As little might be thought
Mar. 14th, 2025 09:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
0ur_ouroborosAuthor: 0ur_Ouroboros
Elros never returned.
Sensing his brother's absence throughout the vast, once-splendid fortress, Elrond jolts awake in a cold sweat.
The young wards of Maglor (and, in theory, Maedhros) have only just negotiated their first freedom. After months of begging and pleading, Maglor has agreed to allow unsupervised visits to the mannish village that's down the hill on Amon Ereb's north slope. "As long as you remain together," Maglor had emphasized. “You are to tell me where you are going, who you will see, and when you'll return. Should you shoulder the privilege responsibly, I may grant you another.”
“That's fair, aye, Elros?” Elrond had looked to him then with a prodding nod. Elros had responded by rolling his eyes.
“And further," Maglor emphasized. "Never are you to stay overnight. No exceptions.”
That was less than a week prior, and already Elros has jeopardized it.
The village folk cannot tell them apart, so they love the two half-elven boys the same. They lavish them both with attention, baked treats, and gasps of how big you’ve grown each time Elrond and Elros venture downhill. Just last night in the tavern, Elros had been delighting them with songs of slayings and silmarils while sots kept shoving tankards at them both.
Melodies Maglor had taught them. Only, Elrond doesn’t think Maglor was celebrating, unlike Elros’ bright major key shifts suggested.
“Where is he?” Maglor storms into Elrond's room, interrupting his thoughts; Maglor scowls at the sight of him. “Just why are you still in bed?”
Elrond’s head hurts. “They kept bringing me ale, cheering the faster we drank,” he confesses, rubbing his temples.
“Where’s Elros?” Maglor hisses.
“He was right behind me, I swear—”
“No swearing.”
“I should’ve waited up. I was so tired, and he kept singing -"
“Get dressed,” Maglor throws Elrond’s wrinkled tunic at him. “We’re going to find him,” before mumbling in disbelief that he can’t even trust them to stumble half a furlong home. At their age.
Caranthir’s fortifications hold fast and protect them, but when it comes to the twins, logic has never applied. Maglor will allow no opportunity to pass when he could otherwise fret for their lives.
Elrond’s head aches too much today for that tired argument.
“Now,” Maglor insists.
“Coming.” Elrond groans as he is assaulted by a whiff of his tunic; its stench a foul amalgam of stale ale, sweat, and smoke. He would find something clean to wear, were Maglor not teetering dangerously on the verge of the latest breakdown.
“Here, eat something,” Maglor shoves him piece of bread.
“I’m not hungry.”
Maglor frowns. “Eat.”
Elrond takes a small bite to appease him, looking back as he walks into the hall and smack into Maedhros’ chest.
Elrond looks up.
Maedhros isn’t smiling. “You reek.”
Elrond stammers he’s sorry, he’ll be more careful, Elros was right behind him, but Maedhros is already a full fathom down the hill.
“He’s coming?” Elrond whispers. Maglor raises his eyebrows, not a lick of sympathy. "Should have better thought this through, aye?"
Elrond panics. If Maglor could drag Maedhros away from, well, whatever Maedhros does, they are really in trouble.
In silence they reach the tavern door. Maedhros doesn’t let the fact it's barely dawn stop him from rapping a series of increasingly aggressive knocks.
“Coming,” grumbles the old man who keeps the small inn above. A moment passes. A creak of rusty door hinges.
The elf-lords’ glare commands attention; confused, the innkeeper clears his throat before spotting Elrond squirming to avoid eye contact.
His toothless grin flashes. “If it ain’t the other one! Come in, you sad wet bastard.” He pats Elrond’s arm affectionately. “Rough night, eh? Brother’s asleep upstairs. Took three men to carry the little bugger,” he chuckles.
“How’d ye’ like to pay for his room?” He directs his attention to Maedhros and Maglor. Maedhros hands him something Elrond can’t see. Maglor is half-up the stairs, banging the walls with his fist.
“Elerossë!” Maglor yells before unleashing a barrage of Quenya, notions apparently deemed unfit for more deliberate lessons.
Elros appears — hair half-unbraided, clad only in trousers.
“If it isn’t the return of the Noldor,” Elros jeers, leaning against the door frame with his arms folded.
Snarling, Maglor stalks closer. Maedhros keeps his distance.
“Out,” Maglor commands. “Now.”
“Get fucked,” Elros says, his Quenya perfectly accented. Elrond blinks; he never realized Elros paid Maglor’s lessons attention.
“What?” Maglor snaps, lording a head above.
“You heard me, you murderous bastards,” Elros says, unintimidated. "Fuck off and take your jewel-fetish with you. I've got something you can swear on – ”
Maglor lunges but Maedhros is quicker; he pulls him back.
The inn’s wide-eyed occupants are looking on in disbelief, deciding what they should (or likely shouldn’t) do to intervene. It’s the crack of dawn, and their lords are shouting in their own lyrical tongue looking for all the world on the verge of a crime.
Truly undignified, Elrond considers. It is exactly what Elros wants. His brother is delighting with the opportunity to goad Maglor in public. Yet Maedhros is stronger than Maglor, and wiser too. He shoves Maglor against the wall, his right forearm pinning him, left hand preventing any brandishing of weaponry.
“Enough,” Maedhros says. Maglor's lip quivers for a moment before Maedhros releases him.
Clearing his throat, Maglor smoothes his tunic. He casts Elros a final glare before following Maedhros downstairs.
Elrond is torn between going home (well, insofar as he has one) to face the Fëanorians' fury alone, or committing the flagrant act of disobedience of remaining here to comfort his brother, who is clearly having a moment.
In the end, he stays. He takes his brother’s hand, and they sit side-by-side on the straw mattress. With hushed whispers, the voyeurs slowly return to their rooms.
Elrond and Elros sit in silence, together, watching the sun blaze away the new star in the sky.
Title: As little might be thought
Text type / Format: Ficlet, Prompt fill
Source / Fandom: Silmarillion
Rating: T
Word Count: 1000 (!)
Summary:
Elros appears — hair half-unbraided, clad only in trousers. “If it isn’t the return of the Noldor,” he jeers, leaning against the door frame with his arms folded.
Snarling, Maglor stalks closer. Maedhros keeps his distance. "Out,” Maglor commands. “Now.”
“Get fucked,” Elros says, his Quenya perfectly accented. Elrond blinks; he never realized Elros paid Maglor’s lessons attention. “You heard me, you murderous bastards,” Elros says, unintimidated. "Fuck off and take your jewel-fetish with you. I've got something you can swear on – ”
Maglor lunges but Maedhros is quicker, and he pulls him back.
~~~
Given his first taste of freedom, Elros pushes his limits.
Elros never returned.
Sensing his brother's absence throughout the vast, once-splendid fortress, Elrond jolts awake in a cold sweat.
The young wards of Maglor (and, in theory, Maedhros) have only just negotiated their first freedom. After months of begging and pleading, Maglor has agreed to allow unsupervised visits to the mannish village that's down the hill on Amon Ereb's north slope. "As long as you remain together," Maglor had emphasized. “You are to tell me where you are going, who you will see, and when you'll return. Should you shoulder the privilege responsibly, I may grant you another.”
“That's fair, aye, Elros?” Elrond had looked to him then with a prodding nod. Elros had responded by rolling his eyes.
“And further," Maglor emphasized. "Never are you to stay overnight. No exceptions.”
That was less than a week prior, and already Elros has jeopardized it.
The village folk cannot tell them apart, so they love the two half-elven boys the same. They lavish them both with attention, baked treats, and gasps of how big you’ve grown each time Elrond and Elros venture downhill. Just last night in the tavern, Elros had been delighting them with songs of slayings and silmarils while sots kept shoving tankards at them both.
Melodies Maglor had taught them. Only, Elrond doesn’t think Maglor was celebrating, unlike Elros’ bright major key shifts suggested.
“Where is he?” Maglor storms into Elrond's room, interrupting his thoughts; Maglor scowls at the sight of him. “Just why are you still in bed?”
Elrond’s head hurts. “They kept bringing me ale, cheering the faster we drank,” he confesses, rubbing his temples.
“Where’s Elros?” Maglor hisses.
“He was right behind me, I swear—”
“No swearing.”
“I should’ve waited up. I was so tired, and he kept singing -"
“Get dressed,” Maglor throws Elrond’s wrinkled tunic at him. “We’re going to find him,” before mumbling in disbelief that he can’t even trust them to stumble half a furlong home. At their age.
Caranthir’s fortifications hold fast and protect them, but when it comes to the twins, logic has never applied. Maglor will allow no opportunity to pass when he could otherwise fret for their lives.
Elrond’s head aches too much today for that tired argument.
“Now,” Maglor insists.
“Coming.” Elrond groans as he is assaulted by a whiff of his tunic; its stench a foul amalgam of stale ale, sweat, and smoke. He would find something clean to wear, were Maglor not teetering dangerously on the verge of the latest breakdown.
“Here, eat something,” Maglor shoves him piece of bread.
“I’m not hungry.”
Maglor frowns. “Eat.”
Elrond takes a small bite to appease him, looking back as he walks into the hall and smack into Maedhros’ chest.
Elrond looks up.
Maedhros isn’t smiling. “You reek.”
Elrond stammers he’s sorry, he’ll be more careful, Elros was right behind him, but Maedhros is already a full fathom down the hill.
“He’s coming?” Elrond whispers. Maglor raises his eyebrows, not a lick of sympathy. "Should have better thought this through, aye?"
Elrond panics. If Maglor could drag Maedhros away from, well, whatever Maedhros does, they are really in trouble.
In silence they reach the tavern door. Maedhros doesn’t let the fact it's barely dawn stop him from rapping a series of increasingly aggressive knocks.
“Coming,” grumbles the old man who keeps the small inn above. A moment passes. A creak of rusty door hinges.
The elf-lords’ glare commands attention; confused, the innkeeper clears his throat before spotting Elrond squirming to avoid eye contact.
His toothless grin flashes. “If it ain’t the other one! Come in, you sad wet bastard.” He pats Elrond’s arm affectionately. “Rough night, eh? Brother’s asleep upstairs. Took three men to carry the little bugger,” he chuckles.
“How’d ye’ like to pay for his room?” He directs his attention to Maedhros and Maglor. Maedhros hands him something Elrond can’t see. Maglor is half-up the stairs, banging the walls with his fist.
“Elerossë!” Maglor yells before unleashing a barrage of Quenya, notions apparently deemed unfit for more deliberate lessons.
Elros appears — hair half-unbraided, clad only in trousers.
“If it isn’t the return of the Noldor,” Elros jeers, leaning against the door frame with his arms folded.
Snarling, Maglor stalks closer. Maedhros keeps his distance.
“Out,” Maglor commands. “Now.”
“Get fucked,” Elros says, his Quenya perfectly accented. Elrond blinks; he never realized Elros paid Maglor’s lessons attention.
“What?” Maglor snaps, lording a head above.
“You heard me, you murderous bastards,” Elros says, unintimidated. "Fuck off and take your jewel-fetish with you. I've got something you can swear on – ”
Maglor lunges but Maedhros is quicker; he pulls him back.
The inn’s wide-eyed occupants are looking on in disbelief, deciding what they should (or likely shouldn’t) do to intervene. It’s the crack of dawn, and their lords are shouting in their own lyrical tongue looking for all the world on the verge of a crime.
Truly undignified, Elrond considers. It is exactly what Elros wants. His brother is delighting with the opportunity to goad Maglor in public. Yet Maedhros is stronger than Maglor, and wiser too. He shoves Maglor against the wall, his right forearm pinning him, left hand preventing any brandishing of weaponry.
“Enough,” Maedhros says. Maglor's lip quivers for a moment before Maedhros releases him.
Clearing his throat, Maglor smoothes his tunic. He casts Elros a final glare before following Maedhros downstairs.
Elrond is torn between going home (well, insofar as he has one) to face the Fëanorians' fury alone, or committing the flagrant act of disobedience of remaining here to comfort his brother, who is clearly having a moment.
In the end, he stays. He takes his brother’s hand, and they sit side-by-side on the straw mattress. With hushed whispers, the voyeurs slowly return to their rooms.
Elrond and Elros sit in silence, together, watching the sun blaze away the new star in the sky.
