Surrogate Jewels - Chapter Ten
Maedhros
At least Maglor is speaking to me again. Though I admit, it is at times maddening, listening to him carry on about this 'love' he believes has developed between him and Earendil's sons... Still, I am glad that he is at last happy. And the Peredhil, too, seem somewhat content. I am not, as such...
Maglor told me a while ago that he had taken my advice to heart at one time, and attempted to separate himself emotionally from the Peredhil. But he told me in laughter, and in past tense, so I knew even as he spoke that the effort was already abandoned on his part. He said that they seem to love him now, in their own fashion. He actually thinks that...
I think, as I watch them interacting with each other little by little, day after day... that he may be right.
Although, I also think that I see more than my brother does, usually. And what I see now is that this is not an entirely good thing, this change in the children. Time moves rather quickly -or more accurately somewhat inconsequentially- for the Eldar, and as such things have suddenly come to my attention that seemingly mere moments before were not there. Little... oddities. Like the way that the Peredhil do not object, ever, to anything anymore... and the way that they agree, thoughtlessly, always, to everything.
I believe Maglor has noticed, but is denying what he knows to be true. I deny nothing. They are not well, I think, even if for a time they had become better. I suppose this would be a relapse then, and it is happening with haste.
I remember not two months ago, literally bumping into the children as they were running down the hall, and accidentally crashed against my legs. I had seen them beforehand and stopped my pace, but their eyes were closed in giggles and they ran blindly until we collided. I did not move out of their path, judging that my body would hurt them less than the stone wall, and that they might have fewer bruises by the end of the day if someone simply suggested a mite more caution on their parts.
They gasped in surprise as they landed on their rumps upon the floor, and froze in place once they realized whom exactly they had bounced off of. It had not occurred to me until that moment that although they had become less contentious towards my brother, there was still no love apparent between them and me. But such oversights are the price one pays for living through somebody else, as I had been living through Maglor, it seemed.
"Peredhil," I said, rather uncomfortably, "are you all right?"
They stood up, and answered me immediately for the first time that I could remember. Me. Not Maglor, or a nursemaid, or a cook, or even a horse; but me.
"Yes," one said, his cheeks flushed all the way to the points of his ears, either from his sprint or pure embarrassment I could not tell, and his voice was not laced with the same tinge of hostility I was used to detecting.
"Sorry," the other said softly. "We did not see you."
"Well, I had guessed as much," replied I, and felt ashamed that I had fallen immediately into a reprimanding tone, when there was so little need, and no harm done. "You two should... be more careful." I forced my tone to sound gentler, "Next time you might be hurt."
"My backside hurts from this time, but I'm still all right," said the first so frankly that I had to laugh, even while his brother hushed him with a quick hiss. "Sorry..." the first added to his candid explanation, lowering his eyes.
Well, I thought, it was not 'a thousand apologies, Lord Maedhros', but it would have to do. "No cause to be sorry," I said, "just take more care."
They nodded, and shifted a little where they stood, as if eager for something. I allowed myself to assume they had acquired the good manners to wait to be excused from the presence of their Lord, and so I said, "Now on your way, sons of Earendil."
Smiling at that, they ran past, leaving me with nothing more but renewed laughter in their wake. Still, it was the longest and most pleasant exchange I believe we had ever shared.
However, not more than two weeks ago, a dissimilar situation arose, which has led me to believe that things are... not right. This time I roamed into the kitchen room that I was so senselessly fond of, as I commonly did, and found that there was baking being done at an hour where usually the area would be deserted.
Of the several Elven servants bustling about, some were seated at the wooden kneading table, with the Peredhil shuffled in among them. It seemed to me at first glance that the bread makers were showing the children how to prepare something a certain way. I could not tell immediately if the Peredhil were uninterested, tired, or bored... but they definitely were not having a grand time of the lesson. Perplexed, since I myself enjoyed learning to cook at their age, I came upon the square table, and leaning over, examined the unbaked goods being readied.
"Well..." I observed lightly, "looks like something, for certain." The female servants giggled plenty, but it was not their attention I was after. The barest of smiles tugged at the corner of the children's mouths, but that was their only reaction to me... or anything, really.
"No, no, dear child... Do it this way, or else the dough will fall apart in the oven. See?" An Elven maid of particularly fair features spoke sweetly, and gave her little pupil a kiss upon his cheek along with her polite correction. "Now try you again..." She urged encouragingly.
But the child just frowned, looking -I thought- at his mistake, and said quietly, "I'm sorry." Then tears gathered in his eyes.
The same elf cooed in sympathy and tickled the Peredhel's childishly puffy cheek with her flour-dusted finger. "There, there, my darling little helper..." She kissed his cheek again, much louder this time, trying to make him laugh, I guessed. "No need for tears now... It is such a simple thing! We can fix this easily, you and I, hmm?"
With what seemed like great reluctance, the child looked up at his teacher. In that moment I saw as much, if not more, sadness in his gaze then I had seen during our entire ride home from Sirion, and it shocked me beyond words. I kept thinking, over dough was this caused? Dough was even less than bread, for the love of Iluvatar!
"It's not that..." the Peredhel said so softly that even my keen ears strained to hear as he continued. "You just remind me of my mother, before she turned into a bird and flew away," he disclosed, before ducking his head back down and despondently staring again at the table.
I heard at least four people gasp at his words... though one of them might have in fact been me. And then it was I receiving the sad gaze, this time that of the Elven maid, who looked at me dolefully with her own tear-brimmed eyes. Without thinking I studied her more closely. She had long dark hair, a narrow nose, large silver eyes and high cheekbones... indeed fair. And yes, she did resemble Elwing to some degree.
I glanced back at the child, mostly to escape the pleading stare of the maid; for if she suspected I knew of some way to help, she was bound to be sorely disappointed. I found the Peredhel was by then in tears, though he continued to prod at his work joylessly. He appeared as though he was ignoring himself, if such a feat were even possible.
I cleared my throat, and said, "Child, you are making this poor baker feel badly. No reason she should be put to guilt simply for her pretty face, now is there?"
"No," the child replied, looking up again. "I'm sorry," he said to her, even as more tears trailed down his cheeks.
She covered her mouth with the white cloth of her apron, and stared back at me, even more upset than before.
I thought then that I should just leave, but I did not. If I could force myself to slay my own kin, thrice, then I could convince this child to stop crying. "Listen here, young one," I said, and bent over double to level my face with the Peredhel, "just think of something- someone else...understand?"
He nodded. "Very well," he answered, still crying.
"...Are you doing it?" I asked doubtfully.
Again he nodded. "Yes," again he answered, though crying still.
I sighed, and stood up tall. Everyone had stopped their work and was standing still, watching the display. Apparently the other Peredhel had also started crying at some point, for he too sat in quiet tears, mindlessly rolling some dough.
In a moment I was going to be the only Elf or Half-elf in the entire vicinity not sobbing uncontrollably... So I did the only sensible thing, and left.
I asked around that day, casually, and gathered that such was a common occurrence of late. Seemed that the Peredhil's personal attendants had become quite used to their charges' frequent and spontaneous bouts of depression... so much so that the servants thought nothing of recounting for me a few examples in detail.
It occurred to me that Maglor must not have known, yet. I was almost positive that if he did, he would have spoken with me about it by then. No, he likely still thought them 'improving', I decided. Though it would not be long until he noticed their strange behavior for himself. Not when they seemed to fall into tears at the barest implication of anything even remotely sorrowful.
And sure enough, a few days later Maglor's light-hearted mood had noticeably waned. I asked him in private what was wrong, but he was not willing to speak much of anything. I took the opportunity to mention my own observances, and I told him of my conversations with the Peredhil's attendants, as well as what I had witnessed firsthand.
And he, in his usual manner of closing his eyes to things he wished not see, completely ignored me. He had responded listlessly, "I think you are exaggerating."
"Then why are you downcast of a sudden?" I asked.
"Because I learned long ago not to expect anything helpful from you, but still it disappoints me," he answered, a mite tartly for my liking.
I said to him, "I have helped you in more ways than you know, brother." Then I left.
But even after that, Maglor and I still spoke regularly. For whatever reason, that particular exchange of ours did not fall into the category of 'argument', and he was not left angry with me afterwards... probably because I had allowed him to keep his illusions that the children were still bettering.
So, as I continue to watch my brother now and again, doing this or that with the children, I have grown weary. By day Maglor pretends all is well, acting normal and cheerful. But by night he does not sleep. I see him leave the Peredhil's room after putting them to bed, and his face is ever riddled with concern. Frequently he sits in his study, or in the library, or on some balcony or another, and he worries. I wager he worries as much for them as I do for him.
It is time, I decide, to go have another chat with Earendil's sons. And this time I mean to keep my temper about me, whether they choose to answer my questions or not.
Maglor has already left them for the night, but I hear from the hallway outside of their room that they are still awake. Soft, boyish singing filters through the thick wooden door, and I am lulled for a moment into listening. It is one of Maglor's songs, without a doubt, and they sing it well; very well... Heavens, but they are indeed Melian's kin! The song ends, trailing away like so much of a whisper on the wind, and I find myself lonely in the gloom of the hall without the fair melody, and I long for another tune. But none does come. I think they probably know I am here, standing by their door and waiting for them to make some kind of beautiful noise. Mayhap I could be more mannerly than this, and announce my presence as would be proper...
Softly I knock on the door, determined that this visit will not be like the last ones.
With an objecting creak of aged wood, the door slowly parts by only a few inches. I look down at the small Elf-boy's face wedged between the narrow opening, peering up at me, and I smile. He blinks a few times before disappearing to pull the door completely open. I imagine it takes most of his strength to do so, and I can actually hear his feet scampering on the floor as he struggles in the effort.
As I am given full view of the room, I see the other twin is sitting cross-legged in the middle of one bed, which sits in the corner of the room to my left, the mattress' length adjacent to the far wall where a large window faces me directly. From his spot, the second twin is watching me with an unreadable expression, and he is doing it as meticulously as always. The first child reappears from behind the door, and props it open with a book that I bet weighs nearly as much as he does. He joins his brother on the opposite side of the room, but stays near the foot of the bed instead of climbing on top.
I ask in my most polite tone, "May I come in?"
They do not look at each other, as they used to do instead of answering me, and the one on the bed answers; "Yes, if you like."
I walk in, leaving the door open behind me. "And may I sit down?"
The standing twin answers timidly, "Yes."
I see a chair placed by the windowsill, and think to pull it closer to the bed... but after consideration, I decide that I have no desire to impose on their space any more than I am already.
I sit myself down in the chair, and look for a moment out of the window at the night sky. The moon is a mere sliver of bright pearl above; thus the stars shine ever so brightly in the freedom from any other veiling light. I am mesmerized by the random perfection of glittering wonders that is the star-speckled sky for longer than I intended, and turn back to the children half-expecting to find them gone.
But nay, for there they sit, both of them now on the bed, watching me with that matching gaze I have come to detest. The two of them, side by side, are twice the amount of reminder I need; of Sirion, of the Silmarils, of Maglor... But it is not their fault, I suppose, that they remind me of things both terrible and beloved, forever lost and always just beyond my reach. Perhaps then it is not my fault that I probably remind them of their own pains and regrets.
In that case, we should be friends. Or at least, other than enemies... Maybe we are already, less than friends but not enemies, and I simply have yet to notice.
"So," I say softly, "how are you, Peredhil?"
They have been blinking rather sluggishly, and I am reminded that it is past their usual bedtime. "Tired..." one says, and the other nods drowsily, adding, "Father-Maglor told us to rest plenty for a long day tomorrow."
I cannot help but cringe. I remember when they began calling my brother 'Father-Maglor'... and I would not care one bit except that Maglor himself instructed them to do so. That poor fool... Does he not realize that there is no great accomplishment in gaining the title if he appointed it to himself? The point is to earn the name 'father', or so Maglor once told me. But apparently he decided he earned it well enough at some point, and simply informed the Peredhil that it was time the official confirmation of him as their parental figure become practiced in everyday speech. Which would be acceptable, if not for the fact that the children agree to anything at all these days!
"Ah, yes... Maglor told me about a very special event he has scheduled for you three." I reply, attempting to sound interested. And oh indeed, Maglor did tell me about this brilliant scheme of his, quite extensively. If I believed his implications, this trip will solve everything, and he will ride home with two smiling, healthy and happy Half-elves who will have completely forgotten about the morning not two years ago when they awoke in Sirion to the dying screams of their butchered townsfolk. But if I believed the bare facts, I would understand that Maglor means to take Earendil's sons out camping for a few days, in the hopes that it might lift their miserable spirits.
"Are you... excited?" I ask them, trying still and I think failing to sound even remotely interested.
"About what?" the twin who opened the door asks hollowly.
"The surprise Maglor has planned that we were just talking about," I answer with strained calm, unable to tell if he is toying with me or not.
"Oh... very well," the same child replies, without any change in tone to indicate comprehension.
I wait for more, but none comes. The twin who has not spoken is just staring straight ahead, and I realize with confusion that he is not looking at me after all; he probably never was, and I wonder by the blank expression on his face if there is anything he sees. "Children..." I begin, and falter. This is... quite strange. "What is wrong?" I ask, at a loss for anything more subtle or articulate.
They look at me, or I think they do, since their eyes seemed to flinch at my words, and the one who had been silent utters in a tone so pitiable I could almost weep, "We know not."
That could not have been the same voice I heard singing so sweetly only moments ago. Not that frail whisper of defiled innocence that just echoed weakly from the mouth of the youth before me. "Why not?" I persist, "How not? If you know not what is the matter, who else could?"
"Maybe mother would know," the first child says, a faint hint of hope coloring his childishly simple words.
"Mother was always sad too," the second one replies wistfully, "she could not fix it either."
I become angry, regretful and ashamed all at once, leaving me swirling in confused and conflicting emotions. "So you are sad," I think out loud, and glance around their ample room. I see toys, games, books and decorations among other things... I know they have plenty of lovely clothing folded away, and I know they would be fed anything they pleased if they would but eat, and I know Maglor would do or have done whatever they asked... My eyes make their way back to the children, and frustration takes command of me as I behold them. They are a matching set of beautifully unmarred children with perfect little voices for singing and laughing and perfect little bodies for dancing and running... but they could not care less. They might as well be baby Orcs or Balrogs; then they could be just as unhappy while someone more deserving of such good fortune could enjoy being blessed with their pretty faces and princely gifts instead.
"But you have everything." I breathe hard. "And still you are unhappy?"
They glance around the room for themselves, slowly, disinterestedly, their eyes eventually coming again to me... This time they study me with thoroughness, and there is no mistaking that it is me at whom they look.
"You have everything except one hand," the second child says thoughtfully, with his brother asking in sheer innocence, "Are you happy?" There was that same tinge of hope in his voice, as if I may possess a phial of some infallible medicine that I might share with him and cure his sorrow.
I tremble for a moment in bitter resentment, holding onto the armrest with my left hand to keep myself from using it for some ill purpose or another. It is true. I have everything I could wish for, just as they; fine clothes, plenty of servants, my fortress, my land, a small army... except for missing one hand and that I may come and go as I please, we are equally matched in our commodities. Yet I am haunted by the horrors of my past, and thus I am no happier than they, who suffer great pains of their own. When all is considered, and I feel relatively composed, I speak again.
"When you address me, you should say 'my Lord'. It is only polite. Understand?"
The first child nods, any animation that had surfaced in his eyes during our conversation sunk back down. "Yes, my Lord," he answers torpidly, and his brother slumps in the shoulders and stares back at the nothingness of empty space.
"And you? Understand?" I ask pointedly, looking squarely at the quieter twin.
He comes back from his study of air to meet my gaze, and nods. "Yes, my Lord," he repeats in the same lifeless tone as his brother, his dull eyes drifting away once more.
I breathe deeply, and think. There is... no choice here, where before I thought it was otherwise. They are not pretending to grieve. They are not trying to be inconsolable. They are not faking desperation, forcing themselves to starve or mourning with intention. This is despair. This is heartache... They are fading.
In the beginning, the very start of this all, the Peredhil were so frightened that they did not speak a word, even amongst themselves, and hardly moved a muscle on their own determination. Then, gradually, they overcame their fears, and that is when the struggles began... when they would hide from their caretakers, refuse to participate or cooperate, and make considerably successful escapes. And then came the time but months ago, when they seemed to become somewhat content in their life here. Maglor taught them how to ride horses, read, and write... and what impressively quick learners they were! Though I would not have referred to them as joyful, but they certainly seemed better. And now... now...
Now there they sit. Beyond disputations, beyond contentment, beyond awareness... beyond trying to save themselves by escaping, beyond trying to survive by submitting.
I cannot tell if they are asleep at this moment, or merely... dazed, but I know this bodes ill. For both the Peredhil and Maglor; and hence, for me.
"Peredhil?" I question quietly.
"Yes, my Lord..." one slurs, but they remain so still that I know not which actually spoke.
I sigh. "Just Maedhros, would be fine. You may call me Maedhros."
"Yes, Maedhros..." he murmurs. I did not mean for him to repeat it back to me, but he seems not to mind, doing whatever he is told. That in itself I find unbearably disturbing. I never imagined I would think so, but I actually miss the times when they would fuss against my will. At least then I knew that they were... alive.
"You two should go to sleep." I stand, and realize that I just woke them up in order to tell them to go to sleep. Sighing, I attempt to regain some self-respect, "I mean, you should get under the covers."
The Peredhel who answered me most recently, the same one who opened the door, shakes his brother to animation. They exchange a mere glance between them, but no words, and both turn to try and pull down the covers which they also happen to be sitting on. I feel a grin pulling on my mouth. Amrod and Amras used to do the same thing in their youth, when I would stay up late with them, telling stories or just talking with each other... I miss my brothers. I miss simpler times and happier days.
"I had twin brothers, you know," I comment, coming without thought to the bed. Losing for a moment any mindfulness of keeping my distance, I help the children get under their blankets and proceed to situate the covers up to their chins, just as I used to do with my youngest siblings. In fact, until the Peredhil are lying down and looking up at me, I do not think I was aware of any difference between them and my brothers. I believe I must be tired, to have such a bizarre regression.
As Earendil's sons gaze at me, their faces expressionless, their eyes sightless, I suddenly feel guilty. I look for a moment upon them, the way their coal black hair is mingled and splashed on the pillows, and the way they seem so small, even under several layers of fabric. I have seen these children in fear, anger, indifference and contentment... but I have never seen them so insensible. I hear myself speak in an apologetic tone, "I'm sorry that I kept you awake for so long..."
"I'm sorry for your brothers," the quieter one says, surprising me.
"How did you know they were dead?" I ask, truly curious.
"I saw them killed in the fight," he answers, just as apathetically as he spoke before.
I catch my breath before it can make a hiss. "Thank you," I force myself to reply. I remind myself that he is trying to be amicable, after all... or at least I think he is, though perhaps he is only saying what he guesses I want him to say. It is impossible to tell for certain.
"I'm sorry we're so sad all of the time," the more talkative twin injects. His tone is different than his brother's, I am noticing. When he speaks it seems as if he is trying to make things sound better than they are. Or another way to put it would be that he is feigning ignorance of anything being wrong. But he does not fool himself, for there is unmistakable grief in his voice, even if he strives to mask it from others.
"I think that is not your fault," I reply evenly.
"Maybe it will get better," he says, trying so very hard to imitate that hopeful edge, though not quite hitting the note.
"Maybe," I play along, for no notable reason other than I do not particularly wish to see him or his brother cry before I leave. "Sleep well, sons of Earendil the Mariner and Elwing the Fair. May your dreams sail peacefully at Sea."
Only the twin who had most recently spoken is still awake, but he does smile appreciatively, and nod. I did not miss the wetness gather in the corner of his eyes when I mentioned his parents, but I also know of nothing to do about it. So I bite my tongue, and leave.
Tomorrow is another day. And... maybe they will get better...
And maybe I will wake up tomorrow in Valinor, bathed in the light of the Two Trees, with father, grandfather, mother, all of my brothers and the Silmarils sitting beside me.
***continued***