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“I don’t want to go there!” demanded a young Elrond, pulling on Maglor’s hand. The other hand was held hostage too by the other twin, who was glaring a storm at him.
Twins so different, yet in some, unfortunate for the Fëanorian cases, alike in thought.
It was the eve of the battle, and Vingilótë was moored at the northern edge of the camp, ship sitting like a duck on land. Last they had heard, Earendil was there, discussing strategy and planning for the battle with Eönwë, Ingwion and some other elf from Arafinwe’s forces. It was a shame nobody bothered to ask the ones who had kept up with Morgoth all these years, who had actually battled against dragons. Oh well. Maedhros was against their coming altogether. And deep in his own heart, Maglor agreed. Why would he send off the two babies he bonded with, who called him atya, whom he raised like his own? They were children of his fea, and the bond, even now thrummed with strength. Why should he return them to the one who abandoned them?
But a vow was a vow. Earendil was back. Mayhap Elwing was too. And Maglor, loath as he would, had a mission, the last mission to partake in.
Give his children back to those who he’d stolen them from in the first place.
Maglor sighed and sank to his knees. From this height, the twins were a tad taller than him. They had grown. He placed his hands on their shoulders and looked them in the eye, the eerie treelight in his eyes as bright as it had ever been.
“Elrond, Elros,” he whispered. “Your father, your real father is here. He has come for you. You should go to him.”
The boys teared up. Elrond took the hand on his shoulder and hugged it close to his chest. “You’re our real father! You’re our atya, we don’t want to go. You can’t abandon us! Everyone always leaves! Can we go back? To you and Uncle Nelyo, please?”
“I..-” Elros began, but Maglor interrupted him.
“Oh yonya. I know this is not ideal, but I fear change is upon us. This war, this stand against Morgoth will be the catalyst. This land we stand on now feels strange. I can feel it in the air. I can feel it in the wind. Nothing will ever be the same. But you, my precious ones, have to live on. Live, marry, love, and grow into the neri I know you can be.” Maglor smiled softly and brought both of them into a hug. “Earendil loves you, and he misses you greatly. He’d be delighted to see you, don’t take this one chance away from him.”
“You always say it, how can you be sure?”
“Elrond, look at me.” When the boy does, Maglor cradles his cheek. “While the both of you and I share a fëa bond, it’s not the only one you have. There has always been another, pulsing evenly right next to the one I made all those years ago.”
Elros screwed his eyes shut in concentration. “Not Elwing.”
It could never be Elwing, for the nis refused to feed even a speck of fëa to her children even when they were still growing inside her. The only sustenance they ever had was what Earendil had fed them before his voyage. And it had devastated the last surviving sons of Fëanor, when the twins themselves told them of this matter-of-factly, on the first night in the woods.
“No, it’s your adar. He has always been there, keeping a steady eye on you, even from the skies, just like I said.”
Elrond, his fëa more tuned to Song and much more skilled at osanwe, cautiously poked the bond.
“It’s warm,” he said, awe coloring his face. Maglor's heart gave out, but he kept his mask up. You’re not their father, they don’t deserve you. You ruined their lives, he thought, banishing the growing ‘they would have died from fëa malnourishment if they hadn't been in Sirion’ thought deep inside. It changed nothing. Elwing was obsessed with the Silmaril? Just like her father and grandfather before her? So what. It didn’t clean the blood from Maglor’s or his brothers’ blades.
The desire to talk to the elf-man who sired them was evident on their young faces. Despite the resentment crawling up his chest, the minstrel smiled. He could never truly deny his boys anything. Even if it meant killing himself for their happiness.
“You should see him before the battle begins. And after that, we’ll talk.”
“So you won’t just dump us on Gil-Galad and leave without saying goodbye?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“You have my word, yonya.”
The twins looked at each other for a few seconds, then, as one, nodded. “Alright, let's go see Earendil. But you’ll be there, right?”
“Every step of the way, if you wish it,” Maglor nodded, then with a quick peck to their foreheads, he stood up, and hand-in-hand, they walked into the camp.
Walking straight into the camp was easier than Maglor anticipated. Sure, he kept his gaze low, his soft curls obscuring his face from unfriendly gazes, and the twins kept up a brisk pace, walking with purpose, as if they knew the camp like the back of their hands. Still nobody stopped to see just who those three individuals were, moving with purpose through their chaos. Mayhap they assumed Elrond and Elros were Men, as the race of the Secondborn tended to be much much shorter than that of the elves. Or they simply thought their maiar force from Valinor had woven a Girlde around their encampment. Whatever it was left a sour taste in Manglor's mouth. None of them had seen battle. The elves loitered in the corner of his eyes, joyful, exuberant. He overheard one saying that even if he died, he’d turn up in Mandos. It was fine. It was not fine. Let that youngster never see another body burn to ashes right in front of him, or another be cut to pieces and gobbled up like venison by an orc. Arda was merciless, as it was beautiful. And death was terrifying. For Maglor, Death meant eternal darkness, and damnation.
How were they going to win against Morgoth? Did they even have intel? A plan? Nelyo would have a field day. Even Fingolfin would rise from his grave to yell at Ingwion.
Maglor shook his head, tightened his hold on his charges and marched them towards the little ship, moored to the left, away from the main hustle and bustle. A blonde figure could be seen by the sail, staring up at another, feathered one, which towered over him. Eönwë then. Somewhere on that ship was the Silmaril.
Maglor felt his chest squeeze painfully, his very being on fire. His brain was foggy, thick with miasma. Something inside him screamed, deafening his own voice.
The jewel, the jewel, get the jewel, kill anything that stands before you~
Maglor held his chest, trying not to fold down like cloth on the ground or even worse, pull out his sword and go on a murder spree.
Not now, not now, later, I will think of something..later, please please please, stop it, later, I'll GET the jewel, but now twins…
He tightened his hold on his charges, filling his mind with them. Elrond’s first Song, Elros’s first fight with the training sword, their kitchen shenanigans, their first ride on a pony, the lullabies he had written for them. Soon, the fog dissipated. The oath was still there, of course, but for now, he had it under control. He wouldn’t let it turn him into a monster. Not another time. He took a deep breath and marched forth.
The herald swiveled his head around, a little too much like an eagle, and watched the trio approach.
Maglor held his breath. Would the wind maia smite him on the spot? Would he touch his children too, without knowing who they were? He gulped and moistened his lips, in case he needed to Sing them away to safety.
But there was no need. After a few minutes of an intense staredown, Eönwë unfurled his enormous wings and with a powerful gust of wind, flew up and away.
Maglor looked as his silhouette disappeared. There was a promise in that gaze. A talk, smiting, a beating perhaps. Would they whip him into submission for kinslaying? Would Eönwë and his fellow maiar push into his mind and tear any and all defenses, steal the very last secret he held? If Sauron did much worse to those he considered his enemies, wouldn’t Eönwë do the same?
He shuddered. Nelyo would kill him if he bent his knee here. His pride, whatever was left of it wouldn’t let him.
And yet, if it meant Elrond and Elros would be safe, treated fairly, fed, and watered…he would do it in a heartbeat.
He turned back around, and together with his twin boys, they neared the starboard.
Maglor’s heart skipped a beat. Earendil was there, leaning on the wooden railing of the small swan ship. His hair, a mess of dirty-blonde locks, hung loosely around his face, half up in a bun on the top of his head, held by a leather string, half framing his face. The strands were uneven, roguish. Like that of a Man. He had a well-defined jaw, a contrast to the smooth oval of Maglor’s own. He was undeniably beautiful. The minstrel's eyes widened. This was not the time and place for..for these thoughts! But his gaze persisted. Earendil had pronounced cheekbones that framed his face perfectly. His butterfly-shaped lips were open in wonder, and his azure eyes, the same eyes as his twin sons, though lacking Treelight, were ablaze with Silmarili light, raking over them like a hungry shark. From the faces of his children, to Maglor's own.
“Elrond…Elros?” he whispered in disbelief, his deep voice making Maglor shiver from head to toe. Oh no...
“A..adar,” Elros was always the braver one. He came as close as possible to the ship and looked up. Eaerendil’s eyes raked over his, from the fëanorian braids adorning his head to the small scar under his eye, to his tunic, embroidered with the eight-pointed star. His hands twitched at his sides, where they dug into the frame. He looked mournful.
Oh, Maglor realized, he can’t get out of the ship. For some reason, his heart softened. This man was sundered from his children, and even this close, he wouldn't be able to touch them.
“My boys, my precious, beloved boys,” he wailed, tears springing to his eyes. “I am so sorry, please forgive me for my folly! I should have never left!”
Elrond, who had been clinging to Maglor all this time, uncharacteristically yelled. “Well, why didn’t you? All this time, we waited for you to come get us! You got to Valinor, right? And then got the Jewel, too. Why didn’t you ever come down to say something, anything!”
He was heaving, his breath coming in gasps. Maglor pressed a palm to his back and hummed a note under his breath. The boy calmed, sniffed angrily, and turned back to cling to Maglor. The elf in question didn’t dare look up into the beautiful face of the one whose children he’d stolen.
Instead, he petted Elrond’s head and in Elros’s direction, said,
“He can’t. I assume the Valar had forbidden it?” He heard the affirmation. So did the children.
“If I had known, I would have thought of a different solution, but I did not. I heeded the call I should have never chosen. And for that, I am sorry. I…were you happy? Are you happy, healthy?” he asked desperately, whole body shaking with the need to take his children in his arms.
Elros nodded. After a while, so did Elrond. Finally, finally, Maglor looked up at the man. There was a few things he could do here, the first of which being an apology.
“I get for forgiveness, Lord Earendil, for taking your children away from you,” for them calling me atya, for replacing you, he didn’t say out loud, but the thought drummed in his mind so strongly, he might as well have projected it outward.
“Kanafinwë Makalaurë, the famed minstrel of the Noldor, second son of Fëanor,” started the elf-man. Maglor’s heart inappropriately beat out of tandem at the sound of his full name in Quenya from those lips. What was happening? Without much thought, he himself marched forward, almost pressing to Vingilótë.
“While I won’t deny you your wrongs, of which there are many, I do not accept an apology for raising, loving my sons. At Sirion, many made mistakes. Elwing, me, the elders, you and your host. Our greatest was keeping the Silmaril.” He leaned back a bit, gaze flickering with the light of the jewel for a second. It was nowhere near them, noted Maglor, but he could feel it, the oath pulling him even now.
“If you had not come when you did, Morgoth would have. And then I wouldn’t have children to see today. Whole, and hale.”
Maglor’s throat was constructed. He couldn’t get even a single word out. That didn’t excuse the murders, but, but…truly? There was no way this elf was not resentful at all…
He searched the pretty face and found genuine gratitude and a smidge of something else, unfamiliar, but not quite negative. Earendil was searching his own face just as intently, and there was something strange in his gaze. Maglor resisted the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. What did the mariner see?
“Can we go up there?” Elros interrupted whatever it was they were doing.
Earendil shook his head mournfully. “Eönwë forbade anyone but himself to come aboard. I am already on a leash, me being here and not moored in the skies is a boon I asked for. I.. I wanted to see you, even from afar.”
“Fuck Eönwë,” Maglor glared up at the skies.
“Kanafinwë,” oh and didn’t that send a whole new set of shivers down his spine. “There’s truly nothing you can do about it, they..-”
“Watch me!” Maglor smirked and with a grunt, bent down to pick up his boys. They were too big to be carried on his hips, much too big, but the situation demanded sacrifices, even if those were to be his back. He managed to hoist them up, both of them grabbing his shoulders, or one of his loose braids to stay upright. Then he, along with his cargo, leaned onto the ship. Earendil reached out a trembling hand to lay it over Elros’s cheek. Tentative at first, but then he gained confidence and did the same to Elrond. Finally, realizing that they were indeed real, and there, close to touch, he leaned over and gave them both a tight, almost bruising hug, murmuring words of comfort into their hair. All three of them were crying and clinging to each other.
Maglor’s heart soared as he adjusted his grip, lest they fall. From the embrace, Earendil's lazuli eyes trained on him. The minstrel gulped.
A horn sounded somewhere in the distance, and reluctantly, the mariner let go. The trembling boys clung to Maglor, faces wet.
“They are going over the plans for the initial assault,” he stated, voice cracking. “I..Eönwë will be back with the news. The others will probably come here as well.”
The children turned fearful eyes at Maglor, who laid his forehead against Elrond's and sighed.
“I will stay, those buffoons need someone who has been through the hell Morgoth can put up. And you two will go to Gil-Galad. I will fight this battle, this last stand.”
“Uncle Timo would too,” stated Elros matter-of-factly. And yes, his brother would.
“We welcome any help,” whispered Earendil. “You held the Gap for centuries, and you have seen the might of Dragons. Maedhros One-Handed and his unparalleled skill of War would be an asset. We..I’ll talk to Eönwë, and Finarfin. Whatever has happened, we can discuss it later. Morgoth first.”
“Morgoth first,” agreed Maglor.
As they prepared to leave, Earendil leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on Elros’s forehead.
“One for you,” he said, then turned and pecked Elrond as well. “One for you…”
Both boys pinked, smiling bashfully. Maglor could feel the bond with their birth father pulse with love. There it was again, a bittersweet feeling curling over his heart. He’d honestly rather have the oath.
Before he could wallow in that, the mariner turned to him, leaning out as far as he could. His face was close, too close, and those eyes were boring into him, that unidentifiable something in his gaze much more intense. Maglor’s breath hitched. Earendil was beautiful. Up close, he could see each eyelash framing those curved eyes. He had a mole under one of them. Suddenly he was glad his hands were occupied, or else he might just forget who exactly was in front of him and let them wander to forbidden places. Like his cheek, or lips, or that mane of untamed golden hair.
The half-elven smirked, a hint of fang peeking through. Maglor licked his lips.
“And one, Kanafinwë…” he whispered, and cupped the minstrel’s face gently, fingers half burying themselves in the silky ebony hair, curling behind his pointed ears.
His skin warmed under those hands, gently caressing. He felt a pinkie wonder to his pulse point, which was beating erratically. Their noses were touching. Maglor blushed something fierce, knowing that his freckles, the only trait he had gotten from his redhead mother, usually as pale as him, were fully on display on the red canvas that was his face, like a shameful secret.
“..for you.” With that, Earendil tipped his head and kissed Maglor fully on the lips.
A sense of fulfillment and longing and home filled Maglor, and for once in his miserable life in Arda, his oath was forgotten, replaced by a sudden flame of desire. Before he could unfreeze and do something about it, it had ended, and Earendil was already moving away, to the depth of Vingilótë.
Maglor’s lips were tingling, his face still red. And his heart was beating up a tune unfamiliar. There was a yearning deep inside him.
Slowly, he peeled his eyes from the retreating back of the kiss thief to reality. Namely, to Elrond and Elros, both of whom were gawking at him.
Nelyo was right, he thought idly. This was a bad idea.
His heart, however, seemed to think otherwise.