Disclaimer: I do not make any profit off of this, nor do I take credit


Ch. 8 Ignorance is bliss

To be fair, Maedhros really had planed on telling Maglor about Erulissë. However, he always found excuses to push it off until it no longer lingered at the forefront of his mind. He distantly knew that was a badly think, but he had other things to focus on. Maglor, for a while, was none the wiser. His bandages slowly started to come off, revealing shiny, twisted burn scars. His nagging cough was yet to go away and he relied heavily on a crutch while his hip healed.

As Maglor continued the long road to recovery, fewer and fewer letters from the King arrived at Himring, until one day they stopped altogether. Maedhros was slowly failing to push down the ever expanding bubble of panic trapped in his chest. Ever since the start of the siege a few centuries ago, Fingolfin and Maedhros had exchanged weekly letters. Sometimes they were formal, but more often than not, they were casual, just an uncle and a nephew exchanging news. With out the weekly messages from Hithum, Maedhros disorientated. It was like being blind.

Then after several weeks of silence, a fateful message arrived. It was short and to the point. Maedhros had to read it twice before it fully sunk in. It simply stated:

Russandol~

My father is dead and Fingon had taken up the Kingship.

~Turukáno

The scant details fueled Maedhros' imagination. What had happened? How had Fingolfin died? Was Fingon alright?

His thoughts were still spinning when the door softly creaked open to reveal Maglor. The musician's face was white with pain. He was leaning heavily on his crutch as he limped into the room. Maedhros looked up, startled.

"Laurë, what are you doing here? You should be resting." His brow crinkled with confusion. His office was several stories down, across a slick, ice-covered parapet and several stories back up again from the room where Maglor had been resting. Maglor leaned wearily against his crutch, but his face was set. Something was bothering him. There was a moment of awkward silence before the musician spoke.

"What aren't you telling me? Where is Erulissë?" Maglor's voice was sharp. Oh, that's what this was about. Maedhros felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth as he tried to gather his thoughts. His gaze drifted back down to his meticulously organized desk and the letter from Turgon.

"Russandol, look at me! Where is she? Where is my daughter?" The panic was unmistakable.

"She…. The morgue….I'm sorry, we did everything we could," was all Maedhros could managed.

"No…. No….You said ... You said she was safe," Maglor staggered back. The movement was awkward with his crutch. He looked lost, for lack of a better word. Maedhros went to embrace his brother, knowing Maglor found comfort in physical contact. However, before he could be hugged, the younger Fëanorion clumsily shoved his brother away.

"No, stay away from me, liar!" Maglor cried. Maedhros frowned and took a step back.

"Maglor, I did what I had to protect you. The healers said that you would have faded from grief. I can't…." Maedhros drew a deep breath, his emotions were all over the place, "I can't loose you."

"So that's your motivation? Watch from your mighty fortress as my family gets slaughtered, only stepping in to save me. You just wanted to be rid of my wife and children," Maglor accused with a hiss, breathing hard through his nose as he blinked back tears. Maedhros felt insulted. He hadn't necessarily approved of Maglor's marriage, but that didn't mean that he wanted his sister-in-law and their kids dead. Curufin might have wished that, but not him. Ordinarily, such a comment would have alerted Maedhros to Maglor's internal turmoil, but today with his own head still spinning from the news of their uncle's death, Maedhros was in no state to be diplomatic or caring.

"Kanafinwë," Maedhros drew himself up to his full height, a good head above his brother, "After all I have done, you dare to stand there and throw my hospitality back in my face with accusations of murder? You sicken me."

Maglor jerked back like the words had physically struck him. His face went blank and he unconsciously tucked his injured arm closer to his chest.

"I apologize, my Lord," Maglor intoned in a flat voice as he back out of the door, "I am sorry to have disturbed you. I will leave you. You clearly have more important things to deal with than me and my petty problems."

Maedhros was still fuming as he watched Maglor limp out of the room. He felt frustrated that his brother was so bitter about being saved. Yes, Erulissë was dead, but at least Maglor was still alive. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt tears leak out of the corners. Maedhros quickly wiped away the traitorous moisture. His emotions felt so overwhelmed that he almost felt numb. This was all so unfair.

Flopping down at his desk, Maedhros buried his face in his arms and let loose some very foul curses that would have made even Curufin raise an eyebrow. He hated Maglor for making his life even more difficult, he hated Morgoth for everything that he had done, he hated his father for making the damned Silmarils. After wallowing in his self-pity for quiet sometime, Maedhros half-heartedly decided that he should probably seek out Maglor to apologize for what he said.

He made his way to Maglor's room without any problems. However, talking to his younger brother proved to be difficult. The door was locked when he arrived, not unusual when it came to Maglor and his reclusive habits. Maedhros rattled the door knob, but it didn't give and remained firmly shut.

"Maglor! Why must you always hide behind locked doors?" demanded Maedhros loudly to the thick door. He received no response. Giving the door one last shake, Maedhros stalked away. If Maglor wanted to stubborn and spiteful, then so be. Two could play that game.


Names:

Kanafinwë - Maglor's father name (Quenya)

Russandol - "Copper top", Maedhros' epesse (Quenya)

Turukáno - Turgon's father name (Quenya)