Where the Drifts run deepest

Series: Half-breeds
Characters: Maglor, Maedhros, Muinselde (OFC), Avari, and other various elves and creatures.
Timeline: First Age (Winter) – sometime after the Dagor Aglareb, probably about I 90.
Setting: Maglor and Maedhros’ neighboring realms
Unbetaed thus far

Coine – “alive”
Sere – “peace”
Ancale – “radiant one”
Vilwarin – “butterfly”
Almare – “blessed”
Alasse – “joy”
Verca – “crazy”
Vanwa – “lost”
Erin – “isolated”
Muinselde – “hidden child”

----

Two lone elves sat at a redwood table, four black marble griffins carrying the weight of the top on their backs. It was bare except for a wooden board with the remnants of cheese and bread, a serrated knife perched on the side, and a three-tiered candelabrum worked into a golden complex of vines, leaves, and blossoms.

One figure leaned forward in his seat, staring at the other, while his fingers idly traced pictures in the crumbs. Occasionally he tugged at the end of one of his thick black braids. The other slumped in his chair opposite from the dark haired one. His fiery hair fell in disarray about his shoulders, contrasting sharply against the midnight blue of his tunic. He cupped a jewel-encrusted goblet in one hand, swirling and staring into the wine.

“What do you see, brother?” Maglor inquired.

Maedhros did not acknowledge him and continued to stare into his wine, watching the light from the tapered candles in the center of the table flicker patterns in the red liquid.

“Do you fancy it prophetic mirror?”

Maedhros shoved the goblet away, paying no heed to the splashes on the table. Elbows on the table he stared beyond his brother, chin supported by a handless wrist. The ends of his fiery hair dipped into the droplets of wine. Slowly, he rocked his head, massaging his chin on his nub.

“Do the others regret what we have done?”

Maglor tossed back his wine and clunked his goblet on the table. He scratched the edge of his temple and yawned, “I do not believe so.”

Maedhros ran a finger through the puddle and sucked the wine off his finger. “Only we two realize the curse that is our oath,” he sighed and leaned against the velvet back of his chair.

“We have a new nephew, Celebrimbor. Curufin has a son.” Maglor pushed back his chair and rose. He crossed the few steps to the serving bowls of wine and refilled his cup, dipping it into the deep pool of drink.

“Has he wed?”

“I know not,” Maglor poured half his goblet into his brother’s. “Drink and forget about it for a moment.”

Maedhros frowned but drank. “If I forget, then I only expound the curse. Damn, I am out of my head,” he groaned, setting the goblet down again, leaning forward and covering his face with his left hand.

---

Snow powdered the hills surrounding the citadel and stone halls of Maglor, windows facing the mountains. A lone sentinel ran through, booted feet echoing down the halls. A pounding followed his retreating figure.

---

“Well, did you find a prophecy in that wine,” Maglor reached across the table and grabbed Maedhros’ empty goblet.

“What, you mean besides our doom?”

Maglor chuckled and drank the remnant drops pooling at the bottom of the vessel. He tossed the cup to the floor and waved his arms in a wide arc about the room. Maedhros followed the fluttering fingers, taking in all that he pointed to in the bare stone room, the beams far above its only decoration.

“Now that I have tasted of prophecy,” Maglor’s voice increased in volume and dramatics, “I fancy myself a prophet, dear brother.” He rose from his seat and circled the table to stand directly behind Maedhros.

Maedhros half turned in his seat, his arms poised on the armrests of the chair, his eyes narrowed and watching his brother.

“—You shall have at least one day of—”

“My lords!”

Maglor dropped his arms and his smile; Maedhros shoved back his chair and stood unsteadily. A distraught sentinel clung to the door, his other hand gripping his sword as if he expected find some unknown danger lurking in this room with his lords.

The brothers glanced at each other in question, then back to the sentinel.

---

Dark maiar and Morgoth, orcs, any other creature from the black halls of Angband, these would have been a source of panic, or at least worry, for the Noldorin princes.

Though the pain had long dulled, Maedhros had not forgotten the fury of Morgoth; every time he reached for something with his right hand, ghostly fingers grasping but never touching anything. Those times were now few and far between, but in an occasional moment he would wake-up and those jewels had never existed. He had never sworn, never killed, never done many things that he regretted.

But then he would fully wake and shudder, long dried tears rolling down his cheeks, when his fingers would not feel.

Maglor tore him from his thoughts, shaking Maedhros’ shoulder and pulling him closer to the edge of the tower. Over the battlements they peered down at the source of their sentinel’s worry. Snow flurries drifted past them and into their hair, down over the stone of the citadel to swirl up and over the huddled forms waiting at their door, a dark spot upon the field of white.

“What? Who are they,” Maedhros looked at his brother.

“A pitiful band of mountain Avari, I would think. But why they have chosen to cross the plains to our doors, I do not know,” Maglor turned away and quickly made his way to the sentinel waiting at the top of the stairs. “Give them haven. I would not wish to leave any of my kin in the cold, even if they are Avari.” The sentinel disappeared, and Maglor turned back to Maedhros. “I suspect something has happened. Of their kind, not many have graced us with their presence, but out of dire need.”

---

The pitiful Avari were obviously not so once gathered into the warm great hall. And their numbers were much less than they had originally thought, only ten stood now in Maglor’s care. Ten proud and tall, heads carried high, cloaked in black fur, hoods shadowing their faces, these elves stood silent, as if waiting for their host to speak first before explaining themselves.

Maglor flicked his attention over them, appraising each individual. At each entrance stood two sentinels, seemingly relaxed, but poised and ready.

“Wolves?” He reached out and touched the cloak of a female. She did not move away but nodded. He looked over his shoulder at Maedhros and chuckled playfully in Quenyan, “At least we know she understands some Sindarin. I thought most of these Avari were savage and knew not any civilized tongue.”

Standing several feet behind his brother, Maedhros opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the female.

“We may not be civilized by your standards, but we know enough to be wary of those who burn ships on our shores,” she answered in High Elven. Two pale hands emerged from her cloak and pulled back her hood, black hair spilling out in curling waves.

Maedhros stumbled mentally; his frame shifted slightly.

Maglor’s smirk softened into a smile, though she did not return the smile, her green eyes glittering in a frown.

One of her companions stepped forward, touching her shoulder. She turned, and their heads leaned together as the other whispered in a strange harsh language. Nodding, she turned back to Maglor and Maedhros.

“We are seeking sanctuary and rest before we move on.”

Maglor frowned, “Before I agree, I want to see all of you. Any weapons you carry.” He crossed his arms, pulling the red silk of his tunic tight across his shoulders and chest.

She half-raised her hand, two fingers extended, flicking them forward. Her companions pulled back their hoods, and Maglor and Maedhros’ eyes widened, Maglor uncrossing his arms and dropping them to his sides.

Hardened warriors from centuries of death and war, they knew and understood the horrors such a life could reveal. But never had they seen such as this; this had not been inflicted in the contact of war or by warriors of any kind.

“Sweet Elbereth,” Maglor swore beneath his breath, Maedhros wordlessly mouthing the same behind him. The contrast stunned them, their stomachs churning at the sight, between the first female and the others.

“What has happened to you,” Maedhros spoke his first, stepping forward and reaching out to touch a male, and suddenly pulling his hand back when he realized what he was doing. The male arched his neck toward the elleth, exposing a patch of scarred flesh where an ear should have been, his hair pulled back into a leather thong. Disorganized patterns of tiny scars covered the side of his face along the temple and down to his neck. Maedhros grasped the nub of his wrist, feeling a pang of familiarity with these elves. “Morgoth,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she replied, and he jerked his head up and caught her eye. She quickly glanced down at his hand rubbing nervously over his wrist, and then back to Maglor. “Do we meet with your approval? May we pass a few days under your roof?”

Clearing his throat Maglor answered, “Indeed,” his voice barely above a whisper. He started to speak again.

“Brother, I will see to them,” Maedhros stopped him, his handless wrist against Maglor’s chest. Maglor looked down, instantly understanding.

Smiling, Maglor bowed to his guests, “Consider my home yours.”

---

With the rising of Ithil, the clouds cleared away allowing the silver rays to cast their sparkling light across the bluish snow. Maedhros leaned against the tower’s edge, elbows resting on the flat surface of stone; he peered absentmindedly out into the night across the Gap of Maglor to the hills in the distance and beyond that the silhouettes of the mountains. The pain had returned in sharp clarity, the feel of the iron shackle, of Fingon’s sword slicing through his flesh and bone, with each time he looked at a scarred Avar.

That they had been inflicted by Morgoth, he knew that much, but he had not asked, nor had they offered, how or why.

Wordlessly they had followed him, the fur of their cloaks whispering in the corridors he led them through. The distraught sentinel, who had burst upon his brother and he, had finally explained his distress. They had shown their faces to him, and he had fled to Maglor and Maedhros, but had not the words to describe what he had seen. They were sick parodies of elves, but not orcs.

Maedhros blinked, still staring at the snow. Not Orcs, he wondered, stood, and stretched. His grandfathers had spoken of missing elves back in the Far East, and it was a general belief, among Noldor and Sindar alike, that the orcs had once been elves. Could these be survivors?

----

Maglor shuddered and sat down in a lone straight-back chair set before the fire-hearth. His private chamber was just as bare as the dining hall, the only thing of any great beauty the bed carved with scenes of Valinor that only he and his brothers would understand, if any were to come this far into his privacy. Everything else was of the simplest design, no decorative carvings or paintings. Plain tapestries insulated the walls; no idyllic scenes of nature or elven life calmed him. No rug adorned the floor; the bedcovering was nothing more than a plain green cloth quilted with a simple design of interlocking rings. One circular window gave him a view of the hills beyond his citadel. He could cross the room in four paces one direction and six in the other.

Maglor sat with both legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his chin resting on his chest, brown eyes staring into the fire. He twiddled his thumbs, drawing quick circles around his thumbs; his hands settled on his stomach, fingers interlocked.

It was a shocking contrast, and in all his days, from the very horrors he had experienced to those he inflicted on his own kin, nothing had shocked him as the mutilations he had seen downstairs moments earlier. At first he had seen their faces all at once, and after that could only focus on one scar at a time, his mind refusing to pull back and view the entire picture as a whole again. Except for one, the first female. Her eyes reflected all their pain and scars.

Dark emerald irises with flecks of silver had darted about the room, as if scanning a territory for some unseen danger, the only sign of movement from her body.

He was no stranger to dismemberments, or other gruesome injuries, but the scars of war, inflicted by fell creature and elf, eventually faded away. Except one, the only one he knew to have been tortured by the Dark Lord himself.

Maedhros…the silvery slivers of scar tissue still decorated the skin of his wrist.

Maglor blinked at the fire and focused, his pupil’s dilating. Morgoth had been the only he knew to inflict such scars as would never disappear—despite elven healing abilities. Could these be other survivors of such tortures?

He started, someone knocked softly on the door of the sitting room connected to his bedchamber.

“Maglor,” the muffled voice of his brother. Maglor shifted, stretching his arms over his head and pulling his long-limbed, lean form from the chair. Bumping into the lyre leaning against the chair legs, he scooped it up and entered the adjoining room. He tugged a cord dangling in the doorway between bedroom and sitting room, and a heavy woven cloth fell down, blocking the chamber from view.

“Enter, Maedhros,” Maglor leaned his hip against a plain oaken wine-cabinet, lyre tucked beneath his arm; he picked up the bottle on top and poured two pewter goblets full. He carried one to his brother who poked his head through the door and immediately saw his brother in the tiny room. Depositing the cup into Maedhros’ hand, Maglor took the other and crossed the room, settling on the fur rug spread before the hearth. Stretching out his body, he leaned back on his elbows, lyre against him, and watched his brother think through the decision to join him on the rug.

Maedhros shut the door carefully and sat cross-legged on the rug, across from his brother. He chewed the nail of his pinky, staring blankly at the floor.

“So, which of Curufin’s many lovers do you think it was?”

Maedhros looked up sharply at Maglor’s grim smile, “Does it matter? The point is that the curse will continue beyond our generation after we are dead.”

Maglor sipped. Setting the goblet down, he sat up and picked up the lyre, holding it against his leg while his fingers idly strummed the strings. “You still hold to that prophecy of doom—”

“—So do you.” Maedhros knocked back his drink.

Maglor hit a sour note.

“What of those creatures harbored beneath my roof? What do you make of them?”

Maedhros again found his pinky nail tasty and eye contact an impossible demand. “I wonder only at all our dark brethren have experienced since our grandfathers left those ancient waters. How many more are so disfigured?”

Maglor plucked a minor tune, “Here we sit bemoaning our fate,” he repositioned the lyre and strummed it like a lute. “When others discovered of late have had a worser fate.” He hit a purposeful sour note, and Maedhros smiled weakly.

-----

Morning rays filtered through the curtains gently blowing, and Maedhros sat up suddenly, looking around bewildered. Freezing his movements, he registered where he was and flopped back on the bed, sheets and blankets tangled in his legs. His fingers combed through the tangles at his temples, stretching up and above his head and down to his sides, his feet kicking the bedclothes from his legs.

He felt disembodied from reality, as he always did when visiting Maglor. Life had quieted, since the Dagor Aglareb and the Siege had been set forth. The sons of Fëanor, and their cousins the sons of Fingolfin and Finarfin, had founded other kingdoms and princedoms, duchies and lordships, had also entered into a lull of activity, and peace for the time seemed prevalent

Maedhros swung his feet over the edge of the bed, taking in the scene of his chambers, so orderly and neat, sparse but comfortable. A burgundy and cream woven rug, fringed in gold, and green ivy embroidery along the border, warmed his feet against the stone of the floor. He walked across the room, pulling off his sleep pants, poured water in the stoneware basin and plunged his hands. Splashing the frigid water on his face, he shivered slightly and let it drip of his face for a moment, reveling in the cool waking him fully. He dried off on the hand towel hanging on the wall next to the basin cabinet.

Gathering his clothing off the floor, he dressed and left, leaving his rumpled bedclothes dangling on the floor.

~

Maglor entered the great hall, blinked twice at the Avari gathered around his table. Dressed in all black wool, they sat in silence, their demeanor completely somber.

His serving elves needed no instruction and had seen to the serving of food to his guests. Fruits, breads, and various cheeses graced the table in a generous feast, gold and silver platters piled high, decanters of wine and goblets spread through. He had the feeling that the elves had been there for some time, as he noticed that the cheese was hardening around the edges, yet everything looked untouched.

“Is everything to your pleasing?” Maglor asked of two Avari sitting on the other side of the table facing him. They nodded, acknowledging his question, but did not reply.

The female from the night before turned and looked at him, smiling, “We wait for our host.” One of the others stood and pulled out a chair for Maglor, indicating that he sit with them.

Keeping eye-contact with her, he settled into the chair, scooting it closer to the table. A male with black hair—Maglor recognized him as the one from the night before and he shuddered imagining the missing ear on the other side of his head—pushed a goblet toward the Noldorin prince. Hesitantly, his fingers wrapped around the bowl of the cup and brought it to his lips. Over the rim he studied his strange guests for a moment, quickly passing his eyes over their gruesomely marred faces, and then drank.

Suddenly the somber of the hall lifted and smiles graced the lips of the Avari, as if the air itself sighed in relief. Wine was drunk, and food eaten with ravenous appetite, platters passed to him, his plate filled as if in a dream. His mind whirled in confusion. The Avari chatted among themselves in that harsh language he had only heard a few lines of last night. They seemed at home, and he watched them as if watching a play and they were merely actors performing for his entertainment. Such odd creatures they were, so dark and silent one moment, talkative and light the next.

In total there were four females and six males in companionship. He studied them.

The black-haired male had pale green eyes and had a habit of tugging the lobe of his ear while listening to his companion, a golden hair elleth with matching gold eyes. Her cheeks were pocked with tiny scars, and Maglor cringed as he imagined what could have caused them.

Two that looked identical sat on that female’s other side; ellyn with black hair like the first, but one had blue eyes and the other silver. They had the least amount of scars, though if one looked closely at their ears, one could see what appeared to be little notches along the lobes and a shallow dent in their left temples. Playfulness seemed a trademark of their behavior, and their thick laughter rang out periodically.

Next to them sat a pensive female, smaller than the rest, though her eyes spoke of ancient years. While the elves sharing her side wore their hair free, hers was pulled back severely in a coppery-red knot on the back of her head. She looked about the room with one eye closed, and Maglor suspected that it was sewn shut for some grisly reason. Fine lashes framed her blue eye, and a shy smile never left her lips though she kept her attention focused on her food for the most part.

The chair at the end of the table remained empty.

Across from the shy elleth, another who seemed to be rambling on and on, stopping between bites to gesture wildly and increasing her volume enthusiastically. Maglor knit his brow, thinking for a moment that he watched an elleth that was a bit mad.

Three more ellyn sat between the mad elleth and the fair one who had spoken last night (and now sat to Maglor’s left.) One of them spoke in a strange manner, slowly as if he struggled to form each word he said, while the one next to him said nothing at all, ate nothing, and drank very little in small sips. This one kept his eyes downcast on the table in front of him, a different kind of shyness from the elleth. He almost seemed to twitch or shake nervously, and he concentrated very hard on keeping his goblet steady as he sipped.

The last ellon behaved similar to the first one, with the green eyes, except with a hint of an understated danger about him. He had silver hair that faded into an almost transparent white at the ends, and he kept himself positioned turned slightly in his chair toward the elleth sitting beside him. Occasionally his black eyes would shift to Maglor and then back to the elleth, with whom he was speaking. While he spoke, her attention was on the ellon across from her, the one with the black hair and pale green eyes.

Maglor leaned back and watched them interacting, no longer seeing just parts but an entire scene and background.

The female to his left put down her goblet and smiled at him, but said nothing. Maglor blinked and opened his mouth, leaning toward her.

“Tell me about your companions and yourself,” he spoke in Sindarin. He sniffed a bit and leaned back in his seat awaiting her reply. The others fell silent and also turned their attention to the end of the table.

“We come from faraway,” she waved her hand in a vague offhanded manner, “beyond the mountains, beyond the Nandorin settlements on the eastern side of the Mountains of Mist.”

Maglor nodded, his grandfather had spoken of those Teleri, of their fear of those mountains, and of the tribes that turned away following Lenwe. It was some of those same elves and their descendants that inhabited the southern forests of Beleriand.

He visualized the ancient shores his grandfather had describe while holding his grandson close, weaving fantastic stories of a place where no light except the stars chased away shadows. Maglor’s father had frowned upon these stories, believing that such tales should remain where they had originated—in the dark. Finwë way never stopped telling the stories, and Maglor and Maedhros had shared the secret with him, though Maglor suspected their younger brothers had not. And more was the pity he believed since it was those stories that had captured his imagination so much as a child.

“And may I have the pleasure of your names,” he smiled picking through a platter of cheese wedges.

“Aye,” and she pointed to the elleth with the silver-red hair at the right far end, “Vilwarin,” the dark haired ellon with the silver eyes, “Almare, and his brother,” blue-eyed, “Alasse.” The golden haired elleth, “Ancale.” She pointed to the left far end of the table, to the rambling elleth, “Verca.” The struggling ellon, “Vanwa.” The shaking ellon, “Erin.” The silver haired one sitting to her direct left, “Coine,” and the dark one with the pale green eyes, “Sere.”

Maglor followed her fingers as they flicked toward each of her companions, understanding the familiar ancient pronunciations of their Quenyan names, simplistic as they were, as Finwë had spoken to his brother and himself in his tales using that primitive form forgotten by many.

Except for two, these were joyous names, and playful, that matched the smiles and tones of the Avari. Verca’s name clarified his suspicions of her madness, and he suppressed a laugh, though he sobered when he looked again at the two males next to her, the one trying to speak and the other trying not to twitch and shake. He had missed the mannerisms the night before, lost in their features, or perhaps they had not been there; either way, he had not seen the tragedy of their frustrated movements of tongue and hand. They truly were the essence of their names, both absorbed in their isolated worlds. Verca continued to ramble, and it was apparent that she actually did not speak to anyone in particular, as is it appeared that Vanwa did the same though softer in volume.

“And what is your name?” Maedhros pulled out his chair and sat, flicking errant crumbs from the table and popping his neck before selecting a piece of fruit from a tray. Biting into the apple, Maedhros looked up and saw his brother’s quizzical expression that asked how long had he been present. All, except for the three mad Avari and Maglor, smiled and greeted him.

“I am Muinselde,” she turned back to Maglor.

Maedhros leaned his left arm on the table and waved nonchalantly with his nub at the Avari surrounding him. “Do these others not understand our language that you must speak for them?”

Muinselde lifted her head sharply and angled her neck to see him at the end of the table; but it was Sere who spoke, “We have a fluent knowledge of your languages and history, having watched your journey across these ancient lands since you arrived upon these shores.”

“Why are you here then, if you so truly seem to despise us, or at least think little of us?” Maedhros reached for a knife, sliced a piece off his apple, and laid a slice of cheese atop it. He contemplated it for a moment and then took a bite before adding, “I thought the Avari had not moved this far west till recently.”

“Not many had,” Coine spoke up, turning to assist Erin, who had finally spilled his goblet completely. “But it is a great misconception that we have been idle all these years.” All Erin’s concentration had not kept dribblings from escaping his mouth and cup. “Of our tribe, if such a word could be used, we number fewer than the elves of this fortress.” He waved away a serving elleth offering to clean up for Coine and Erin. Using a cloth from the table, Coine gently dabbed at the elf’s hands and tunic, though Erin silently protested by trying to push away Coine’s firm hands. “And we have haunted these mountains and forests since long before you arrived.”

Maglor’s elbows thumped on the table, and he massaged his temples with his fingertips.

“We saw those creatures come rushing from the bowels of that dark waste in the north, saw them kill your kin, and know of what Morgoth hides that you seek.” Coine folded the napkin, allowing Erin to win his pointless battle, and set it on the table.

Maglor’s fingers stopped; Maedhros stopped mid-bite, narrowing his eyes at Coine.

“We find no value in such trifles and trinkets—”

“—Those ‘trinkets’ and ‘trifles’ are blessed by the Valar,” Maedhros hissed chewing angrily.

“And we care for them why?” Vilwarin raised her attention from the table and met Maedhros’ horrified expression, blinking her eye. “What blessings have they bestowed upon us?” Her voice rang clear and pure like the soft waters of a stream over pebbles.

Maedhros remained silent. It was one thing to bemoan ones fate and depression, voicing these same opinions with those whom you shared life and history, and blood. But these were Avari, and they spoke of his own fears and bitter reflections. But, oh aiya, he thought, they shared his experience, and that he could understand.

Drawing their attentions back away from Maedhros’ end, Maglor shoved his chair back, deliberately scraping it against the floor in a screech, ending the subject. Still Verca and Vanwa rambled, unaware of any conversation outside of their own separate ones. Standing Maglor bowed, a polite smile plastered on his face. “I would be delighted in knowing how you came to be at our door,” he collapsed back into his chair, lazily draping one leg over the arm. “What has driven you from the haven of your mountainous homes?”

“Nothing,” Muinselde replied eliciting a skeptical snort from Maedhros. “Nothing,” she repeated firmly. “Our tribe has scattered, some traveling to the unclaimed lands along the western shore. We seek an elleth among them.” The finality of her last statement closed the topic.

“And how did you end up at my brother’s door?” Maedhros asked.

“Saw not it, we did.”

Almare reached across the table and took Verca’s hand, squeezing it fondly in his, “That is correct, my crazy dove.” His silver eyes twinkled. She smiled lopsidedly and fell back into her incoherent rambling. Maedhros turned to her and for the first time listened to her, understanding the words she said but not what sense they made, if any…

-----

“You think us strange and uncivilized.”

Maedhros spun around and stopped. Muinselde stood respectfully to the side. For the first time, he allowed himself to appraise her appearance, black woolen material, and a plain dress that tied at the top. Modest and reminiscent of death, he thought. It hugged her form, covering her from neck, to wrist, to the floor. He could see a bit of what appeared to be white linen peeking out from her wrists, some kind of undergarment. Her dark hair curled naturally into soft ringlets that bounced about her shoulders and down her back, and her skin a shocking contrast of pale flesh against the darkness of her hair and dress. She was thin, much thinner than the pampered ellith that graced the courts of his and the surrounding realms, but he would not say that she appeared to be sickly. In fact, he would have to admit that her cheeks glowed with radiant health.

He pressed his lips into a thin line and wrinkled his brow. Down the corridor he could hear the mad laughter of Verca and the soothing whispers of her companion echoing off the stone. Muinselde’s eyes drew him back to her statement. Which led to her lips. He raised his right… he saw his scarred nub and dropped it back to his side.

“Nay, but I see,” she smiled. “You fear that we may in fact have a few things in common.”

“You are not like the others,” he stiffened as she took his scarred wrist between her hands. Her fingers smoothed over the lines still tender to the touch after centuries of healing.

“I am the child of two such as those though they are not with us.” She smiled and let go of his hand. Clasping hers behind her back, she strolled past him, admiring the intricate woodcarvings that bordered the top of the corridor wall. Beautiful yet ghastly, they depicted scenes of war and death, of burning ships, and elves at the pinnacle of terror. “How odd that you would surround yourselves with these things.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “How different people can be, one might desperately want to forget, yet keep reminders about them for eternity; while another wants to hold on to those memories, yet carry nothing but the thoughts in their head.” She nodded thoughtfully and turned back to the scene, one of ships in a harbor, sailing out while the city surrounding it burned. Slowly, she followed the carven voyage till they reached another shore, where the occupants of the ships set the vessels aflame. “Why,” she whispered not looking at him this time, “Why, if you so obviously are pained by these memories, would you want to see them everyday?”

“Who said anything about being pained?”

She looked at him with pity and breathed deeply, returning to the carvings. “I know the stories your kind, and even the Sindar, tell of us. That the Avari, the Unwilling and Refusers, as we are called, that we are bitter toward your kind for leaving us behind. That we are wild creatures, incapable of civilization, but,” she paused and looked back at him again, turning her body fully to face him. She opened her mouth, closed it, and stared at him. He was carved of stone, his expression blank, and his whole demeanor cold and unreal. “But you misinterpret a freedom of spirit.”

“Answer me this.” Maedhros walked around her to peruse the same carving as she did. He reached up, standing on his toes, and traced a finger over the flames of a ship. “How could you not see my brother’s fortress, perched high upon these hills?”

“A blizzard hindered our view until Coine reached out in front of him and touched Maglor’s door, and the blizzard subsided to mere flurries.”

Maedhros bit his tongue; he should have thought of that himself, considering that he had known of the blizzard, but had remained inside a couple days and thus missed when it ended. He turned and stared down the hall in the opposite direction, the soft mumblings of her companion Vanwa drifting down the hall. He was a tall elf, his hair a blend of gold and dark into a muddy color. His steps were slow matching his speech, and his eyes stared at the floor as if to make sure his feet were functioning; but his shoulders were not bent, nor was his neck extremely so, but that he stared casually so it seemed. Muinselde smiled and holding out her hands approached him. Vanwa raised his head when she took his arm and nestled it against hers; he leaned heavily against her.

Maedhros took note that Vanwa stood a complete head taller than Muinselde, yet compared to her seemed so completely child-like.

Maedhros picked up what Vanwa said as the elf neared them. The elf repeated it over and over again, as if he practiced a speech, or something else of import that he was trying desperately not to forget.

“H-h-h oh p-pa L-l-lusssssar-ron…” and on Vanwa trailed.

Muinselde reached up and smoothed back a strand of his hair, tucking it behind his ear. Kissing him tenderly on the cheek, she whispered soothingly into his ear, “We will find it, sweet one.”

Maedhros wrapped his mind around the words, translating it easily. “I have never heard of such a haven, a haven of whispers.”

Muinselde, still holding onto Vanwa, started to guide them back down the hall toward the chambers provided for them. Following them, Maedhros watched the two walking, the ellon leaning upon the elleth. The tenderness and care she gave him shot a pang jealously through Maedhros, not because he desired it from her, but that he missed what he had had before the Silmarils and Melkor changed their lives. The most tender of touches he had forgotten, a warm hand upon his, the unconditional love of his mother, of a lover, of his murdered grandfather, even the unspoken love of his fiery father. She cradled Vanwa’s arm in hers, her fingers curled around his and interlocking, and her touch so casual and caring.

“Why would we betray our haven to elves that kill their own?”

Maedhros shivered visibly at her question, unable to answer.

----


Almare ran his fingers absentmindedly through Verca’s hair as her animated gestures and voice echoed through their guestroom. He reclined against the wall against which his bed leaned, listening to her.

“And the poppies grew, and the moon is round, and the trees grow tall, and the foolish one wears a crown. On the birds fly, up so high in the ground. Sometimes you frown at me…”

He sat up and gathered her hair into his hands, shaking it out and watching it cascade down her back like water.

“Sometimes we dance in the shadows, and a star falls, or perhaps a toad gives birth to a snail…”

He kissed the back of her head, reveling in the softness of her hair against his lips.

“Look at the work of our masters, dancing in delight among the dead…”

“My beloved,” he whispered into her ear, but she did not answer him nor stop her words. He sighed and hugged her against his chest. He closed his eyes and allowed her ramblings to lull him for a moment, his nose nuzzled against her ear.

The door to the room let in a rush of cool air. Vanwa entered the room upon Muinselde’s arm. She guided him to a chair, and he sat, gripping the arms to steady himself as he sank against the plush seat.

Maedhros stood in the hall just outside of the threshold. He could not bring himself to enter. Inside was a world which he was not a part, a world full of quiet shadowy whispers that echoed even within Verca’s loud voice, for it spoke of a madness that was darker than any he could imagine.

The room glowed with warm candle and firelight, cozy in its comforts of a quilt-covered bed, velvet backed chairs, and fur rugs. It was drenched in rich colors woven through every fabric. He noted the apparent care taken in richly decorating these guest quarters that lacked in the rest of the fortress. His gaze flicked over the intricate gold thread quilting the bedcover in a design of archaic symbols familiar from Valinor, and the script of Quenyan along the edge in praise of the Valar—something not to be found anywhere else.

“One who stands in the shadows fears something,” Verca said.

Muinselde looked up and back over her shoulder as if suddenly remembering that he had accompanied them.

“Come join us,” she smiled, indicating an empty chair across from Vanwa’s and facing the bed.

Tentatively, Maedhros entered.

Almare opened an eye and peered at the Noldo, a frown upon his lips. Untangling his hand from within Verca’s hair, he moved out from behind her and rose from the bed. Next to the bed sat a table, and he poured a cup of wine and held it out to Maedhros.

“Allow us to be your host this time, Lord Maedhros,” Almare spoke. He climbed back upon the bed stretching his body beside Verca, taking her hand in his and kissing it tenderly, his fingers trailing along her arms as he praised her with his lips.

“A tender touch, my lover,” Verca continued, “a gentle hand, like trees, and frogs that burp, and birds that chirp, and cherries burning in the fire.”

Maedhros watched her lips moving as he sat in the chair offered him, sipping his wine and leaning forward, entranced by her. He realized that some of what she said was not quite nonsense, but that picking it out from among her ramblings was challenging.

Nuzzling his head into Verca’s embrace, Almare said, slightly muffled, “We see you stare at us like we are an oddity. Do not fret; our own kindred back in the East did the same.” His hand crept up to her breast and cupped it, drawing his fingers along the underside and back down her stomach. Verca’s own hand found its way into Almare’s inky tresses, her fingertips peeking through the curtain of hair across his shoulder.

Embarrassed by his voyeurism of such a private gesture, Maedhros averted his eyes. From his cup, his reflection gazed at him, blinking and pondering its master. All around him pleasant words of affection and care were murmured as gentle hands touched and comforted companions—Vanwa and Muinselde, Verca and Almare. His jealously returned in full force. He distracted himself by wondering where the others were, where they wandered among Maglor’s honeycomb of corridors.

-----

He had resisted, and he was sure that Maedhros had done the same, respecting the privacy of the Avari. He was greatly tempted and had caught himself several times trying, but he always pulled back. But he suspected that it would hardly matter if he tried, because he believed they probably could resist his attempts.

All his questions could easily be answered if he probed their minds.

It terrified him to even consider peering into the minds of Vanwa, Verca, and Erin, though it also intrigued him in a horrific way to know what they still remembered or saw of what had caused their madness.

“My lord, Maglor,” a flour dusted elleth interrupted his thoughts. She held out a list of different items to him for his input. Bits of raw bread dough stuck to her fingers and apron. She wiped at her forehead, leaving a trail of flour across her skin. “This is the list drawn up by the master cook.”

He took it and scanned the list quickly. It jarred the memory of the announcement, Celebrimbor’s birth. They were expected to ride to Celegorm and Curufin’s lands and celebrate the unfortunate babe. Despite his misgivings, Maglor, and Maedhros, had agreed to attend, if anything to assert their influence upon their hot-blooded brother’s child. This list contained all they needed to supply their winter traveling.

Smelling of warm yeast and rosemary, the elleth patiently waited for her lord’s approving nod. It came, and she received the list back from him, tucking it into the pocket of her apron.

He stood in the middle of the warm kitchen, completely enveloped in the scent of baking breads and roasting meats, of herbed and sautéed vegetables. Hanging from the rafters above were delicately wrought brass hooks bearing large bunches of drying herbs. The head cook and her apprentices shouted back and forth, between flurried urgency and calm waiting, in the duties of the kitchen. Laughter rang out, cries of annoyance and anguish, and general banter common to such busy hives.

He leaned his rear against a table covered in bowls, utensils, and cloth-covered mounds of rising bread. Four enormous, arched hearths for roasting meat lined the eastern wall, each blazing orange, and his mouth watered at the scent of slow cooking venison. A young apprentice sat beside each hearth turning the spit to ensure an even roast.

At the south wall, several ellith removed with large paddles several crackling loaves of rounded and split-topped bread made from the darkest to lightest of grains. He smiled at the intricate designs scored into the tops. With a towel-covered hand one of the ellith broke off a piece of a dark rye and brought it him. He thanked her as she stepped back to watch him taste the fruit of their efforts. Flavorful and hot, soft and crumbly on the inside, crusty and flaky on the outside, the bread warmed his mouth and his body as he chewed and swallowed. He smiled again, and the elleth curtsied her thanks for his approval.

“Add ten to the dining hall. The Avari remain the night again.” An apprentice, leaning over a table writing down different errands for the kitchen staff, bobbed his head in understanding, his quill scratching across the paper.

Feeling useless, except for the few commands he could give at the moment, Maglor wandered back into the cooler, quieter chambers of his home.

Behind the curtained doorway, he could hear the strains of music filtering through into the corridor. Melodious pipes, lutes, and lyres harmonized along with the voices of the musicians.

Maglor’s heart ached. It had been too long since he had played publicly, having lost the desire to play for anyone but the shadows of his bedchamber, or Maedhros. His fingers itched to join them, and he pulled back the curtain a ways to peer in. He frowned at the scene presented to him.

Several chairs and benches had been rearranged into a circle facing away from the hearth. Eyes twinkled in the flickering light, and mouths smiled and laughed, heads thrown back. A mixture of Sindarin and Avarin murmured through the room. As they played, Maglor’s musicians chatted and sang with the lounging Avari, all grins and bright eyes. Even Erin’s twitched in a twisted smile.

Alasse, the blue-eyed brother of Almare, stretched out on a bench, leaning up on an elbow, laughing in Sindarin with the piper—a young ellon barely past his majority. Holding Alasse’s bare feet in her lap at the other end, sat the red-haired elleth, Vilwarin. As she shyly spoke to Ancale, the golden elleth, she stroked her hand across the skin of his calf and ankle, the only sign that the two were even remotely aware of each other, yet at the same time completely intimate. Ancale sat in a chair, cradling Sere’s head between her thighs. With one leg stretched out and the other bent, an arm casually laid across it, Sere talked with Coine sitting across from him in another chair. He occasionally looked up at Ancale, as she combed her fingers through his hair, to receive a confirming nod from her about something he and Coine discussed.

Interspersed between the Avari were several elves of Maglor’s house. The different accents of Avari and Eldar mingled. The joviality and awe of the Eldar and Avari pained Maglor. The elves of his house were wide-eyed with their fascination of his guests.

Only one remained quiet and seemingly unaffected, Erin. He sat alone beside the musicians, staring at them as if he did not see them though he smiled.

This room was large and cozy, as the rest of the chambers were during the winter months, fires lit in every hearth, rugs laid across the stone floors. Evergreen branches graced the mantles, and the pungent scent of spices filled the air.

Maglor’s heart felt heavy in his chest, and he could not enter, afraid of casting the bitter cold of his doubts and fears, guilt and shame, upon the merry scene. He looked over the group again and was about to drop the curtain when Sere looked past Coine at him and gestured invitingly.

He hesitated though his feet seemed not to. The Avari were no longer the guests but the hosts, and he felt odd in his own home. Entering the room, Maglor felt a different kind of warmth from the kitchen wrap around him, a kind that he linked to nights long gone from Valinor when he was… When he was carefree, he scoffed.

He blinked as he felt the smooth wood of a lyre pressed into his empty hands.

“My lord,” the lyrist bowed respectfully, and the conservations hushed, all eyes expectantly shining at him. Smiles were abundant.

The wood pulsed in his hands, or perhaps it was just the blood in his veins, but it seemed that the lyre breathed.

“I-I cannot,” he handed the instrument back to the saddened ellon, his fingertips lingering wistfully for a moment. “Not yet,” he whispered. A thousand songs swirled in his head, trying desperately to reach his fingers, but he beat them back with a frown.

The musician backed down, but Coine rose and took Maglor’s hand, offering him his chair to sit. Surprised, Maglor accepted the gesture and leaned back into the seat. After he sat, the elves continued their conversations, though quieter. He dared not to interupt or inject himself into their world, and he fetl distant in his own home.

-----

Light flurries of snow had resumed their fall in the gray early morning light, and Maglor stood in the entrance hall of his home staring at his leaving guests. After dinner the night before, they had announced their wish to leave in the morning, haste in their words.

Now the ten prepared to leave, at their feet satchels of food and drink provided for them by Maglor’s kitchen, a parting gift for their long travels. Fur cloaks were shaken out and tied about their necks, completely encircling their bodies beneath the warmth.

Maedhros felt that all light had been extinguished when they pulled their hoods on, except for Muinselde. She walked forward and half-bowed to the two princes, expounding a generous thanks to them for their hospitality. Righting herself, she lifted on her hood, and her companions lifted their satchels.

Several sentinels pushed the heavy tall western doors protecting them from the outside world open. Immediately a whirl of snow blew through the hall, catching in the fur cloaks and hair of the Avari and Eldar.

“Wait,” Maedhros stopped her from stepping on to the stone stairs leading to the hills rolling before them. She turned, their eyes meeting instantly. He swallowed hard. “You will pass through the lands of my brothers and cousins. I cannot vouch for them, that they will be as hospitable toward you. I pray they would, but cannot be sure. Protect yourselves and stick to the shadows, or at least be wary.”

The corner of her lip curled, her hand covering his left still resting on her shoulder.

“Do not worry for yes. We have survived thus far, and much worse.”

Maglor turned away, and Maedhros removed his hand from hers, both not wanting to see them leave. Barely two days had passed, yet now they could not deny the enjoyment they had felt in watching the Avari, as insane as things had felt. Only she bowed again in thanks, turning to face the winter landscape that beckoned them.

Long after they had reached the second and third hills beyond, the brothers continued to watch the dark spots against the snow, graying in the flurries.

“Wraiths,” Maglor quietly mused.

“No, brother,” Maedhros murmured. “Whispers. Loud, joyous, and yet a little mad, but whispers nonetheless.” He shivered, “Let us close these doors.”