The Magic Flute by polutropos

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Bonus Epilogue

I told a fellow fic writer that if she wrote Caranthir and Daeron's encounter, I'd write Maglor finding out about it. She did, so I kept my word.

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“Moryo.” The syllables dripping from Maglor’s mouth were as dark as the word itself. He glared at the stone floor, then pointedly slid his gaze up to Amras. “Where is Moryo?”

Amras didn’t know. Why would he? He didn’t keep track of the whereabouts of every one of his brothers. If he did, he would have avoided being here right now. Maglor in the morning had never been pleasant company. Since their catastrophic loss of the North, Maglor in the morning meant Maglor who had scarcely slept, if at all, which meant Maglor who was volatile, unpredictable and… well, so absurdly over-the-top that he was difficult not to laugh at, if Amras was being honest.

But it was dangerous to be honest these days, so Amras said nothing. He pinched his mouth shut, moving a piece on the strategy game that he’d been using to distract himself from existence. He held his breath, expecting a colourful stream of curses to tumble from his brother’s mouth at any second.

“By the coagulate sanguineous ooze of an orc’s offal!”

Amras had to quickly draw back in his chair as a fork went flying across the dining hall and stuck in the wood panelling on the opposite wall.

“Our brother,” Maglor spat between bared teeth, “our brother--” he filled his lungs with a deep inhalation, giving Amras just enough warning to slap his hands over his ears before he screamed, “MORIFINWË CARNISTIR!” Maglor gasped and fell into a chair. “–took my dagger again.”

Amras’ lips smacked together as he opened his mouth to speak, remembering too late that Maglor hated that sound. His brother’s eyes shot open ridiculously, like two silver saucers.

“Er.” Amras cleared his throat to hide a laugh. “Are you sure it was him? Did you check the privy? You remember last time–”

The game pieces rattled when Maglor’s hand came down on the table with a flat thunk. That must have hurt. “No!” The protest crescendoed to a shriek, failing to disguise his pain. “I left it in his rooms and it’s gone this morning!”

Amras was saved from further comment by the appearance in the doorway of the alleged dagger thief himself.

“You went through my rooms?” Caranthir’s fist was indeed balled tightly around the hilt of Maglor’s dagger at his waist.

“Take that off!” Maglor jabbed a finger into the empty air. “That’s mine, you did not ask for it, and you’re going to lose it. Like you lost the one Father made!"

“I did not lose that dagger.” Caranthir stepped into the room, seething. “It was stolen from me.” He propped his fists on the edge of the board and loomed over Maglor. “And if you are going to keep me up until dawn blubbering about your regrets — as if we don’t all have the same regrets here! — and then stagger out and leave your things behind, then you best believe I will keep them.”

“Oh!” Maglor drew his chin back and blinked dramatically. “Oh. And to think - ha ha! - to think that I believed you cared! Do I need to remind you who listened to you when Haleth—”

“Please.” Amras splayed his hands out over the table and looked between his brothers. “Please, let’s try to make it to breakfast before we fall apart today, shall we?”

Maglor whined and dropped his head onto his folded arms. Caranthir grunted and slumped into a chair.

“So,” said Amras. “Has anyone asked to have breakfast prepared or should we make it ourselves?”

“What is the point?” Caranthir muttered moresely, tracing the wood grain with a fingertip. “I am sick of those stale dwarven oats.”

“Right.” Amras went to stand. “Let’s go for a walk, then, and—”

“Who stole that dagger?” Maglor punctuated the question by first rapping his fingers and then sweeping his palm over the tabletop. Amras sat back down. He’d long had his suspicions about where that dagger went. If that incident was going to come out now… well, it was looking to Amras like just another day of stopping his brothers from killing each other.

"You never said how that happened.” Maglor sniffed. “What, did you just leave it lying around? I doubt it. You wore that thing everywhere. Almost as though you were compensating for something.” He smirked wildly.

Caranthir flushed and growled as he agitatedly removed the dagger from his belt and slammed it on the table.

Ignoring Maglor, he turned sharply on Amras. “Look at this, Russa. Have you ever seen a more decorated scabbard? Gold detailing, emerald-studded… What does the Tengwar say? I never bothered to read it…” Caranthir peered at the writing. “Oh, but of course, MACALAURË, MIGHTY SINGER and–” he ran his finger over some lettering, “Is this verse? I don’t recognise the metre.”

“Anapestic tetrameter, you uncultured number-cruncher!” Maglor stretched an arm across the table to seize the weapon but Caranthir snatched it away.

“Really?” Caranthir raised his brows, examining the text more closely. “This looks like a dactyl.”

“Then the engraver erred!” Maglor huffed, reaching across the table again and grabbing lamely at the air.

“Let me see,” said Amras, feigning interest and contriving to keep the weapon out of either of their hands. This was good, though. Arguing about poetry was a much better alternative to finding out—

The dagger rang shrilly as Caranthir pulled it from the sheath with a sweep of his wrist. “What a beautiful sound it makes when it slides against its sheath,” he marvelled, running a fingertip up the edge admiringly. “How sharp! How it shines!” He addressed Amras. “One would think our brother does not even use it. A pity, for such a beautiful weapon, such a ready weapon, to yet remain dry for so long, untouched by any save its master.”

Maglor struck the table with both fists like a petulant child. “You are one to talk! I doubt you have even drawn your weapon in over a century, sulking as you have over the only woman to ever match your ill-temper!”

Caranthir’s cheeks burned red. “Very well!” He stabbed the dagger into the table and turned on Maglor. As they seared holes into each other with their eyes, Amras seized the opportunity to take the weapon. He held it over his knees under the table.

“So you wish to bring up past lovers? Hm,” Caranthir grunted. “What ever happened to that Iathrin minstrel you were so besotted with? I heard he disappeared. Heartbroken over that Silmaril-thieving sorceress.”

Maglor sputtered. “I was not besotted with Daeron. Why,” his lip began to quiver, “why would I care what happened to him? Þingollo’s puppet.” Maglor spat on the floor beside him, hurriedly brushing a tear aside as he turned back.

“Not besotted?” Caranthir leaned back in his chair. Amras shook his head emphatically, trying to draw his brother’s attention and failing. “I couldn’t blame you if you were. He was very talented.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Maglor squinted and puckered his lips. “How would you know? You never heard him.”

Caranthir was drawing circles on the table with a fingertip. “What if I told you I did?”

“Don’t!” Amras barked, then clapped a hand over his mouth.

Maglor’s head rotated very slowly towards him. “What is going on?” He raised his voice an octave and slid into an ominous minor key. “Pityo?”’

Amras grimaced as the wheels turned frantically in his mind. How to salvage this? “Daeron came here,” he confessed. “After he left Doriath. Just for a short time. He came through, he played a song, and he left.” He pushed aside the memory of a warbling flute and loud moans blending most discordantly on the fortress rooftop. “That’s it. That’s why Moryo knows.” He laughed nervously and shot a warning glance at Caranthir.

There was a long silence.

Maglor chewed on his lip. “Really?” he said at last. “Why did you never tell me?”

“You said yourself,” Caranthir replied, exasperated. “You don’t care.”

“No,” Maglor said. “I don’t. But…” He huffed and pinched his brows.

Caranthir smirked and shook his head wistfully. “But he was damn good with that flute, wasn’t he?”

“Wait.” A cloud lifted from Maglor’s face and his glance was sharp when he raised it at Caranthir. “You don’t mean…” His eyes had a flickering light to them, the worst kind. Amras could never tell what emotion lay behind it.

Caranthir cowered then, apparently just as unsettled by Maglor’s piercing stare as Amras was. “I didn’t touch him!” he blurted.

Maglor’s lips twitched. Please don’t cry, Amras thought. Please don’t yell.

Without warning, high pitch, explosive laughter ricocheted off the walls. “No,” Maglor shrieked, “of course you didn’t! No need!”

Caranthir chuckled nervously at first, gradually rising to a coarse roar. Amras sat stunned, gaze shifting wordlessly between his two hysterical brothers.

“That–” Maglor wheezed, “that wily little seducer!” He bent over the table and shook with glee.

Amras clutched the dagger's hilt on his lap, bracing himself for the moment one of them snapped and threw another insult or, worse, a fist. Surely.

But after long minutes of gasping laughter, tears streaming down their faces, they both exhaled in unison and came to silence.

“So,” Maglor said with a little sputter. “What did happen to that dagger?”

Caranthir grinned wickedly. “Daeron. He took it.”

Maglor howled at that. “Serves you right!” he said, flinging his fist at the air and kicking with one leg. It was a playful gesture, but Amras still tensed.

“Would you two shut up?” Curufin appeared in the doorway, still wearing his forge gloves and apron, a filthy rag over one shoulder. He scowled at them in disgust. “Have you completely lost your minds?”

“Curvo!” Maglor exclaimed. “Did you know Moryo and I shared a lover?” He spewed saliva as his laughter buzzed between his lips like flatulence.

“Huh.” Curufin chewed his tongue. “Which one?”

Maglor opened his mouth to speak but Caranthir raised a finger to silence him.

“Guess,” he challenged.

“Daeron,” Curufin answered without hesitation.

Maglor gaped and struck the table. “How did you know?”

Curufin shrugged. “He was talented. And very willing.”

“What,” Amras, Caranthir, and Maglor said in unison. And then, “When?”