ÑOLDOLANTË

"there is nothing to speak of." he paused, then amended, "none you could resolve."

a knot cannot untie itself any more than the fish could swim itself out of the net, every thrashing attempt wrap the mesh tighter around its scaled trunk. he had long ceased to be fearful of harm from the brothers who had become his wards since the last day of havens. the specter of threat never realized. still, elros—elerosse—hesitated to overshare his thoughts, unsure whether he was the fish or the net.

but then, he trusted maglor to be honest.

"what would you have done? if earendil returned this eve, the jewel betwixt his brows?" it was... a version of the conversation he had with elrond—his twin with whom he'd had an unspoken pact with to never utter the name of the jewels that derailed their life. he observed this rule mostly for elrond's benefit, and elrond—elros reckoned—for the fëanoreans' benefit, more than his own.

he looked out to the water again before maglor could answer. in the days they had spent on the isle, they had discovered more traces of the elves who once fled to and sheltered here. they had gathered, now, a rough sense of where the refugees had gone for a more permanent home. the discovery made them restless, dredged up old conversations, and unresolved contention.

he needed not suffer uncertainty long; the question placed before him told enough.

even when elros turned away, his guardian's eyes remained upon him. they seemed suddenly to recognise how much he had grown. they could not recall the shift to have been so sudden in their brothers or their nephew, though such memories were clouded with the forbidden sweetness of a home long lost and the fog of war. after a moment's silent contemplation, the noldo offered the only true answer they could give.

"i do not know."

it would not satisfy elros, of that he was certain. his gaze drifted away, out onto the water as he imagined eärendil's return upon the white ship, gleaming with the light of the stolen gem. yet what grasped first at the elf's heart was not the thought of the silmaril, but a sudden, jealous vision of the twins departing at their father's side, never to return to him. and he alone dreaded eärendil's return, for between the twins and his brother, maglor would be called to betray one or the other, and knew it would take from him the children he loved.

he spoke again, giving voice to the coursing of his thoughts. "my brother would not relinquish our task. for an oath we swore, and too much have we lost to remain, at the end, empty handed." finally, he gave into the magnetic pull of the western horizon, drawing his eyes with a longing so great, it stole his breath for a moment. "and yet ... could i turn my sword against you? no more easily could i betray my own brother. so it is that i cannot know."

    "it is nothing," he says, not dismissive, but tender. maitimo's laugh is like their mother's, a soft, rough chuckle, made rougher by the dryness of his throat, the long disuse of his voice. "no more than the molt of an ugly bird, soon to grow a better feather."

    wounds heal faster away from the filth of melkor, but he knows it is upon him still. he can see it, reflected as clearly as if playing across still water, in the heaviness of his little brother's shoulders, in the tension of his mouth. the uneasy fear in his eyes. perhaps it is an ugliness that will never depart from him. bleeding is not new. but the blood of a wound that could bring death is new, because death is new, as new as when maitimo first beheld it on the steps of their father's house, despite all the blood that they have shed since then.

    against the deep blue stone of the mountain from which formenos had been carved, in the deep of the first true dark, the blood of their grandfather had looked black.

    "will you play, káno?"

    as their mother would ask when trouble was over them. will you play, will you draw, will you shape. will you stoke the fire, will you mix the clay. will you go to the woods and give chase. work, learn, create, and the things that hurt you will fall away. you will be free. maitimo looks at his little brother through his one healed eye. in kanafinwë's bent head he sees the bent head of nerdanel. not for the first time, even as sitting at her feet, at peace, in her workshop, he wonders if she is free, now. he wonders if any of them are free. is this what the death of the beloved does?

    mother, if you had not loved my father—

    it is the same as thinking brother, if you had not been my brother, some other than my father's son, who else could you have been?

    with his remaining hand, maitimo reaches out and touches maglor's slimmer fingers where they rest on the edge of his bedclothes. "play for me, little brother."

    it is not fair to ask, but the eldest's gentle, steady voice belies a firmness like command. this, too, is like their mother. play for me. think of the strings, and the placement of your fingers. think of the notes that make the melody, and the melody that hides within the song. make it, reveal it, change it. remember your beauty and your power. think of all you can give form, forever, perpetually new. abandon worry, abandon anger. abandon fear.

    play for me, do not fear for me, for fear cannot change my fate.

    maitimo watches his brother pull his hand away and rise. dutiful. faithful. sudden guilt grips him, and shame. in his mind, as he did on the cliff, he asks their mother to help him. there was no need for the might one's deceit then. the silence that had answered him was real. on the eve of their departure, maitimo had last asked her: mother, how can i keep safe your sons? the answer then is the answer now. the scorched hilltop, the bloodied deck of the burning boat. the chain about his wrist. his dead father, and his dead father's crownless son. but also—the song. their time together. the first note that his little brother pulls from his instrument, like a shining string from the silver tree at dawn.

    maitimo, my strong one—only love can do that.