May you live in interesting times by 0ur_Ouroboros

A Cleansing

At the orcling’s utterance, Maedhros’ mind again drags itself to the past. An experience years before, meaningless at the time, one depravity among many.

Through the iron door of his cell, he watched a group of orcs arguing amongst themselves, having nothing better to do with his time. He had begun to recognize pieces of their speech as a bastardized version of ancient Quenya, a pidgin borne of the necessity to communicate. He chuckled then, hands bound, flaming hair extinguished and shorn. Another base urge he had in common with the animals who tortured him. Just outside, one of them is stabbed in the gut, others bleating accusations of cheating at some game they played, as far as Maedhros could tell, by throwing finger-bones across a table. “Moavhas,” it cried, bleeding out. Black liquid seeped under his door. The sound of metal striking metal in the distance, interminable.

“Brother,” says Maglor in a soft tone, seeing the familiar distance in Maedhros’ eyes. “Put the creature to rest. It is a mercy–”

“No.” Maedhros is resolute and his shoulders are back. “You stilled my hand. With the twins.”

“This is an abomination, a mockery . You are mad to compare--” Maglor starts.  But he is weary and has no energy to waste on argument. He looks briefly at the ones that follow, those elves long loyal to his father’s cause, and sees only resignation without judgement. These ones know what strange behavior can be provoked by guilt. If Maglor was whole, he would have recognized the feeling as regret. Now, he is simply tired. A meal and warm bed awaits.

Maedhros offers the orc-child a piece of raw meat, which it devours. 

In silence they reach the old wooden gates of the fortress, Maedhros leading his host, the small lump at his chest unnoticed. Arriving at the stables, Maedhros opens his cloak to reveal it with a mischievous smile. “ Voids ,” the stable hand says, crinkling up his nose. “It smells like Morgoth’s taint.” Maedhros laughs under his breath, “Aye, it does. We will wash it and see what’s underneath the filth.”

None other than Maedhros dare touch it. Curious, Elrond follows the well-formed one, never having seen an orc-child, or any orc for that matter, alive. 

As Maedhros commands, a bath is prepared, and the house staff whisper.

The lord has lost every bit of his sanity. This is madness, pure and simple.

We should leave here before he drags us with him into the Void.

After the bath is ready, the staff find themselves unusually occupied with other tasks. Maedhros turns to Elrond, still tagging along, unsure what to make of the creature, but he is unable to look away.

“It’s just us then, to bathe it.” Maedhros strips it of its rudimentary garb and attempts to place it into the tub. The scent of the warm water is cloying with the excess amount of perfumed oil added by the staff. The creature shrieks and claws at Maedhros’ chest, ripping his tunic, leaving new scars to compliment his old.

Elrond grabs it by the scruff of its neck and plunges it under the water. “Let it breathe!” Maedhros hisses, and Elrond feels suddenly foolish. Of course, he means not to kill it .

It comes up for air now, coughing and gurgling in some strange tongue. It grasps at Maedhros' stump. He allows it to hang there, damp, while Elrond scrubs it with an old horse-brush the staff left behind.

“Think it can even get clean?” Elrond mused, but Maedhros doesn’t respond. Elrond doesn’t expect it; it is rare for Maedhros to speak under usual circumstances. Layers of dirt and caked blood are removed.

“A mutt, not so different from you and your brother at that age,” says Maedhros, as it is revealed to be male. His laugh is dark, and his mouth curls half-up. It’s unclear whether any of it is intended for Elrond or just Maedhros’ own amusement. Elrond scowls and rolls his eyes.

Maglor comes to stand at the doorway then, arms crossed. His face is expressionless as he leans against the threshold. 

The creature shakes violently after the bath. Its hair is dark, wild, and thick; its body short and stout. It is covered with patches of fur, and its skin alternates dark and light with no discernible pattern. Maedhros gropes for a towel, realizing in their haste to rid the fortress of the smell they had forgotten one. “Use your own cloak,” Maglor snarls, and Maedhros realizes Maglor had been watching. “Whatever,” he says, turning back toward the pathetic creature. It makes eye contact with Maedhros then, a sharp tooth extruding from a lower jaw that projects out further than seems anatomically appropriate. He wraps it up, issuing a command, “Bring us some milk and meat. Something cooked, this time.”

Elrond stares at Maglor, wide-eyed. Mustering all he can of their nascent osanwe , he all but throws his mind at Maglor.

I think he means to keep it, Maglor perceives.