-eaten armchair to face Maedhros. “We read, and we said our prayers, but we couldn’t sleep.”

Maedhros nodded and left the room. When he returned, he held a large plate with cups, each emitting sweet-smelling steam.

“Come sit here,” Maedhros said, gesturing with his chin to the sofa next to the chair. It was stuffed under a deep green brocade, and Maedhros suspected that it was the last fine thing in the keep.

Elrond and Elros quickly stood and sat next to Maedhros on the sofa, a boy on each side of him. He lowered the plate for them, saying, “Take a cup.”

The twins took their tea, and as they did, Maedhros was met with the scent of chamomile and honey; old memories floated across his eyes, memories of days without brothers sitting in front of the fire. His father would make him an over-honeyed cup of chamomile tea and read to him from the old books about the elves’ journey to the West. The light from the fire was tinted yellow like the tea, warm and inviting, and Nelyafinwe was warm from his father’s embrace and the steaming cup.

“What is it?” Elrond asked, peering closely through the steam of his cup.

“Tea,” Maedhros answered. He had spared a precious spoonful of honey for each cup, as a treat.

Elrond took a sip, paused, and nodded, pleased. “It’s good.”

“We still aren’t tired,” Elros told him halfway through his drink. “Will you tell us a story again?”

Maedhros leaned forward and placed his empty cup on the floor. “If you promise not to interrupt,” he acquiesced bluntly, and Elros nodded.

“Before the sun rose and the Trees were made, the Firstborn lived in Middle Earth…”

It was not long before the children had fallen asleep. In fact, Maedhros hadn’t even begun the part about Elwe’s people staying behind for their king.

“Comfortable, are you?”

Maedhros leaned his head back against the sofa to find Maglor leaning against the threshold of the door, his arms crossed and grinning.

“A little warm,” Maedhros answered flippantly, and Maglor huffed a laugh, already walking over to take Elrond out of Maedhros’s arms.

“Come on,” Maglor said. “Help me take them to bed.”

Maedhros took Elros in his arms and followed his brother out of the room.

“How were they?” Maglor asked quietly, hefting Elros against his hip.

“As expected.”

“Little hellions, then?” 

Maedhros felt his face twitch, almost in the manner of a smile. “They acted well, against my previous suspicions.”

After Maedhros and his returned brother deposited the children to their room, Maedhros fled to his quarters. There were things that needed to be discussed, brothers that needed to be barbed, and papers that needed to be signed, but everything could wait. Maedhros simply intended to enjoy the thought of all of his family together, and go to sleep.