Here There Be Unicorns

Southern fin whale Balaenoptera physalus quoyi

Chapters: 12/? Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Amras & Amrod & Caranthir & Celegorm & Curufin & Fëanor & Maedhros & Maglor (Tolkien), Fëanor/Nerdanel (Tolkien), Fëanor & Fingolfin (Tolkien), Fëanor & Írimë | Lalwen (Tolkien), Fëanor & Findis (Tolkien), Fëanor & Finwë (Tolkien), Fëanor & Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Fëanor & Original Characters, Celebrimbor & Fëanor (Tolkien), Daeron/Maglor (Tolkien), Daeron & Fëanor (Tolkien), Fëanor & Finarfin (Tolkien) Characters: Fëanor (Tolkien), Fingolfin (Tolkien), Findis (Tolkien), Írimë | Lalwen (Tolkien), Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Curufin (Tolkien), Original Characters, Celebrimbor (Tolkien), Amrod (Tolkien), Amras (Tolkien), Maglor (Tolkien), Maedhros (Tolkien), Caranthir (Tolkien), Celegorm (Tolkien), Daeron (Tolkien), Nerdanel (Tolkien), Elrond Peredhel, Finwë (Tolkien), Rúmil of Tirion (Tolkien), Nienna (Tolkien) Additional Tags: Complicated Relationships, Father-Son Relationship, Past Character Death, Reconciliation, Grief/Mourning, Palantíri (Tolkien), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Brothers, Brother-Sister Relationships, Valinor in the Fourth Age of Arda (Tolkien), the dead very gently haunting the narrative, Healing, Past Trauma, Letters Series: Part 13 of meanwhile the world goes on Summary:

Fëanor shrugged, studying the contents of his wine glass. “Something must be done about that house. It will fall down eventually.” “It does not follow that it must be you that tears it down single-handedly. Are you sure you do not want help?” “It’s not as though I have much else to do. I need to build something new there,” he said after a few moments. “To do that, I must first clear away the old and broken things.”

50. Platonic Cuddling

“Atar?” one of the twins asked.

Maglor looked up from the letter he was writing and turned to face him, unable to help the smile spreading across his lips at the name. It never failed to warm his heart, no matter his guilt as to why they’d begun to call him that. He raised an eyebrow as—it was...Elrond, yes—looked at him curiously. “Hm?”

Elrond glanced back to where Maedhros had collapsed into a snoring heap on his armchair. He rarely let himself be vulnerable, but after a day of chasing the peredhil around the practice court and trying to make sure they didn’t stab each other with their newly-gifted swords (at least, not fatally; Elros was in the infirmary getting his arm patched up where Elrond had nicked him), he was exhausted enough to pass out in this semi-public living space. Servants eyed his sleeping form with curiosity; Maglor wondered if any of them had seen his brother in such a position before.

Elrond certainly hadn’t. “Why is he so tense all the time?” he asked. “I’ve never seen him...like this.”

“He’s always been uptight,” Maglor said carefully. “Even when he was only my older brother Nelyo, looking out for me as a child. And—you know about Angband.”

Elrond nodded, eyes downcast. “But...”

“He can only relax like this when he feels safe around people,” Maglor murmured. “Don’t tell him I said that—he’ll deny it—but it’s true. And now that it’s just me, and you, and your brother...”

“He doesn’t feel safe anymore?” Elrond guessed.

Maglor shook his head. “It was worst after the Nírnaeth. He didn’t sleep unless I Sang him there for...years. And then, after Doriath, after losing—” He broke off. He had not been about to say “our brothers” but “the twins”—Nimloth’s sons—but that was too close to these twins’ lives to bring up. Especially after he and Maedhros had lost another set of twins, the Ambarussat, at Sirion...

“Well,” Maglor said quietly, “this is the first time he feels safe enough to relax around...you.”

“Elros wants to call him Atar, too,” Elrond confessed. “We...he’s scarier than you, but now...we feel safe around him, too.”

Maglor’s throat closed up, and he pulled Elrond—his son—into his arms. “He would love that,” he rasped. “Truly. He feels like he’s not good enough for you, but he is, he’s—he’s always been the best of us—” (oh how it hurt to use Tyelko’s words like that, but it was true—) “and you...can prove it.”

“I don’t think he should be Atar,” Elrond said, and Maglor froze. Had he spoken too soon...?

“I mean, you’re Atar,” Elrond reasoned, “we should call him something else. But ‘Ada’ is...our other father...”

Relief washed over Maglor. Oh, this was a linguistic issue—how very Fëanorian!

“Atya?” he suggested. “Or Atto? Those are both Quenya words for ‘father,’ like Atar.”

“Atya,” Elrond mused, snuggling closer to him, eyes drifting shut. “I like that. Atar and Atya.”

Gently, Maglor pried his son off of himself. “I’m busy,” he chided. “I’ve got to finish this letter. Go cuddle your Atya instead—he’ll appreciate it.”

Elrond hummed in agreement and dragged his feet over to Maedhros. He clambered into the chair and his Atya’s arms.

When Elros returned from the infirmary, he joined them; when Maedhros woke to the twins curled up in his lap he froze, glancing to his brother.

“What...?” he whispered, vaguely panicked.

“They’re cuddling with their Atya,” Maglor murmured. “Don’t disturb them, Nelyo, or we’ll never hear the end of it...”

Tears shining bright in his eyes, mouthing the word “Atya” (only now did Maglor remember that had been what Fingon’s son had called him, also), Maedhros settled back into sleep, pulling his sons even closer.

Maglor smiled, his own eyes misty. This was more than they deserved, he knew, but he loved the twins so, and he could not begrudge them or poor, tormented Maedhros this moment of peace and comfort.

(Really channeling my inner @jaz-the-bard here! ft. eldritch peredhil 😉)

54. Protectiveness

“Elerondo, let us pass,” Eönwë said grimly. (Elerondo always seemed the more reasonable of the two...oddities.)

But the twins stood their ground. Their eyes blazed brighter than the remembered Light of the Trees—brighter even than the Silmarils, one now possessed by each of their fathers—and the Eldarin warriors at Eönwë’s command shrank from their glow. The boys...changed, their fëar (eälar?) shifting and hröar (fanar?) becoming something very nearly monstrous, like the shadows of ruined Doriath, or the depths of the sea.

“Elerossë,” Eönwë tried, turning to Elerondo’s brother. “Do not attempt to stand against the Valar. The Gift promised to you and your people may yet be rescinded.”

Something in Elerossë’s glare dimmed, but if anything Elerondo shone all the brighter, and soon his twin recovered. Eönwë did not scowl—the herald of Manwë would never—but in his irritation he spread his wings wide and turned up his own brightness, outshining the peredhil. Two—well, three could play that game.

“You shall not pass,” the twins spake in eerie unison, their thousand voices echoing and striking fear into the hearts of those who heard them. “You will not arrest our fathers in their flight with their rightful property.”

“That Light is not theirs,” Eönwë thundered, borrowing his Vala’s affects. “And the jewels encasing it ceased to belong to them the moment they shed blood in their name. They are Kinslayers and thieves and must be brought to judgement.”

“YOU WILL NOT TAKE THEM.” Eönwë felt rather than heard this threat, and he gave brief pause. Truly, though their Mairin heritage left them with but a drop of Melian’s spirit, they were powerful. Was it an undiluted strain? Did their mother possess such depths of strength? Eönwë had never felt threatened by Eldar before, but this...

“You do not intimidate me,” Eönwë warned. “I am a Maia also, and older than you. If you do not let us pass, I will force my way.”

“‘Us,’ herald?” said Elerondo. “Your warriors have fled.”

Eönwë looked back: so they had. Well, no matter. It would not be difficult to chase and capture two broken, burning Kinslayers on his own.

“And would you force us, truly?” Elerossë inquired. “Would you slay us?”

“Would that not make you as guilty as our fathers?” Elerondo asked.

For the first time, Eönwë truly hesitated. Would it...? He had slain the Children before: Eldar turned Orcs, Atani corrupted by Moringotto, and he loathed it each time. But to kill a Maia...he had always given mercy to the Úmaiar he fought. Not even Sauron, his fallen friend, had he slain.

“You cannot protect them forever,” he warned, lowering his wings. “Justice will find them, in the end.”

“Mercy will find them first,” Elerossë vowed.

Eönwë bowed his head, defeated, and watched the two terrors of Beleriand disappear into the smoke after their fathers.

48. Pillow/Blanket Forts

Maedhros halted abruptly as soon as he crossed the threshold of the boys’ room. “What are you doing?”

Elrond and Elros froze guiltily. Elrond looked down at the ground, while Elros scrunched up his nose.

“Building a blanket fort?” he said.

A blanket fort? Maedhros blinked, re-examining the mass of pillows shoved beneath chairs, blankets draped over them, the cozy little cavern the twins had created for themselves. He’d done similar things as a child, he recalled, though there had been no concept of “forts” in Aman. It stung his heart to think that they had never known peace, had been born and raised in a land where even forts did not stand for long...

But this would would, this blanket fort within a fortress. Maedhros would defend Amon Ereb, so the children could defend their quilted creation.

“A fort should have defenses,” Maedhros said, crouching down to inspect it. “It should be strong enough to withstand enemy attack. I would know—I held Himring for centuries, and hold Amon Ereb even now.”

Elrond looked up, eyes wide. “Will you help us, Atya?” he blurted out. “So if Atar comes we can—defend it from him?”

Maedhros laughed, ruffling his son’s hair. “Of course,” he said. “First—let’s spread these chairs out, and find some poles and books to build with, so we can expand our fort and I can fit inside...”

~

“What are you doing?” Maglor asked, baffled, as his brother and their sons marched past him with arms full of blankets, books, and...stilts?

The twins scampered on ahead, completely oblivious, but Maedhros paused, a cheery sparkle in his eyes that Maglor hadn’t seen there since...before Fingon died.

“I’m instructing them in siege warfare,” he pronounced. “Keep out of their room for an hour or two, alright? You’ll be playing the enemy, eventually. Just like our drills back in the day!”

“Atya!” Elros called. “C’mon!”

Maedhros grinned—grinned!—and all but pranced away, more excited than Maglor could remember him being in a very long time. A little morbid that it was battle tactics that put such a spring in his step, but, well, that was Maedhros...and Maglor saw the truth. His brother was happy to feel useful, instructing the twins on something important, something he knew well, and able to spend time with his sons as well.

He shook his head with a smile, already turning over ideas of how to play the game along with them. If Maedhros had a hand—hah—in the fort they were building, it would take a little more than knocking over a chair to take it down...not that he’d really do that. He’d let the boys take him hostage.

36. Cuddling leading into soft kisses.

~~~

Maedhros woke to a child on his lap. It was rare enough that he slept these days, but to do so with another person in the room? Unthinkable. He tensed, then forced himself to relax. He wasn’t sure if the tensing was a sign of distress (constant though distress may be) or simply habit, but for the child’s sake he would mask it.

But it seemed he hadn’t been subtle enough, for the child—Elrond, he was almost certain—opened his big brown eyes and stared up at him.

“Um,” he rasped. “Hello, Elrond.”

Elrond smiled, snuggling even closer to him. Maedhros bit the inside of his lip, helpless to protest against this undeserved comfort. But the child—no matter how he ought to be treated, the child should be loved, accepted, cherished.

“Atya,” Elrond mumbled, and Maedhros’ heart broke, remembering another little voice calling him that so very long ago. “Atya, will you take me’n’Elros riding tomorrow? Atar said it would stop raining then.”

Maedhros glanced out the window to the dreary sputtering of the rain. “The ground will be wet,” he said, a pitiful excuse.

“But you’re the best rider,” Elrond argued. “You’ll be fine. We’ll be with you!”

Maedhros sighed. He had long since lost any ability he once may have had to resist the pleas of little children.

“Alright,” he agreed, and even found himself pressing a soft kiss to Elrond’s brow. “Tomorrow we’ll go riding, if the rain stops.”

“Thanks, Atya,” Elrond said, settling back down into his arms—but not before he leaned up to kiss Maedhros on the chin.

Maedhros did not cry. He didn’t deserve the warmth such a gesture provided, nor the indulgence of tears.