Memories

Memories

Posted: January 25, 2008
Title: Memories
Author: Inwë Sáralondë
Type: FCS
Characters: Elrond/Thranduil, Fingon/Maedhros, Maglor, Estel
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters portrayed are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien. No profit or such is made from this.
Beta: Aglarien
Author’s Note: This story was written for Talullahred, who made the lovely ‘Friends’ Only’ banner for my LiveJournal.

Summary: Elrond remembers.

*****

They looked down at the sleeping elflings, their eyes taking in how the two were intertwined. “I will not have them suffer the fate of their uncles,” one murmured, his eyes shadowed by memory.

“I know you regret what happened to Eluréd and Elur ί n,” the other answered, resting his hand on his brother’s arm. “We shall protect these two. ‘Tis bad enough their mother is lost…”

“With the Silmaril,” the first elf interjected, his voice tinged with anger.

Maglor continued as if he had not heard his brother. “…but these two are special. We can not let anything happen to them.”

“Since when do you have the gift of foresight?” Maedhros asked.

Maglor shook his head. “I do not. ‘Tis just a feeling that I have.”

Maedhros leaned down slightly. “This one,” he began, indicating the elfling lying on the right, “certainly has something about him. Did you not see how calm he was when we found him?” He turned his gaze to Maglor. “What was his name?”

“Elrond,” Maglor said quietly. “The other is Elros.” There was a note of wistfulness in his voice that Maedhros could not fail to pick up.

“Do not get attached to them, Makalaurë,” Maedhros warned. “They can not remain here with us.”

Maglor’s smile was bleak. “I know, but…” He sighed and shook his head.

Maedhros laid his one hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Come, brother, let them sleep,” he said, steering his brother gently out of the tent.

*****

Elrond looked out the window, seemingly staring into the distance, occasionally taking a sip from the goblet he held in his hand. His head turned slightly as he became aware of movement, and the elf lord was soon joined by another.

“Your thoughts are elsewhere again,” Thranduil said softly.

Elrond gave an almost apologetic smile. “They usually are, at this time of year,” he said.

Thranduil gazed at his lover with understanding. He knew enough of Elrond’s history to know what the elf lord was talking about. He sighed. “Every time this ‘anniversary’ of when Maglor and Maedhros took you and your brother comes round, you are filled with melancholy. And I do not understand why. Your parents never returned and you lost your home because of them. Yet you look upon them as if they were your saviours.”

“Because they were,” Elrond responded mildly, moving away from the window. “They could have killed us as they had my uncles; instead, they let Elros and me live.”

“They were Kinslayers,” Thranduil argued as he walked up behind Elrond and laid a hand on the elf lord’s shoulder.

“I do not deny that,” Elrond said, leaning back till his back rested against Thranduil’s chest. “I think they wanted to prove – more to themselves than anything else – that they were still capable of some compassion.”

“Compassion,” Thranduil snorted. “I wonder if they really knew in the end what the word meant.” He took Elrond’s goblet from his hand and placed it on the nearby table before wrapping his arms around his lover. The two elves were silent, Elrond enjoying the feel of strong arms embracing him.

*****

“Was it hard, re-learning how to wield a sword with your left arm?”

Maedhros paused and stared at the elfling before him, seeing only genuine curiosity in Elrond’s eyes. “Aye, it was,” he admitted. He watched as Elrond came closer, the elfling’s hand reaching out to touch, albeit fleetingly, the leather-covered stump where once Maedhros’ right hand was.

“I am sorry,” Elrond whispered. “I should not have...” His voice trailed off, fearing Maedhros’ reaction for something that could only be seen as impudence.

Maedhros, on the other hand, was surprised. No one, apart from Maglor, had dared to touch it, and for a brief moment the Fëanorian felt a brief flare of anger. Then, just as quickly, it disappeared, to be replaced by bemusement that the elfling had the temerity to do what he did. “You are not like your brother,” Maedhros said finally. “Elros is not as forward as you.”

Elrond stared at Maedhros. He was not sure what Maedhros meant. Was it a good thing to be forward, or bad?

Maedhros saw the confusion on Elrond’s face, and managed to stifle his smile. “Do you not have lessons to attend?” he asked instead, keeping his voice even, his face impassive.

The elfling swallowed. “I have a flute lesson with Makalaurë,” he whispered. “Except, I do not think I am very good.”

The Fëanorian inwardly agreed with Elrond. Unfortunately, the elfling did not have a musical bone in his body, and Maedhros could only admire his brother’s patience in trying to teach Elrond. On the other hand, Elrond was showing great promise in weapons training, already surpassing his brother. If anything, Elrond would be more than a competent warrior.

“May I have your leave to go?” Elrond’s quiet voice cut through Maedhros’ thoughts.

“Aye,” Maedhros replied, and watched as the elfling almost ran to his lesson.

*****

Elrond found himself smiling at the memory. Maedhros inspired fear in so many elves, yet despite this the elf lord sensed an underlying sadness, as if the Oath had weighed more heavily on the eldest son of Fëanor than on the others. It was said that of all the Fëanorians, it was Maglor who rued the Oath most of all, but sometimes Elrond wondered if that were really true.

“You did not hear a word I said,” Thranduil said with more than just a hint of exasperation.

“No, I did not,” Elrond conceded, turning in Thranduil’s arms so that he was facing the king. “Tell me again.”

Thranduil merely sighed. “I did not come here to Imladris in order to compete with memories, melethron,” he said softly.

Elrond laid his forehead against Thranduil’s. “I know.” The elf lord gave a brief smile. “Shall we go outside and walk in the gardens?” he suggested.

“I know where I would rather take you,” Thranduil replied, stepping away slightly, his hands running down Elrond’s arms until he had the elf lord’s hands in his own.

“’Tis not yet even midday!” Elrond protested.

There was a more than just a hint of mischievousness in the king’s eyes. “I am well aware of what time of day it is,” he said, smirking. “What it does mean, however, is that it gives me more time to do what I want with you.”

Smiling, Elrond made to pull away, knowing full well that Thranduil would only tighten his grip. The king did as Elrond predicted, the smirk on Thranduil’s face being replaced with a grin. “Trying to run away?” the king asked.

“I would never dare to presume to do such a thing.” Elrond knew he sounded a little pompous; nevertheless, he grinned when he saw Thranduil’s eyes narrowing slightly.

“I would not put it past you, melethron,” Thranduil growled. “All the more reason to keep a tight grip on you, lest you so much as try.”

Elrond’s face softened. “I do not want to try, Thranduil,” he said, closing the gap between them. “I never thought that after Celebrían left I would find love again.”

“Least of all with me,” Thranduil quipped. “If I remember correctly, you thought me young and impetuous.”

“Not quite so young now,” Elrond replied, smiling, “though mayhap still a little impetuous.”

“Then come, melethron,” Thranduil said, tugging at Elrond’s hands, “let me show you how impetuous I can still be.”

*****

Maglor watched as Elrond came into the room. “What is it, pen-neth?” he asked quietly.

Elrond looked at the Fëanorian a little uncomfortably. “Is it true?” he finally blurted out.

“What is?” Maglor asked, puzzled.

“That Maedhros and Fingon were lovers.”

The Fëanorian blinked, taken aback by the question. “Why do you ask this?” Maglor asked carefully.

Elrond shrugged self-consciously. “’Tis what the stories say,” he muttered.

Maglor’s lips twitched. “Should you not be asking Maedhros?” he asked mildly, and restrained himself from laughing aloud when he saw Elrond’s horrified look.

Elrond shook his head vigorously. “I can not ask him that!”

“Yet you ask me,” Maglor replied, a smile breaking out on his face. “You need not fear my brother’s reaction, pen-neth. He admires your honesty and that you do not – normally, might I add – hesitate in asking what would be deemed awkward questions.”

“He does?” Elrond asked, surprised.

Maglor’s mien sobered. “You and Elros are so alike,” he mused, “yet you are different.” Maglor gazed intently at Elrond, making the elfling fidget slightly. “I do not have the gift of foresight, pen-neth, but something tells me that you will both take completely different paths.”

“What do you mean?” Elrond asked.

“When the time comes, you will choose the path that is right for you, but it will mean choosing your head over your heart,” Maglor said quietly.

The Fëanorian’s words sent a shiver down Elrond’s spine. “What choice?” he asked a little fearfully.

Maglor shook his head. “’Tis not the time or the place to speak of this, Elrond,” he said brusquely. “As to the question whether Maedhros and Fingon were lovers, I suggest you ask Maedhros himself.”

*****

Elrond lay contentedly next to Thranduil, his head on the king’s chest. Thranduil’s heartbeat was strong and steady, almost lulling the elf lord into reverie. “Did you know that Maedhros and Fingon were lovers?” Elrond asked suddenly.

“That was merely a story,” Thranduil replied, his hand stroking Elrond’s back.

“’Twas no story, Thranduil; I asked Maedhros.”

The king’s hand stilled. “You *asked* Maedhros?” Thranduil’s voice was disbelieving.

“Actually, I asked Maglor first, who said I should ask Maedhros.”

“I am surprised you had the temerity to ask,” Thranduil said.

Elrond raised himself slightly and looked down at his lover. “Strangely enough, I think Maedhros was expecting me to ask him. He did not seem surprised in the least when I did, only replying calmly that it was true.”

“As crippled as I was, Fingon never stopped loving me.”

Maedhros’ words came unbidden into Elrond’s mind. As young as he had been then, Elrond knew what the Fëanorian had meant. It was not so much the loss of the hand – Fingon himself had severed it when he had rescued Maedhros from Thangorodrim – which Maedhros had been referring to, but the Oath that had, in the end, dominated the lives of the Fëanorians, leading them all down the path of darkness.

“I see I am to compete with your memories for a little while longer,” Thranduil said resignedly. “Your mind continues to wander.”

“Then give me a reason to stop my mind wandering,” Elrond said.

Thranduil’s lips curved into a smile. “I think I can do that, melethron.”

*****

Elrond and Elros rode slightly behind Maglor. Both were quiet, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Another chapter in their lives was coming to an end, with a new one beginning in Lindon, and at the court of Gil-galad. Elrond was not sure how he felt about it, and knew even less his brother’s thoughts. What he did know, however, was that he was going to miss both Maglor and Maedhros. Despite of who they were and what they had done, both Elrond and Elros had grown to care about the Fëanorians, though, out of the two, Elrond suspected that he cared more than Elros.

The young elf touched his saddle-bag briefly. There was very little in it, but one thing Elrond had made sure to pack was the flute. Despite Maglor’s painstaking efforts, Elrond’s playing was passable at best, abysmal at worst.

“Ai, Elrond,” Maglor had said after one particularly painful lesson. “You are showing promise as a warrior, but you will most definitely not be a musician.”

“Mayhap I am only expected to listen and enjoy it,” Elrond had replied, eliciting a smile from the Fëanorian.

“Aye, you may be right in that,” Maglor had replied.

His thoughts back in the present, Elrond said suddenly, “I do not just want to be a warrior. I want to be able to heal. Do you think I will get the opportunity to learn when I am in Lindon?”

Maglor turned in his saddle, his mien thoughtful. “I think you will pen-neth, as long as you state your intention. Why did you not say anything of this earlier? You could have started learning about herbs and such under our healers.”

Elrond rode up alongside Maglor. “In truth, I had not really thought of it until now,” he confessed, looking at Maglor a little shamefacedly. “But I would like to learn.”

Maglor was quiet for a moment. “I think you will be good at it,” the Fëanorian finally said, and Elrond allowed himself to enjoy basking under Maglor’s approval for a brief moment.

*****

“What did it feel like, finding yourself in Lindon after being with Maedhros and Maglor?” Thranduil’s question brought Elrond out of his musings.

“A little strange, at first,” Elrond said. “I know there were many who wondered what we would be like, whether either Elros or I had ‘inherited’ any odd tendencies from either Maedhros or Maglor. Neither Elros or I wanted to be parted from each other after our arrival; we felt safer together, as if we were putting up a united front.”

“And had you ‘inherited’ any odd tendencies?” Thranduil asked teasingly.

Elrond gave the king’s chest a slight slap. “Care to describe ‘odd tendencies’ to me, melethron?” he growled.

Thranduil merely chuckled and tightened his grip around Elrond. “Continue with your story,” he said instead.

“There is not much more to say. We gradually adjusted to life in Lindon, and I eventually became a healer as well as a warrior, and joined the court of Gil-galad after reaching my majority. I recall Erestor saying shortly after our arrival that, despite being with Maedhros and Maglor, Elros and I were remarkably well-adjusted.”

“But you had not been with them for long, had you?”

“No,” Elrond confirmed. “The fight against Morgoth had once more begun, and both Maglor and Maedhros felt we would be safer at Lindon. Especially as…”

“…they were still seeking the remaining Silmarils,” Thranduil finished. The king had resumed stroking Elrond’s back, and the elf lord sighed contentedly at the touch.

*****

“Your majority is approaching,” Gil-galad said to Elrond one morning. “You realise what this means, do you not?”

“Aye,” Elrond said quietly. “Both Elros and I must choose whether we remain with the First-born, or become mortal.”

“Do you already know your choice?” Gil-galad asked carefully.

Elrond kept his eyes downcast, wanting to avoid the High-King’s gaze. “Aye,” he muttered. In truth, he had already known for some time what his choice would be, and he more than suspected what Elros would choose. But Maglor had not been entirely correct. Elrond had chosen as much with his heart as his head. His heart knew that he was of the First-born; that Elros had shown more affinity with the Second-born was something that Elrond had seen as the two of them had grown older. The time when they would declare their choice was, in reality, going to be more of a formality than anything else.

“I see,” Gil-galad said. “I was not expecting you to tell me now, Elrond. We will all find out on the day of your majority. Do you have any specific requests as to your celebration?”

This time Elrond raised his eyes and looked at Gil-galad. “What I would like is not going to eventuate,” he said bluntly.

The High-King pursed his lips. “No, it is not,” he said evenly.

“May I have your leave to go, Sire?” Elrond asked, suddenly feeling the need to be alone.

“You may go, but do not forget you are to meet up with Erestor later. You know full well that he has a dislike for tardiness.”

“I have not forgotten, Sire. I shall be there on time. Thank you, Sire.” Elrond walked hurriedly out of the room, all the time aware of Gil-galad’s gaze on him as he left.

*****

And so the choices were made: Elrond choosing to remain with the First-born, while Elros became mortal and the first King of Númenor , albeit with an extended life. And, through the centuries, Elrond had watched over his brother’s descendents, giving them refuge in Imladris when needed. As for Maedhros and Maglor, Elrond had heard that they had finally managed to regain the Silmarils, only to find that, because of the evil deeds committed by them, the Silmarils burnt their hands. It was said that Maedhros threw himself into a fiery chasm with one of the Silmarils, while Maglor threw his into the sea, and was now wandering the shores of Middle-earth.

Sighing, Elrond stood next to the bed and looked down at the young child that lay sleeping. Estel, the last of Elros’ line, had arrived with his mother Gilraen in Imladris two years previously, his father having been killed in an orc attack. It had not taken long for the boy to endear himself to all there.

“He looks so innocent,” Thranduil commented quietly, coming up alongside Elrond.

Elrond smiled. “Aye, he does. Remind me to have a word with Elladan and Elrohir later, will you? I do not need them showing Estel all the tricks they used to get up to when they were elflings,” he said a little dryly.

“I thought Lindir looked rather fetching with the blue tint in his hair,” Thranduil said, his voice brimming with laughter.

“Tell that to Lindir,” Elrond replied. “It will take a while before it washes out.” The elf lord carefully stroked a lock of hair from the little boy’s face. “Poor Estel, not knowing what had happened when Lindir came storming into my study,” Elrond mused. “Of course he had no idea what the twins had done, only that he had a gift to give to Lindir. I do not know who felt worse in the end – Lindir or Estel.”

Thranduil laid a hand on Elrond’s arm. “Come, melethron,” he said quietly. “Did you not mention you had a new massage oil you wanted to try out?”

Elrond met Thranduil’s dancing green eyes with his own grey ones. “I do believe I did.” With one last look at the sleeping child, the two elves walked silently out of the room.

Completely unaware of Elrond and Thranduil’s presence, Estel snuggled deeper under his blanket, a little smile on his face from the dream that flitted through his mind.

*****

Elvish translations:

melethron – male lover
pen-neth – young one

*****

THE END

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