Tender

Canon compliant AU.  Little by little, Maglor uncovers some of the beloved brother he once cherished above all others.  Little by little.  Quenya names used (Maglor = Makalaurë, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë Amrod/Amras = Ambarussa).  This story is "Worst Day" compliant also if you squint, so I suppose it's Mellow Soulmate AU, but nonetheless... Closely related to "Repeat", "New Direction" and "Lullaby".  Takes place in Amon Ereb during the First Age.

Note: Canonically Elros and Elrond are very young children (5) when they're taken, and you could argue that they were somewhat more mentally advanced than human children of the same age (even if they were physically behind in development), but I know that I don't remember much of my life before maybe the age of nine or ten, and I doubt elves are going to either.  They will probably forget almost everything about their parents as they grow up, and they will not spend a large amount of time resenting their foster parents over the deaths of people they will probably almost entirely forget.  Besides, they're too young to be able to hold a grudge, or to even understand the concepts of wrath and murder and death.

That is, of course, just my perspective.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Maglor, Maedhros, Elrond, Elros (mentions Elwing, Fëanor, Nerdanel, Amras and Amrod, Eluréd and Elurín, Fingon and the rest of the Fëanorions)

Warning: canon-compliant AU, dysfunctional family, child murder mentioned, insanity/mental instability, obsessive behaviors, some child neglect (past)

Song: Remember Me

Words: 2,579

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tender (adjective): having soft or yielding texture: easily broken, cut or damaged; delicate, fragile; physically weak: not able to endure hardship; marked by, responding to, or expressing the softer emotions: fond, loving; showing care: considerate, solicitous; delicate or soft in quality or tone

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/tender

Having Nelyafinwë anywhere near the little ones set Makalaurë on edge.

Images, long past and green with splendor, remained still in the back of his mind to whisper and entice.  He recalled the days of old when Nelyafinwë smiled easily upon his younger brothers.  The smell of freshly-baked bread and sweet delights still wafted in his nose when the image of the redhead in an apron came to mind.  The remembrance of warmth as he was pressed against a powerful frame between steely arms still left him with the instinctive feeling of safety.  And the sound of that voice when it smoothed into the velveteen tone he recalled so vividly from childhood still made Makalaurë want to trail after his brother with unconditional admiration only a child could have for their favorite caretaker.

But many of those images and scents and sounds, those cherished little daydreams, had been sullied.  Tainted perhaps beyond repair.

As vividly as did he recall some of the days of the long distant past, the present was so much sharper and closer.  So much more tactile and bitter.  The scent of metal, blood and fire scorched away the sweet smells that tickled a smile onto his lips.  The recollection of being pressed against a wall, trembling in primal terror at the sight of his brother’s looming form, chased away all security.

And rarely did he hear the voice of his memories that once sang him songs and whispered goodnight in his ear as he was tucked into bed.  When Nelyafinwë spoke, his low tone rattled and grated with ash and tar.  No beauty was there left to be found.

All wildness and strength and dark obsession.  Eyes that once glimmered silver-bright were darkened now with pain and with hatred.  Instead of bringing comfort, often Nelyafinwë struck fear into the heart of his last remaining brother.  Too much had the redheaded warrior come to resemble him.

Never smiling.  Never laughing.  Never singing.

Never crying.

Not even for their brothers.  Not even for Findekáno.  Not even for himself.

It was as if the Nelyafinwë—the man he always knew would be a wonderful and doting father to an army of cute little elfings—had been completely washed away, his image scratched by filthy, clawed fingers and burned by each destructive clash to the north, a monstrous visage drained of the rosy color and left bleeding only crimson and black.  This man, the man he lived with, his commander and leader, was not the man he remembered so fondly.

Not the man who loved children.  Not the man who always knew what to say.  Not the man who had ever been gentle despite his stoic disposition.

Gentleness was a thing of the past.  Softness was a weakness to be exploited.  And compassion was simply asking to be used and abused.

No, Makalaurë did not particularly want that man near the twins, who suffered enough nightmares of listening to their nanny being slaughtered outside the closet door as they prayed for their mother to come back and save them.  They were horribly frightened of the flame-haired specter, had even occasionally had a night-terror of his terrible eyes and harsh voice, and they would not go near him.

Or, at least, they had been frightened of him.  As young children were prone, their curiosity could overcome any residual fear that stilled their bodies and sent racing their hearts now that the trauma was beginning to pass.  Children were not wise in the way of caution and care, and they were oft too inquisitive for their own good.

Makalaurë just hoped they would stay out of trouble and leave Nelyafinwë be.  He did not want to give his brother any reason to change his mind about keeping the little ones.  Not when he knew with a certainty that broke his heart exactly how cruel and cold the once-loving prince had become in these long days of death and disappointment.

He would care for them alone.  And if Nelyafinwë wanted to pretend they did not exist, Makalaurë was not going to complain.

Too many times had he seen the blood of children drip from the edges of his brother’s sword to have his heart at ease.  And that, more than anything, had wiped away any memory of sweet lullabies and tender hands in the dark of night.

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Was it any wonder, then, that he was hesitant about leaving his brother alone with the little ones, even just for few days?

Of course, he was required to go with his men to negotiate trading with the elves to the east.  He could not just throw that assignment at his captain and send the poor man on his way, shirking his own responsibility for the sake of the fosterlings who were meant to be no great hassle to the working machine of war that had become Amon Ereb.  Certainly he daren’t send Nelyafinwë in his stead, for it would not surprise him if the redhead ripped the locals apart with his tongue and his temper.  And he doubted his brother would accept his excuses in any case.

But if he went and Nelyafinwë stayed…

It left Makalaurë sighing, this conclusion, as he vaulted up the stairs to the upper levels of the fortress.  Perhaps he could convince the servants to take his place as the primary caretaker of the two five-year-old elflings.  That way, he did not have to worry about them pulling an Ambarussa and interrupting—

Makalaurë’s throat tightened.  Once upon a time, other twins could have gotten away with murder and Nelyafinwë would not have batted an eyelash.  Now, though, he could never be certain how the volatile older elf might react to even the smallest breach of protocol.

It hurt, this lack of faith in his own kin.  But all too well did he remember the eyes upon his face, the fear for his life that burned in his blood, the tremors that had overcome his hands from fear of violent attack.

The shock and the broken trust.

He turned down familiar hallways and came upon the door wherein the twin sons of Elwing lived, pushing aside the dark thoughts.  His lips parted halfway as he pushed against the hardwood door without bothering to knock.  At this time a day the children were usually playing or napping as they were too young for proper tutoring.

“Little ones?  It’s Maglor.” His eyes swept across the room—no children on the floor—and moved toward the beds off to one side. “It is time to get up now.  We have to get you cleaned up for… dinner…”

Only… the beds were empty as well.  Empty.  There was no sign of either Elros or Elrond.

And Makalaurë felt his blood run cold.  Had he looked in a mirror, undoubtedly his face would have been spilled milk upon black stone, for all color drained and the hairs upon the back of his neck stood in alert tension.

He always knew where the twins were.  Always!  And no one would have removed them from their rooms at this time a day!

Unless…

Panicked, he perhaps was irrationally upset, but Makalaurë couldn’t bring himself to care.  All the sly words his brother had hissed into his ear, the warning signs blatantly displayed.  Dark eyes sharpened to spears when they fell upon the dark-haired pair of children.  Lips pursed into an ugly frown whenever they spoke or laughed or squealed.  Hand clenched into a tight fist, callused knuckles nearly aching with the strain of tendon and bone.

Nelyafinwë did not like the fosterlings.  But would he have gotten rid of them, just like that?  Would he have had them disposed of?

“You should not become attached, Kanafinwë, brother.  They are not our children—not your children—and one day they will be gone.”

He had not wanted to believe… But he knew Nelyafinwë was capable…

“Brother,” he whispered as he turned and fled the room.  He had to speak with Nelyafinwë now!  If something had happened to those two children under his watch, if they had somehow provoked a violent response from his sibling or done something to infuriate the temperamental Lord of Amon Ereb, Makalaurë did not want to think of what his brother might do to them.  Did not want to think about the fact that two babies who could barely speak or walk—who could not fight back—might be facing the wrath of one of the most powerful and ruthless warriors alive.

Out of his way did servants dart as he swept the halls in a frenetic tourbillion of pure anxiety, robes flying out behind him with the speed of his passing.  Like a wild creature he must have looked, fey-eyed and white-faced as he was at this moment, wrapped up in something visceral and parental and uncontrolled.

They were not his children—not his babies.  But they were his charges, and… and…

And if Nelyafinwë had done anything to harm them…

(There would be no forgiveness.  There would be no forgetting.  Just as well as any other Fëanárion could Makalaurë hold a grudge.  But he did not want to think of this possibility.  Did not want to suspect the worst.)

“Brother,” he gasped breathlessly as he reached the study door—found it cracked open in such a way as Nelyafinwë would never have left it.  And almost did he throw himself inside immediately, demanding the truth from the lips of his closest kin.  But the sound of muted voices within gave him pause, pulled him from his hazy frenzy.

No, not muted voices.

Muted humming.

Nelyafinwë never hummed.  No since before Angband.  Not since before Losgar.

Heart in his throat, he peered in through the crack like a spy, shifting to try and find the redhead in the scope of his vision.

But when he did, the pounding beat at the base of his neck ceased for a moment.

No blood.  No organs.  No intestines.  No dead bodies splayed out across the floor beneath the feet of a completely cracked, senile monster grinning broadly at the rampant death and gore.  There was no red at all, and the two tiny bodies within were plainly breathing, their shoulders and backs rising up and down in a steady rhythm.

They were draped over his brother like lazy cats.  Nelyafinwë sat upon the rug in front of the desk where normally he spent his days rifling through reports and trading agreements and supply counts, and today his work spread out before him in a mess of papers and spilled ink staining woven fabric.  But the children took up the space on either side of his cross-legged form, one dark head pressed up against his side, the other lolling into his lap, both caged in place by the flex of powerful arms.

Even as he watched, Makalaurë felt the tears brim.  Other twins—their hair vibrant red and their eyes verdant green—had sat exactly this way before, cuddled up to their frighteningly tall brother for warmth and comfort when Fëanáro and Nerdanel could find no time to spare for the youngest of their brood.  But Nelyafinwë always had time to spare, no matter how busy, and never turned any of his brothers—especially the babies who yearned for and coveted attention—away no matter what he might need to finish before night’s end for the academy the next day.

Like a shadowy vision did that image overlap this domestic scene.  There was no fury upon that face, no wickedly sharpened hatred in distant silvery eyes.  The stump of his right hand stroked over one back soothingly to the beat of the old nursery rhyme whispered beneath breathy sighs.

Even the shifting and mumbling of the other child was met with a steadying hand, guiding that head back to where it pressed—probably uncomfortably—to Nelyafinwë’s stomach and lower chest.  Indeed, like a mother cat with kittens…

Indeed, like a father with his sons…

“Oh Nelyo,” he whispered. “I ought to have had more faith.”

In all these many years, he had never seen his brother move this way, act this way, not even in private.  Decades of training to become a talented warrior—a skilled and nearly unmatched killer on the battlefield—had dried up the wispy softness of the caress of scarred, rough fingers.  Many more decades after—of hardship and watching their brothers die one-by-one—had choked out what little remained of the beloved older brother Makalaurë remembered.

Or so he had thought.  But not all, he realized.  Not all.

For the touch was soft, and the eyes that rested upon the sleeping children were tender.  Nothing at all like the eyes that haunted his nightmares.

Nothing at all like the eyes of their father.

Without pushing his way into the room—without demanding answers that he no longer required or spitting accusations he now knew were falsehoods—Makalaurë stepped away from his brother’s study and snuck quietly down the hallway to the soft sound of humming.  That sound that brought to mind those days of old so easily forgotten.

Guilt pressed down upon his heart when finally did he turn the corner and depart fully the sound of his beloved brother breaking through the overcast storm of the broken and scarred man Nelyafinwë had become. 

When, he wondered, had he so completely lost faith in one of the few people he had always trusted with his life and his breath—with his very soul?

One moment of fear.  One moment of insanity.  One moment in time and it all had been shattered.  But he had been blind.  So very, very blind.

For, with every hint of discontent and danger, there had also been a hint of something else.

And he could see.

See the twitch at the corner of the lips that tried to smile.  The flash of silver through blackened eyes.  The pause in the doorway of the twins’ room as they slept the afternoon away.

Nelyafinwë, perhaps, hated the little ones.  Hated their similarity to other twins, other children they had failed or killed or left to starve and die.  Hated how they were adorable and sweet and so terribly innocent to the woes and horrors of the world.  Hated how they could bring back the urge to grin and chortle with amusement and filled the halls with laughter where once they had been quiet and somber with despair.

But, more so than anything else, Makalaurë thought Nelyafinwë hated the children because they were so frightfully easy to love.

And love them Nelyafinwë did.  To Makalaurë, that was unmistakable.

Now, he would have no qualms about leaving them in his brother’s care alone.  Almost did he anticipate the results, in fact, for he would dearly love to see Nelyafinwë’s shadowed heart clear and open up to the warmth of daylight and affection.  To the sweet and loveable children who so desperately needed a father to go along with their mother.

Perhaps, Nelyafinwë needed them also.  More than he would ever know.

Perhaps there was hope yet to be found.  Now that he knew where to look.  Now that he could see clearly.

No longer was Makalaurë blind.