Surrogate Jewels - Chapter Four
The night was calm, stirred only by an occasional breeze from the west. Elven singing was heard in the distance, an ethereal undertone to the earthy wind. The brisk air smelled clean, bringing the gentle and refreshing scent of pine from forests not far beyond, and the stars shone brightly in the cloudless sky above.
Truly, more than anything, Maedhros wished to enjoy these simple pleasures of life, the welcome repose, and ignore all else- the memories of the slain, the heartache of failure. But that was made impossible, for the same reason as for several nights before. He stared at his plate and the meat upon it, his appetite gradually subsiding, and his annoyance heightening with every sniffle.
"Children," the words fell like frozen rain, "enough of this. You test my patience." There was no doubting the seriousness of the speaker, or his irritation. But the two addressed had known nothing but fear for several days, thus a mite more, thanks to Maedhros' tone, was hardly noticed. Maedhros leaned forward over his crossed legs, and peered at the Peredhil in what he hoped was a discouraging fashion.
"Why do you cry?" Each word was enunciated carefully, to assure that no misunderstanding was had.
The children were only crying a little, and as such did not appreciate the negative attention received. After all, it had taken days to steel themselves to the point they had reached. Before, it was all they could do to cower in a tent-corner, or under a horse, without fleeing in madness. Kinslayers, everywhere there were Kinslayers. But presently, they were sitting by a small cooking fire, desperately trying to eat and keep the meat down- for it was cooked rare and looked to them like the flayed flesh of the Librarian they had seen slain at Sirion.
Maedhros seemed to accept that no answer would be forthcoming, and he returned to his space grudgingly, shifting his disapproving glare to his own meal once again.
Gentle as falling snow in the distance, another said softly, "Do not pressure them, Maedhros." There was unmistakable strength behind the words, but it was suppressed and adjusted, until released at a leisurely pace, in a controlled tone. This was Maglor, the mightiest singer since Daeron of Doriath, and his voice seldom chimed unshaped.
Turning annoyed eyes to his brother, Maedhros replied, "For ears trained sharply as yours, brother, I would assume their constant sniveling to be unbearable."
"It is indeed," Maglor replied somberly, coming closer to the fire, and the children. "But unbearable for my heart, and not my ears or anything else could suffer more."
The Peredhil became more than mildly uncomfortable, both for Maglor's closeness and his dejected manner, and they abandoned the hopeless struggle to consume the gamy contents of their plates. Wary glances were given to both sons of Feanor, and in their worry more tears found the children's eyes. Maedhros as always seemed stern and displeased, and if the children could bear to look longer upon him they would see the stress and pain there also. And Maglor was, as usual, a bit too attentive for the children's liking. If they knew better, they would detect that a fair amount of unease already laid between the two brothers; but as it was, all they felt was the tension, and assumed it to be directed at them.
Maglor had brought a kettle of prepared liquid, and set it over the fire to heat. He smiled at the children in greeting, and once through with his chore, settled on his knees beside them. Too close, too soon, and the children ached to separate themselves from this deadly Elf-lord's overbearing presence.
"That is a treat for you, to help you sleep." Maglor gestured to the pot. "You may have some, but only once it is warm- that is how the magic works!"
He spoke smiling, but the effect was lost on the children, who were suddenly nauseated by the firelight upon Maglor's face, and the scent of smoking meat creeping from across camp. They were reminded of the first time they had seen Maglor, with the smell of burning Elf-flesh heavy in the air, and spilt blood, and hot sweat, and spent fear. More tears gathered at the memories, and the children curled a little in on each other for comfort, seeking to escape Maglor's adoring gaze, and the sadness creasing his face that they had no will to mend.
Maglor looked away, only more sickened at heart by the children's continued state of distrust and apprehension. Across the bonfire, Maedhros wore an expression that suggested he was knowingly correct about something, but Maglor did not envy his pride. He did not care to be right; he only wanted to do right.
After a moment of private brooding, he came back to himself, and remembered his task. "Here," he said, leaning in to reach the kettle, "let me pour you some of this drink, Peredhil." His tone had not the same enthusiasm, but he forced it to sound close with fair success.
"I want none," a timid voice ventured.
"But you have yet to taste it!" Maglor laughed, his spirits soaring for the mere fact that one had spoken out.
"I want none too," said the other.
Maedhros turned sideways, and made a point to ignore the exchange, having no desire to see his brother come to grief over so small a thing, as he felt certain would happen in the end.
Carefully hardening his tone only a shade, Maglor replied, "But I want you both to have a good night's rest." He poured a small amount into a cup, and handed it to the first child who spoke. "Just a sip, try it."
The child's mother had taught him to be polite, and his father had taught him to be thankful. But in that instant, nothing was more vivid in his mind than the image of his parents, as dead as he feared them to be, and marred Sirion, littered with corpses.
"I don't want it," the child repeated, and gained bravery from somewhere unseen. "And I don't want this." With that he pushed the plate away, bloody juices sloshing atop the red meat.
Maedhros could not help but raise his eyes at this unexpected response, and turn back to watch after all. He was as interested to know what the child would do next as he was to see how his brother would react.
Maglor examined the child for a moment before speaking. "These things I give to you out of the kindness of my heart," he stated smoothly.
"I don't want your pity, either," the child's voice pitched with his distress.
At least outwardly, Maglor remained calm. "But should you not thank me for my generosity, whether you appreciate it or not?"
"No!"
At that exclamation the second child made a tent with his hands, and covered the lower half of his face, concealing the tremble of his mouth, but not the dread in his watering eyes.
"I see," Maglor replied. "Tell me then for what you desire, so that I may gain your esteem, and make these last leagues to travel less unpleasant for us all."
The child hopped to his feet in a sudden outburst, but preparing to run or attack, even he did not know. "Nothing from you, nothing you have! I want my mother!"
Maglor stood in an instant, sweeping the agitated child from the ground before he could do anything more impulsive or actually harmful. "Then you are at a loss," he remained composed in words and manner, even as the child fussed against his grasp, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Many people want things denied them, but few throw fits." He grinned slightly. "Though I could be counted with you among those who do." His face straightened again, serious and sad. "But alas, for your mother is gone, and you cannot have her back. I... I'm sorry."
"Then you cannot have me!" the child sobbed, but ceased his fight at last, knowing himself overpowered, and suddenly feeling the deep fatigue from a week of insomnia, anxiety, and tragedy. "You cannot have me..."
"But I do have you," Maglor answered, lowering himself to his former position by the fire, the Peredhel thus cradled in his lap. "And I am glad for it."
The child moaned in misery, knowing Maglor to be truthful, and despising him for it. He knew well enough that no stranger should be so happy for the company of another's child, especially under these circumstances. The child did not know what exactly, or how or why, but he sensed something was dreadfully wrong, and it made him shiver.
"It's not fair..." he writhed once with his last strength, "that's not fair."
"I know," Maglor answered, taking up the cup, and bringing it to the child's lips, who swallowed reactively when the fluid entered his mouth.
Peering up with unwavering anger and fear, the child spoke in what was closer to a plead than anything he had uttered before, "Let us go." He was forced to drink again, then added, "Please."
Maglor bent forward and kissed his brow, not noticing the child's feeble attempts to push him away, and forgetting his own vow. "Sleep," was all he said, coaxing another mouthful of the tonic into the child, and began a song, rocking gently to the melody.
The child still on the ground stared at the scene in shock, much as he had gaped at everything as it transpired since his twin had become upset. Presently his brother's eyes were vacant, his body seemingly paralyzed in defeat; he had retreated to someplace between unconsciousness and sleep, where he would not hear the soothing music or feel the arms of a Kinslayer retaining him.
Left behind, and much too anxious to doze, the child yet awake eyed his twin, held fondly by Maglor, and then Maedhros sitting across the fire, looking particularly peeved. The child imagined himself forced into such strong and dangerous arms, but never again welcomed into his mother's soft embrace, and he wept. Eventually there on the dirt he succumbed to his exhaustion and slept, barely and fitfully, dreaming of thralldom and spreading fire.
"What are you doing?" the question was sharp and bitter.
Looking up, Maglor did not conceal his frown. "What does it seem?"
Maedhros frowned as well, and turned away again, watching the orderly bustle of camp with feigned interest. "You delude yourself, brother. But disregard it if you will."
Maglor did just that, and his gaze returned admiringly to the babe he held. He thought on the child's outer beauty and inner strength, of what life would be like if he could earn his love, and of what the future might bring for them both- together. He did not realize that he had spoken, and still knew not what his words were, even when Maedhros answered detachedly.
"They are our fourth half-cousins, and of mixed blood where ours is purely Nolorian. I truly doubt much familial resemblance is apparent, beyond that of most any Elven-folk." And he shifted again, his back nearly facing the fire by that time.
Maglor blinked, as if waking from a daze; and perhaps he had been entranced, captivated by the echoing evils of his past and the innocence in his arms, and wondering if there could ever be common ground. But he feared two eyes alone could not find the path, and if one needs be cleared, he had not enough strength to forge it by himself.
He said, "I want to do right by them, Maedhros; it is all I want now. Will you not help me, brother?"
"I have been helping you," Maedhros replied over his shoulder. He thought of his riding with one child or the other every day, and time spent in watching over them. All of which he did without request or thanks, knowing it to be his brother's want, and Maedhros had not the heart to deny his last living sibling any single desire. Thus remembering his loyalty and love, he added quietly, "But what more assistance do you need?"
"You say you help already, yet one child lies alone on the dirt," Maglor chided, more harshly than he intended. "What do you imagine I would ask?"
"The Firstborn awoke by the shores of Cuivienen on the dirt," Maedhros casually noted. "I do not recall grandfather Finwe complaining about it."
"You mock me," Maglor growled.
Maedhros stifled his curt reply, and sighed, turning himself back towards the fire. "Nay, not you. I am weary from our deeds and this tedious journey home; forgive my foul mood." The sentence was smooth with practice; an apology he has made repeatedly throughout the years. And once looking at Maglor's face, seeing there the need clearly written, he was powerless to deny that which his sibling desired, as it had been since the very day Feanor's second son was born. A toy, a game, a story, a hug; nothing was denied Maedhros' beloved little brother.
Maedhros rose, and walked to the Peredhel lying on the ground, picking him up with utmost care, having no will to tolerate his protests if woken. He remembered several occasions of carrying his siblings in such a way, when they were as small and young- but quickly banished the image. Earendil's sons would never be compared to the memory of his slain brothers; someplace a line must be drawn, and that would be where.
"Come you to bed now, Maglor, 'tis late."
"I shall, soon," he answered, looking down. His brother nodded, and left silently.
Entering the tent he shared with Maglor and the sons of Earendil, Maedhros set the young one down on his own bedroll, and paced restlessly. It struck him as ironic and wrong, how Maglor seemed content to substitute Earendil's sons for Feanor's Silmarils; two admittedly valuable babes for an undeniably invaluable jewel. An unfair trade, to be certain, and Maedhros could never bring himself to substitute the Mariner's children for his only living brother- not by far.
But he feared the exchange would eventually be made on Maglor's behalf, with or without Maedhros' consent- if it were not already done. It was a painfully contradictory twist to the strategy Maedhros devised with harboring the Peredhil in the first place. How could they be traded for Feanor's jewels if they were as revered as a Silmaril itself? It was not supposed to happen this way, and Maedhros was not fond of his plans failing so swiftly and irrevocably. He felt as if standing suddenly in second place, where before he had always been first. A single fist clenched at the thought, that he had been somehow demoted, that he had been replaced or bested without trial or chance. His eyes found the sleeping Peredhel, and bore into him with emotions Maedhros did not previously realize he harbored towards the child.
"Usurper," he seethed, and his feet carried him closer.
He looked down upon the child deliberately, as he usually preferred not to do. He could see every part of him in his face alone; each feature told the tale of a different lineage, every curve tracing another kindred's history. Maedhros stiffened, considering for the first time that this crossbred child- by law the next rightful King of the Exiled Noldor after Earendil- was even less Noldor than the Mariner himself.
"Hail Gil-galad, and may he never fall," he said, not sarcastically in the least, his eyes fixed on the King's sleeping heir. "For the crown will mean little by the time you inherit it." A strange satisfaction sated him from the words, followed by biting shame. He had no right to be resentful towards this child, and he knew it. But logic seldom triumphs when envy is involved.
Maedhros looked away suddenly, hearing footsteps outside, coming closer.
Maglor entered the tent without sound, the second child cradled in his arms, still sleeping. The sons of Feanor met each other's eyes and remained locked. Both spoke simultaneously, silencing just the same, and fate would have them look away at once. Maglor moved to his bedroll, and settled himself upon it for sleep, his precious charge kept securely along his side. Maedhros turned towards the child occupying his own place, and the child's twin doing likewise.
If Maglor had cared to look, he would have seen his brother leave their tent, and his campfire-casted shadow pacing the outside until dawn.
But he did not look.
***continued***