He stands waist deep in the cold, calm water, allowing the gentle lapping of the waves to sooth his dry and cracking flesh. His burnt hands circle through the top of the water, creating small ripples in the otherwise smooth surface of the sea, and on his chapped lips he can taste the ever present salt that hangs in the air.
The sky above him is a dull, flat grey, the sun hidden behind a thick barrier of smooth cloud. Before him, an endless expanse of vast water stretches out perhaps infinitely, and as it reflects the same empty grey of the clouds it is impossible to tell where the sea ends and the sky begins, the never ending monotonous grey making it seem as if all colour has been drained from the world.
In the distance, waves form and crash against the beach. Gulls circle overhead, cawing and crying to one another, but they are but a distant background chatter to him; he has grown so used to their discordant. song.
Maglor stays perfectly still for a long, long time, unmoving, unflinching. His eyes are closed, and he can feel a light, cool breeze blowing against his face and dancing through his dead hair, which hangs down his back and dips into the salted water even though it is tyed loosely up and away from his face.
After a long while he finally turns and wades back to the beach. It will be dark soon, and he must move on and find shelter. The dull sand sticks to the damp skin of his feet, and he retrieves his worn, patchy cloak and sweeps it over his shoulders, before stooping down to collect his battered harp from where he had left it previously, lying atop the sand. He then straightens himself up again, and allows a brief moment for his gaze to absently roam the calm stretch of sea. (He has all the time in the world after all.)
"Are you lost?" says a small voice, timidly, and Maglor's head snaps around. Behind him stand two tiny, brown haired elflings, freakishly identical in every way possible. One - the one who just spoke, he thinks - is standing almost protectively in front of the other, who is eyeing him with a weary uncertainty.
Maglor stares hard at them for a long moment, blinks, and then stares at them again, while they in turn stare unwaveringly back. The fact that they are still there is unsurprising, however usually his hallucinations are a lot more emotional than these two seem to be. Perhaps he has transcended to a new level of madness, upon which he will be continuously pursued by a set of inquisitive elflings staring at him with haunting eyes as grey as the sky and the sea behind him.
Suddenly he is struck by another image, one of two eerily similar looking brown haired elflings, both gazing at him with a wide eyed, petrified helplessness, their clothing torn and tattered and covered with scarlet blood, and-
No, stop.
He blinks again, and his overgrown nails find purchase in the scarred flesh of his hands as he drags himself back to the present.
"I don't think he understood you, Dan," whispers the hesitant one loudly, poking his brother in the side.
The confident one seems to examine him for a moment longer, before lifting the (single, pathetic dagger clutched in his the bone white, shaking hands and pointing it waveringly at his assailants) finely crafted wooden sword that was previously trailing through the dead sand, and slowly reaching up to poke him in the stomach.
Maglor flinches slightly, partly from the weight of the ghosts in his head and partly because the wooden sword is here and now and real and painfully tangible. So, not hallucinations then, he decides absently, but that does not explain the striking similarity they carry to Elrond and Elros.
On closer inspection, however, he can see the differences too, the slightly thicker builds and tanner skin, and the clusters of freckles dotting their checks and noses. Only the eyes are really identical, deep and grey and so painfully Noldor, and impressively wide with (fear) curiosity.
He swallows, and firmly ignores the voice in his head, he small one jumping for joy at the fact that he had company, actual living breathing elves that can think and feel and move on their on accord, rather than blurry images dredged up unwillingly from his half-crazed mind.
"Don't worry, I can understand you both just fine," he says slowly, his voice as rough and as scratchy as the barren sand upon which he stands. The elflings both jump in surprise; it appears that they were not expecting him to respond.
"Who are you?" the confident one asks boldly, when they have collected themselves, his eyes alight with a blazing, (petrified terror as he scrambles to swallow his fear and protect himself and his twin) curious determination.
Internally, Maglor counts backwards from ten, taking slow, deep breaths. (NotnownotnownOTNOW.) "My name is Maglor," he finds himself saying eventually. "Who are you?"
"My name is Elladan," says the confident one, "and this is my brother Elrohir." A pause, and he adds matter-of-factly, "He's hiding behind me 'cause he's a wimp."
"Am not!" Elrohir retorts indignantly, and then he whacks his brother across the arm with his wooden sword.
"Hey!" cries Elladan, and he whirls around, raising his own sword and preparing to retaliate.
Reflexively, Maglor's hand darts out, and he grabs the wooden toy before Elladan can bring it down upon his twin. "Don't hit your brother," he snaps automatically, before Amrod and Amras- no, before Elros and Elrond- no! Breathe now, Maglor. In and out.
Before Elladan and Elrohir can start fighting each other.
If Elladan is at all peeved at being reprimanded by a complete stranger then he does not show it, instead having the decency to look mildly ashamed. Elrohir, on the other hand, seems to have decided that Maglor is trustworthy enough, and is no longer hiding behind his brother, instead grinning smugly at having escaped a scolding, and when he gloatingly nudges Elladan in the side he recieves a sharp kick in the shin in retaliation.
Maglor rolls his eyes, forcing himself to swallow the stinging pain in his abdomen at their familiar antics, and instead decides that it is probably best for him to change the subject. "So what are you doing here?" he inquires neutrally.
Elladan beams at him, previous irritation already forgotten. "We're exploring," he explains, and then, it is as if the twins have suddenly recieved the epiphany that they are allowed to talk to him, because all at once Maglor finds himself under attack from and endless barrage of questions.
"Is your throat sore? Because your voice sounds all raspy."
"Are you a minstrel? Can you play that harp?"
"Are you as good as Lindir? Because everyone says that Lindir is the best minstrel that there is."
"Oooo. Do you know The Fall of Gil galad? It's that one that Lindir always plays."
"Noooo, El, not The Fall of Gil galad! I hate that one! It's so booorriiinnggg."
Twins. Despite himself, Maglor's chapped lips curl upwards into a soft smile. It seems that even all these years later they still bear that same innocent, relentless curiosity that he finds adorably endearing, while also managing to make him want to beat his head against a rock.
"Yes, my throat is sore," he responds eventually, cutting through the unending stream of chatter, "and also yes, I was a minstrel, but I don't play at the moment because... well, because my throat is sore."
"Oh," they say, simultaneously, before both falling into a contemplative silence.
Brow furrowed, Elrohir raises his chin and studies him for a long moment. "Is that why you're out here by yourself?" he asks eventually. "Because your throat is sore?" A pause, and then he explains, "It's just that our Nana always says that fresh air makes you feel better."
Maglor sighs again, wearily. He knows from experience that with any curious young child it is best to give them a straight, simple, honest answer so that they'll move onto the next topic, but even so...
Ah, screw it. Withholding information will get him nowhere, and this is the first conversation - if you can really call it that - that he has had in millenia. "My brothers all died," he explains flatly. "And I have nowhere to go."
"Oh," they say again, and then, "Why do you have nowhere to go?"
"Because I was...er, kicked out of my home, and I'm not allowed to go back again."
The two elflings are silent, both seemingly digesting this information. "That's sad," whispers Elladan, finally, his intense grey eyes boring into Maglor as he (helplessly shields his brother from the merciless death that is sure to come soon) examines him carefully, but then he perks up again, as if suddenly struck by an idea. "I know!" he exclaims. "You should come and live with us!"
Beside him, Elrohir is also grinning at this thought, and he adds, "That's a great idea! You could be our big brother, and help us steal food from the kitchens." He falters, a small frown once again forming on his face. "We're not very good at that at the moment..."
Maglor smiles softly down at them, not quite having the heart to shatter the hope they have so quickly acquired. "And where is your family?" he asks eventually. "You cannot be here by yourselves." It is a question that has been plaguing his mind for some time now, actually; he is still half-expecting a worried parent to appear on the horizon at any moment.
"Who says we're here with anyone?" says a twin determinedly. "We're old enough to look after ourselves."
"Elladan," he responds slowly, a touch of paternal warning to his tone, and the elfling jumps, surprised.
"How can you tell us apart so easily?!" he questions indignantly. "Even Ada and Nana get us mixed up sometimes."
Maglor has raised two sets of identical twins now, and has gotten to the stage where telling them apart is an automatic mental process. Not that he'd ever tell them that. "I've been keeping track of where you've been standing," he lies easily, before pulling himself back on track. "Now, where are your parents?"
"We came down here with our Ada," Elrohir admits finally. "He was acting quite strangely, so we left him be beside the sea. Nana said that Ada gets quite sad when he sees the beach, you see, so we didn't want to disturb him... He's back in that direction," he finishes, gesturing absently with his wooden sword.
"We were going to find loads of treasure, to try and cheer him up," Elladan adds. "We haven't found anything nice though, except for lots and lots of seashells. But then Elrohir dropped them all."
"Oy!"
Elladan ignores his twin, finishing sheepishly, "We told him we wouldn't go far, but I... uhh, I guess we didn't stick to that, and now we're sort of lost, actually."
Maglor considers the two elfling for a long time, slowly turning the situation over in his mind as they look up at him, their expressions both eager and apprehensive. He can hardly let them attempt to return home alone; it is far too dangerous at night and the sun will be setting soon, but returning with them means that he will risk encountering someone who knows who he is. And he has told them his name now too, so even if he doesn't meet anyone himself then the twins will surely tell everyone anyway. In the background, the waves continue to crash and the seagulls continue to cry, and it reminds Maglor of the final noises of a battle, as the last opposing soldiers fall to the conquering force.
He shakes himself. Slight deviations aside, they are like reflections, like mirror images of Elrond and Elros. Those expressions, that curiosity, that hair, those eyes. All like living ghosts staring at him from a long ago past.
He cannot abandon Elrond and Elros.
(Never.)
"And what is your Ada's name?" he asks finally. Perhaps he can get at least some idea of where these elflings are from from that.
"Ada of course!" Elladan exclaims instantly, a triumphant pride dancing in his youthful eyes.
"No it's not, you dummy," Elrohir whispers obviously. "He's our Ada, not everyone's."
"Then why do we call him Ada if it's not his name?" hisses Elladan back, a sudden, childish irritation colouring his tone.
Unable to help himself, Maglor laughs, the hysteria overwhelming him until he is doubled over, clutching at his aching stomach and cackling madly as tears flow freely from his eyes. The two bickering elflings both instantly freeze and stare at him in horror, their pale cheeks flushing an identical scarlet colour made even brighter by the empty monotonousness of their surroundings, but Maglor just laughs and laughs and laughs.
Eventually he straightens himself up again and draws in a deep, calming breath.
"Are you... alright?" Elrohir asks uncertainly, once again eying him with caution.
Maglor wipes a stray tear away from his worn cheek and grins down at them. "Yes," he says, suddenly finding himself alive with a blazing determination. "Yes, I'm quite fine." He tucks his harp underneath one arm and offers one hand to each twin. "Come on," he says, smiling reassuringly at them. "Your Ada must be very worried about you by now. I'll take you back to him."
In a bizarre moment of perfect symmetry, Elladan and Elrohir immediately both take a hand, (their skin coated with all the blood and dust and grime left over from a horror that no child should ever have to see,) mirroring each other's movements almost absolutely, and Maglor allows them to drag him off in the direction of where they think their father is, the silky grey sand slipping smoothly againt his bare feet.
.&.
The sleek noise of metal sliding against leather is the only sound in the room as Maglor sheaths his sword. Beside him, Maedhros tilts his head and stares at his brother in curiosity, his own blood-soaked blade still unwavering as it hones in on its prey. "What are you doing, Makalaurë?" he hisses in Quenya.
Maglor disregards the question, instead murmuring, "Put your sword away, Maitimo." He doesn't wait to check if his brother has obeyed the order before he gently kneeling down upon the blood-coated ground.
The twin sons of Elwing and Eärendil are all that remain of the refugees of the Mouth of the Sirion, and here they stand, beaten and battered and covered in the blood and rubble of all that they held dear. One of them - Maglor does not know which is which - is pointing a dagger at him, the miniscule blade wobbling pathetically in the air, and he is met with no resistance at all when he reaches up and simply plucks it from the shaking hands of the petrified elfling.
He places the dagger on the ground well away from where he kneels and sighs haggardly. "I'm not going to hurt you," he murmurs in Sindarin, "I promise."
The twins flinch away, both clearly doubting his words. Cautiously, as if trying not to startle an already frightened animal, Maglor reaches up and unstraps his scabbard, and unhurridly places it beside the dagger, before opening his empty hands in front of him in a jesture of reassurance. The second twin peers out at him from over his brother's shoulder, his nails digging into the bare flesh of the first twin's arm, and their grey eyes following every move that he makes, darting between his face and the imposing form of Maedhros.
He assumes that the one with the dagger is Elros, the elder one, but he knows from years of experience never to ask which one is the oldest; when anyone ever did that Telu and Pitya would always-
No, stop. Don't go there, not now.
Maglor severely hopes that his brother - singular - has had the sense to sheath his weapon, but he does not dare to turn his head to check in case he breaks the still trance of the Elwing's children.
"Hurry up, Makalaurë," Maedhros half-growls from behind him, but Maglor ignores him, gazing pleading at the two elflings, both of whom had jumped at the harsh noise of his brother's warning tone.
"Please," he says softly, imploringly. "Come with us. There has been enough bloodshed already today." And then, "I don't want to kill any more of your people." (Our people.)
Some of the terror seems to have leached out of their wide grey eyes, although an - albeit justified - uncertainty is still clearly evident in their posture. Hesitantly, the second twin nods, and Maglor smiles sadly at him.
"I promise we won't hurt you," he repeats again, slowly, carefully, tenderly. "Never."
-end-