Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sometimes, Maedhros wonders if despite his best efforts, one day someone will see Maglor exactly for the way he is.

Not Maglor the Mighty, Maglor the Fell-voiced, that all of Beleriand knows, but the deluded and aberrant little Laurë that Maedhros knows him as. The most brittle of the brothers. Maglor the Unstable. Lord of the Gap, of the Unsound Mind. Maglor, the Heart of Lothlann, with his heart empty and wide, like the plains.

Of course, everyone in their immediate family knows. Knew. It was something they never spoke of, though everyone—atya, ammë, all their brothers—surely noticed. It was Maedhros’s unspoken duty to keep all his brothers in check but Maglor above all. Celegorm’s recklessness, Curufin’s cruelty, all of it could be spun into a narrative fitting for the family of Fëanor but not Maglor’s true nature.

He does suspect the twins—not their twin brothers, but Elros and Elrond, Maglor’s play-dolls—will come to understand it later in their life, when they are grown and think of their strange upbringing and then, a single moment will turn everything about their past upside down. Something will not add up, and they will dig into their memories. The pieces will fall into place and they will not form a lovely picture.

They will discover the lies.

Perhaps, they will hear the epithet Maedhros and Maglor and their now-lost brothers have had in common since what took place in Menegroth. They will hear it, and be horrified.

Death of Doriath.

They will wonder the true roles Maedhros and Maglor played in their lives, in deciding their fates. They will wonder of either of them ever cared at all.

(Maedhros knows Maglor thinks he does. Maglor thinks he has done a good thing by nurturing them, that he has done it out of some sort of love, instead some twisted sort of atonement. Maglor thinks the twins will come to reminisce him with warmth and gratitude, instead of horror and disgust and pity.)

Perhaps, it is the one gift Maedhros will give them. By shattering their memories, he will make them strong. Strong enough to rule kingdoms, to be what Beleriand and all the lands out there will need to overcome the enemy now, and the enemies to come. Strong and clever, good and wise rulers. For Maedhros knows that one day, rulers they will be. One way or the other.

But for now, they are just little children, somehow wound up with the murderers of their kin as their foster family. It is not yet the day for the truth, Maedhros can agree with Maglor on that.

For now, Maedhros will let Maglor to play the role of mother in their strange little family.

Ammë had sent Nelyafinwë to look for Kanafinwë and as it happened, he knew just where to find him. His little brother had took off after an incident involving ammë, atya, and little Tyelkormo. Nelyafinwë did not know what exactly gone down but he could imagine. Kanafinwë had said something you are not supposed to say to one’s younger sibling, and their parents had been upset, and Kanafinwë had been even more upset, in return.

It had not been first such occasion, either. This time, it seemed this incident—it is what ammë and atya referred to these things as—had not even included Káno seizing Tyelko and taking him somewhere far away from Tirion to raise him as his own son without the pressive atmosphere of their parents’ home, for in Kanafinwë’s opinion on that very day, Tyelkormo deserved to live and grow as free as a lynx.

Everyone inclined to give their opinion on the matter kept saying all of it was Kanafinwë reacting to the birth of their baby brother, the little silver-haired Tyelkormo, but Nelyafinwë knew it was not only that. Kanafinwë had always been… a little unsettling, to keen eyes, not quite like all the other elf-children in Aman. Always just barely hanging in balance. It just seemed that Nelyo had been the only one to notice.

After all, Nelyafinwë had been the first to understand and help communicate that he had a little brother, not a little sister as had been blindly presumed by all. Nelyafinwë knew Káno best, in every way. In truth, he believed he was the only one who understood his brother, at all. No one loved Kanafinwë like he did, and no one loved him like Kanafinwë did.

So, Nelyafinwë believed it was up to rein his brother in, to make sure the scales would never tip, if he wanted his brother to remain by his side for ever, and ever.

He might have only been in his adolescence but he already knew the way of things in their so-called Blessed Realm. He knew enough to understand that he had to protect his brother from the world, from their father, from the valar, from everything, if he wanted to keep him safe. It was all up to him.

Nelyafinwë found Kanafinwë by the forest creek he knew he would. Kanafinwë had once told him he liked the place because there, the water sang to him and the words were not unkind unlike the jibes the fountains at Tirion spewed at him. He could not blame him—who would not pick the friendlier option if you had one?

Kanafinwë was squatted by the waterline. Nelyafinwë sat cross-legged next to him, did not say a word. His brother had two dolls, mahogany, carved by ammë, and he was humming a soft tune, yet one that had something unsaid, angrier, looming beneath the surface.

The dolls were staring at the creek, an unfathomable vastness to them. Nelyafinwë felt on edge, on behalf of them, but maintained a facade of calm, for his brother. Kanafinwë stared at the flowing water, as did the two dolls, as did Nelyafinwë.

”I suppose you are here to fetch me back,” Kanafinwë said, eventually. There was no blame in his voice. He knew Nelyafinwë was a mere messenger.

”I am,” Nelyafinwë agreed.

”Are they terribly wroth at me?” Kanafinwë asked. He turned to look at his brother. His tidepool eyes were not upset, merely curious, if a little resigned.

What difference does it make, when we know we will not talk about it? Nelyafinwë wanted to ask. Instead, he said: ”Not terribly. It will pass, my Káno.”

Kanafinwë sighed. ”I suppose we must go, then.”

”Afraid so.”

Kanafinwë gathered the dolls in his arms, cradled them tenderly. Nelyafinwë stood up. ”Well, then, my dear children. I must apologize but today is not the day you become one with the water. Not yet.”

It is not quite guilt that drives Maedhros—at a certain point, he has stopped feeling such emotion, if he ever even truly did—but something akin to it that drives him to nurture his brother, from time to time. Whenever Maglor’s state of mind starts seeming a little too frail, whenever it seems he needs to be coaxed back to ostensible functionality.

Perhaps, though he is loath to admit it, it is also to make up what could have been but is not, to help mend the wound Maglor carries with him. Even though it is not Maedhros’s fault.

(There is nothing Maedhros could have done, that is what he keeps telling himself. It is true, it is true, it is true. It would not have made a difference, had he been there. There is nothing he could have done.)

The twins are deep in sleep in the next room, and Maedhros moves like a wraith from his own cot to Maglor’s. His brother sighs, pleased, unsurprised, welcoming, and spreads his legs when Maedhros touches his knees.

No words are needed.

Maglor carefully gathers Maedhros’s locks to keep them from falling on his face, on the way, and holds them—gently at first, more roughly when Maedhros’s mouth descends on his cunt. Maglor quickly melts into Maedhros’s clemency, his hips softly undulating against the movements of Maedhros’s tongue.

In the quiet of the night, Maglor’s sighs are the most beautiful thing Maedhros knows.

Soon, Maedhros has to place his hands on his brother’s belly to placate his upwards bucking hips. He can tell Maglor is close to the brink, about to crash, but he sees no need to try to prolong it. After all, tonguing his brother’s cunt is not the only act of affection he has planned for the night.

Maedhros’s hair falls down to hide his face when Maglor comes and covers his mouth with both his hands, forgoing his hold of Maedhros’s auburn locks. Maedhros loosens his hold on Maglor’s hips, too, and lets him ride out his orgasm against his face, lets him make a mess, as it is the way he knows Maglor most likes it.

When Maglor’s frenzy subsidies, Maedhros stirs back and wipes his mouth on the sheets. He moves to sit next to Maglor, and Maglor’s hand slithers to squeeze his thigh. It is not too dark for them to look each other in the eyes, if they wanted to, but Maedhros still refrains from it.

Instead, he whispers: ”Turn around.”

Maglor does so, gracefully, cat-like, but not before flashing him a drowsy smile that Maedhros cannot help but to catch in his vision. Then, Maedhros settles to sit on top of Maglor, on his thighs, and from the surprised sigh Maglor lets out, he knows he hadn’t been expecting this, exactly, when Maedhros begins massaging his back.

Again, Maglor pliantly melts into the touch, takes the offered affection without hassle.

Only after Maedhros has gone through the knots and stiffnesses on Maglor’s body, after Maglor feels like mere puddle of relaxed muscle beneath him, he allows himself to pay attention his own needs, his cock twitching with need inside of his breeches.

Right as he is about to do something about it, Maglor lifts his ass off the bed, ever so slightly, as if in invitation, and murmurs: ”Please tell me you are going to fuck me tonight.”

Maedhros smiles at that. ”Do not worry, Káno, I am. Right now, as a matter of fact.”

He does not need to try out of his brother is wet enough for him—he knows he is, Maglor is always dripping after he’s had Maedhros’s mouth on him—but he still slides his fingers to the pool of Maglor’s thighs, gifting his needy cunt a few lazy thrusts. Maglor is close to whimpering but manages to stifle it with his pillow.

When Maedhros thrusts inside Maglor, he bends down to lower his weight on his brother, envelops him with his tall frame, for he knows Maglor loves the suffocating comfort of it. Maglor’s hands he envelops with his own, too, and perhaps squeezes them a little too tightly, with a little too much force, but Maglor does not seem to mind. When he comes, he bites into Maglor’s shoulder, perhaps with a little too much force.

Maglor takes it with the grace of a devotee, though. His little ladybug.