Everywhere, there is blood. Elrond is running through the burning streets, struggling desperately to keep pace with his Naneth, and dragging Elros along beside him. Suddenly, the hand in his goes limp, and he feels his brother fall. Blood pools around his bare feet, as he watches his Naneth disappear into the carmine streets, intent on the Silmaril in her grasp.
He wakes up with the unheeded scream he was making in his dream just leaving his throat. He stifles it hurriedly, and checks to see if Elros has been disturbed, breathing a sigh of relief when he realises that he is still asleep. The noise, too quiet to invade the scream-filled dreams of his twin, has nevertheless brought Maglor, alert to the slightest breath of sound from the children, to the shadows at the door, from which he observes them in silence. It is evident that Elrond has been in the grip of a nightmare, but what could he do to console him? He is, he reflects bitterly, the cause of all the child's demons. Him and his family and his cursed oath…
Elrond, alone in the dark, begins to sob, and the violence of his grief ripples through his back as if it were the wings of some ungainly bird, whilst he stifles the sobs in his determination not to make a noise. Maglor espies this resolve from his place in the doorway, and wrinkles his brow in thought. Before he has decided whether or not to ask it, the question hangs in the air between them.
"Why must you cry silently, child?"
Elrond jumps, surprised by the Prince's presence, and draws his legs to himself warily, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He has assumed the posture of one tensed for flight, although where he would go is anyone's guess. Elros is still not awake, and without him Elrond has not the will to keep to the imposed vow of silence. Besides, he does not think that Maglor means them harm.
"I would not wake my brother, sir."
"Would not his courage be a comfort to you?"
"He should be frightened, sir, to see me cry. It is hard to say, sir, but… he is only brave as long as I am calm, and if he saw me not, he'd not be so brave at all, and then I should be even less calm…"
He drifts off, and Maglor understands the clumsily yet poignantly expressed sentiment. They are each other's strength. Once again, his heart is moved, and he longs to touch Elrond, yearning to offer some sort of reassurance, but does not dare. Instead, he stammers.
"I-if there is a-anything I can do to relieve your suffering, Elrond, you have only to ask."
The question seems so foolish, so perfunctory, in the face of Elrond's grief, and of Maglor's part in it, and yet there is a certain sincerity to it that redeems it slightly. Elrond knows that Elros would wish him to rebuff Maglor; to turn to face the wall, to glare, to spit… but he has not the strength. He is eight years old, abandoned by his parents, feigning strength for his brother, beset with nightmares, and struck sick with fear and loneliness. Besides, Maglor has knelt beside him, and Elrond can see his own tears reflected in those shining in Maglor's eyes. He is too struck with awe by this to dare to show any defiance. His voice, when he finally finds it, dragging it out from somewhere deep inside him that he thinks may be his fëa, is no more than a whisper.
"Would you… play to me sir? In the other room?" he asks, remembering the unearthly music of the other night, and the coercion of comfort as it had lulled him and Elros against their will.
Maglor feels as if he has been granted a boon, a kingly gift, an honour far above his station – redemption, perhaps, for a fleeting moment? He shepherds the child through to the other room, and bids him wrap himself in his cloak that lies beside the fire, taking care not to touch him with even the tip of a finger, lest the illusion should shatter. He fingers the harp, finding in music the eloquence so painfully lacking in his speech, and plays of sorrow and regret and apologies and loss until the tears stream unchecked down both their cheeks, but they bring with them the gift of relief, and when neither of them can cry more, he switches to a lullaby, and sings Elrond into the peaceful sleep his mind has been obstinately denying him. When he has finished, he goes over to the sleeping figure, and reaches out a tentative hand, only to draw it back quickly, as if it were burnt. He repeats this curious process several times, until his brother announces his presence with a sigh.
"Just lift him, or I'll do it myself. He will not break."
Maedhros' expression is a mixture of exasperation and tender amusement, but Maglor has eyes only for Elrond. He steels himself, and takes the sleeping form, swaddled in his own cloak, into his arms. He feels a surge of affection course through him, and, almost stumbling in his shock, carries Elrond to bed, whereupon he tucks the coverlet around him, not removing the cloak, and, elated by his success, slips a daring kiss to the child's forehead. Simultaneously smiling and shaking, he moves toward the door, pursued by the suspicious glare of Elros, whom he does not perceive.