One in the Deep Waters by Isilme_among_the_stars  

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With Courage, As Always

As the first rays of sun reached into the cave, stretching their golden fingers to caress Maglor’s face, he woke to the sound of singing. Before long the bounding melody, full of lighthearted jest though not bawdy, was interrupted by a loud clunk. This was followed promptly by a string of colourful language in what sounded to Maglor’s ears mixed Sindarin and Taliska. He could not help but smile. After a minute the singing resumed and was not long after joined by the gentle crackling of a small fire. Maglor yawned and stretched his arms and legs, then padded outside to join Elros, who had set water to boil, and grains to cook for a hot breakfast.

“Alla, Elros,” he greeted, and gesturing to the fire and food added, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Elros grinned sheepishly, “I hope I did not wake you.”

“You did, with your rather foul language.”

Elros looked aghast.

Maglor laughed, “and on this day I would not rather have woken any other way. You are going to teach me all those colourful words, aren’t you? I only recognized about half.”

Elros chuckled a little self-consciously, “I would be delighted to. Mannish languages have such satisfying curse words. How amusing Galadriel’s face would look if she heard them dropping from your honeyed tongue with your oh so perfect pronunciation.”

“You did not know Artanis as a child. I can assure you she was as foul-mouthed as the worst of my brothers.”

“Never!” Elros put on an expression of mock scandal, then ducked his head furtively, “I did not act very considerately toward you yesterday. Certainly not in a way that would befit a king. I am sorry.”

Maglor shrugged, “You’re not a king yet, are you? And in any case I shall never expect that kind of propriety from you. You must have someone that you can be free with, lest you go mad.”

It was perhaps a poor choice of words. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Elros broke it, his expression uncharacteristically serious. ‘An Elrond moment’, Maedhros had called it, when Elros became introspective and took on facial expressions and mannerisms so characteristic of his brother that he looked more like Elrond than Elrond did himself. He was no less deep-thinking or thoughtful than his twin really, only much less likely to let it show unless he was deeply concerned. Elrond, just the opposite, rarely displayed the depths of his joy in the way that Elros so innocently did. They were strange counterpoints, the pair of them, two souls more alike than not, and yet with very different ways of presenting to the world.

“Are you going mad?” he asked bluntly.

“I don’t believe so,” Maglor’s smile was tight and not in any way reassuring.

“Your family does not have a very good track record.”

“It’s your family too, great-great-great grandson of Finwë,” Maglor countered, eyebrow raised.

“Ah, but I have good Sindar and mannish ancestry to balance out crazed Finwëan tendencies.”

Maglor snorted, “Thingol and Beren did not strike me as beacons of sanity, and didn’t your adar embark on an almost certainly suicidal journey for the chance to sail a jewel endlessly back and forth through the night sky?”

Elros frowned, looking a little hurt, “There was a little more to it than that.”

“That was a step too far, I am sorry. I do think Eärendil is likely one of the saner members of our family. I do not fear for you. You need not fear for me. I will not let my grief go the way of Fingolfin or Fëanor’s.”

“It is not going out in a sudden fit of despair or fey temper that I fear though, atya. It is a slower creeping hopelessness. I can see it in you, underneath everything all the time. Even your laughter is not untouched by it.”

Elros’s earnest eyes sought out his. Maglor turned to stare into the flames.

“I have lived with it a long time, Anarinkë. I have not yet let it conquer me.”

“But you were never alone before.”

“I am not alone now,” Maglor pointed out, deliberately obstinate.

“Don’t be so obfuscating,” Elros shot back quickly, anger creeping into his tightly controlled tone, “When I go you will be, and who knows how long you will go before you talk to another soul. It is not a healthy way to live, and especially dangerous, I think, when you grieve so deeply.”

“It is precisely because I grieve so deeply that I wish to be alone,” Maglor raised his voice in frustration, almost ready to storm off in a temper as Elros had done the previous day.

“Yes, which raises alarm bells. Don’t you see?”

Elros was so earnest that Maglor’s temper refused to sustain itself. Despite himself the ghost of a smile began to curl at the corner of his mouth.

“You can be infuriating. Do you know that?”

“Look who’s talking, oh Makalaurë Lindelisso, who never failed to pull any of the three of us out of a funk even if you had to drag us by the scruff of our necks, kicking and screaming.”

Both laughed, and it felt strangely free despite the tension of the previous few minutes. Maglor let himself float in the absurd joy of that mental image and remembered several amusing examples without grief once touching them.

“Oh, I was insufferable, wasn’t I?” he remarked, not the least bit repentant.

“Yes, you were,” Elros agreed, “and we wouldn’t have had you any other way. I think we very much needed that.”

Maglor sighed, “What will we do now, Anarinkë? The future looks very different for each of us. We must tread our separate paths.”

“We’ll meet it bravely, same as always, atya.”

“That we will,” Maglor agreed with resignation, thoroughly tired of bravery. “How long is it until you sail?”

“Not for some time, I imagine,” Elros admitted ruefully, “It seems we began our preparations in haste.”

The sudden petulance in his expression reminded Maglor how young Elros still really was, for all the maturity he had tried to wrap about himself. Maglor fixed him with an expectant look.

“I had thought to depart alongside Finarfin’s host, once they’ve gathered such of the exiles as will come, but Eonwë has other ideas.”

Though he clearly made considerable efforts to master it, Elros’s impatience showed in jerky, too forceful movements as he suddenly and unnecessarily began to stir the gruel.

“That is perhaps not such a terrible thing. Time can be a wonderful gift.”

“We must also submit to his tutelage while a place is prepared for us.”

Now Maglor better understood. Elros would chafe under such constraint, even if the exertion of it was subtle.

No son of Fëanor could neglect the education of a child in their care. Maedhros had begun to plan for it before they even made it back to Amon Ereb. Maglor knew this because he developed an irritating habit of absent-mindedly interrupting him with half-formed questions.

“You’ve got a good grounding in the origins and history of the Edain, so you can take that on, can’t you?”

“Take what on? I’m not actually a mind-reader, as much as you may think it,” Maglor had retorted.

“Instructing Elrond and Elros,” Maedhros clarified with a frown, as if it should have been obvious, “You’re also a better rider than I, so you’ll be willing to instruct them in this too, yes?”

“Don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself?” was what he’d said, when really he was relieved. This kind of investment was not the travail of one who intended to remain distant.

Elros had caused Maglor all sorts of headaches at first. Elrond would lap up any and every piece of knowledge offered to him, but Elros? That boy marched to the beat of his own drum. He deigned to learn only when the benefit of doing so was made abundantly clear to him. It seemed so easy when Maedhros taught them, holding both boys’ attention in the palm of his hand, whether the lesson was how to properly grip a dagger or how to form tengwar properly. Oh, how Maglor ached to have that time back again. Those were good days, when the twins were so absorbed they forgot their troubles and were just boys for a time, and Maedhros became again the Nelyo of old. His enchanting brother, as eager to impart knowledge as the children to take it, held them under his spell. Maglor when faced with Elros, however, frequently wanted to howl in frustration. He’d never let the impulse ruffle his cultivated calm exterior, but Maedhros knew him too well.

“Think of him like Celegorm. Remember how he blatantly refused to have anything to do with clay until Ammë took him into the woods and showed him how to fire a crude pot in a campfire? I long ago lost count of the hot meals he’s since fed us from cookware made in this way. You must give Elros a good reason to, or he won’t want to learn.”

It did not sound like Eönwe had given Elros a particularly good reason to listen to his instruction. That was a gap Maglor had long since learned how to fill.

“Eonwë is wise. He knows much about the winds and their ways. Should nothing else he can share prove particularly useful, that at least will be quite a boon for a would-be mariner. Though I would hazard you will find much else to your benefit in his instruction.”

“Most likely.”

The fire fizzled and spat as a particularly vigorous movement from Elros spilled a glob of wet grain among the flames. Maglor laid his hand gently over the young man’s, stilling it.

“Then make it your choice. Take from him what you wish and encourage the direction of his instruction toward your own ends. You have good instincts. Eonwë will doubtlessly be delighted to have such an engaged student.”

“I would rather remain your student.”

There was an aching in his voice that told much more than the words themselves. Maglor knew it was not really instruction that he craved, but the closeness the four of them had managed to carve from the mountain of their collective grief and dysfunction. He reached out, fëa to fëa, to offer an embrace alongside his words.

“We have time and need not yet be parted. Go to Eonwë, learn all he can teach you. What you find lacking, you may seek from me, and I shall endeavour to provide it.”

The reciprocating touch of Elros’s mind was the warmth of little rays of sun, questing out from behind the clouds in storm darkened skies. He was hopeful, then. That boded well.

Days stretched into a week, which soon became two, and still Maglor’s foster son stayed. Elros did not want to leave, that much was abundantly clear. He grew sullen at the very suggestion. Though admittedly, he was growing gloomier anyway. Maglor had not heard him sing for days. The trouble came in approaching the subject matter of why, which was obscured, tangled and cried out when touched.

“It will be time for you to leave soon, Anarinkë,” Maglor prompted gently as they gathered leafy greens growing along a pebbly stretch of beach, nicely protected at the base of a tall cliff.

“Soon,” Elros promised, “but first I want to weave you a gathering basket. Using one’s tunic is fine for leaves, but the berries of that buckthorn will stain terribly come Summer.”

“Do you mean to build me a cottage too? And perhaps a henhouse while you’re at it? Elros, if I hear one more excuse from you, I will tie your tongue in a knot so I do not have to suffer them anymore. What is really keeping you?”

The young man was stubbornly silent, glaring at the shrub his deft fingers gleaned from like it had done him a personal injury.

“Anarinkë?”

Elros turned his glare upon Maglor, “What will keep you from slowly drowning in melancholy once I leave?”

Maglor held his ground, with a gaze just as flinty, “We’ve been through this.”

“And you have deflected every time.”

“I have promised you I will be here, is that not enough?”

“No! Can you hold a promise in your hand when you’re tempted to reach for a knife? Don’t look at me like that, I’ve known about that for years. Can a promise tell you a joke so filthy you can’t help but smile even though grief has made you heavy as a stone? I didn’t think so.”

Well, two can play at that game, Maglor thought. Elros always had a way of getting his back up, even as a small child. Once, when Elros was only eight, he’d drawn Maglor into a pointless argument over allowing a stray cat he’d found to sleep on his bed, just for the sake of it. They’d whipped each other into a storm before Maglor could catch himself, trading volley after volley of shouted rebuttals and finally screams. Even though Maglor really had no objection to the cat sleeping wherever Elros liked, so long as he cleaned up after it. Eventually Maedhros had marched in, dragged Elros out by the arm and told him in no uncertain terms where the cat would be going if he didn’t stop yelling at Maglor. Maedhros would have cut through the nonsense now too, but Maglor was feeling too annoyed. So, he ploughed on, like a bird propelled by a strong wind toward a cliff, unable to pull itself out of the stream before it hit.

“Can a promise hold you when you wake in the night screaming for the twin that’s not by your side, convinced he’s in danger? Can it stop you from picking fights because you’d rather feel angry than desperate?”

Maglor was sure Elros would have another clever answer ready, but the young man surprised him. He turned his gaze toward the sea, its reflection changing his grey eyes almost to blue. When he spoke, his words sounded like they came from far away, echoing down the years from a past long since lost. And Maglor knew Elros could not leave him any more now than he could have then. He needed Maglor still. Oh, he looked grown, but he was still young really.

“No, but you can.”

The waves breaking on the shore were the only sound. So still were they both that not even the merest grating of stone underfoot was to be heard, until Maglor started forward abruptly, pinching off a last few leaves in quick succession, and thrusting them into the pocket he’d made of his tunic with finality.

“Right then, best pack your things tonight because we’re leaving tomorrow and the start will be early.”

“We?” Elros blinked in confusion.

“Yes, we,” declared Maglor, then turned and strode off in the direction of their, currently shared, cave. Elros hurried to catch up, lightly cursing at the waves as he stumbled on a slippery patch of stones.

“You’re coming?”

“I’m walking back with you, not promising to stay.”

“Why?”

“Because it is what we both need.”

How could Maglor tell him that when he looked at Elros these days he saw only stormy skies, not warm afternoons in the May sun? How could he explain the depth of concern that grew day by day as Elros failed to unfold from the tight coil he’d worked himself into. Elros was not his brother, softened and soothed by the rhythm of slow days until grief gave way little by little to wonder. No, to cheer himself he needed movement, a wide sky over his head, the earth moving beneath his feet and above all, the company of friends. To convince him of the earnestness of one’s intent he needed demonstrable action, not sincere words. Maglor couldn’t give him those things sitting around a fire outside a cave by the seaside. So, he would take him where he needed to be, whether it was what Maglor wanted or not.

“You’re sure about this?” Elros checked that evening as he set to packing not just his own chattels, but Maglor’s too. A dark-haired, bright-eyed whirlwind of motion, more animated than Maglor had seen him in days. “I thought you wanted to be alone.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Maglor repeated emphatically for what was probably the tenth time since he’d declared his intent, “Look how much happier you are already, you’ve even started singing again.”

Elros stopped suddenly, one hand deep inside his pack, “so have you. Something other than bloody morose laments, I mean.”

Maglor set down the cane he’d been bending into a new frame for his own gear, tracing his movements back through the day. Elros was right, no less than five different melodies, none of which were the least bit melancholy had passed his lips, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“Then it is clear the right decision has been made.”

Maglor had meant to leave Elros before they reached his people, make his farewells and turn back, but Elros had other ideas. Once the first wooden lean to of the little settlement that had sprung up in the woods at the top of the cliffs came into sight, smoke rising from a cheery campfire beside it, Elros would not be gainsaid. The shadows grew long and the air had begun to grow chill under the cloudless sky.

“They won’t thank you for bringing me here,” Maglor argued.

Elros shrugged, “what are they going to do?”

Maglor could think of quite a few unpleasant things but held his tongue. Sure enough, as they wended their way through a scattering of wooden cabins and lean-tos populated by a mixture of Hadorian and Haladin folk, Maglor drew not a few black looks. Tall, golden-haired men crossed their arms and glared, and many of the smaller, darker forest folk simply drew back into their roughshod dwellings. On the far side of the settlement however, there was a warmer welcome for them.

“Elros! Come join us,” a ruddy-faced middle-aged man called, arms wide in greeting, “and if it isn’t Maglor. Finally convinced you to drop by, did he?”

“Pulled me along by the ear, more like,” Maglor corrected, recognizing the man vaguely as one who had taken Elros under his wing as the War of Wrath wound to a close. Though he’d technically been serving under Gil-Galad, Elros always had found the company of Edain more entertaining, attaching himself to a small group from Brethil in particular.

“Cold reception?” he asked, nodding toward the rest of the camp.

“You could say that,” Elros agreed darkly.

“Don’t mind them,” the man said jovially, “you’re welcome by our fire. There was a time we fought side by side. Always did feel that bit safer with your and Maedhros’s men close by. Not all of us have forgotten that.”

He pressed a bowl of something hot into Maglor’s hands, the savoury smells that rose from it inviting. Elros, who had been treated likewise, looked over at him, eyes full of mischievous twinkle. Maglor soon found himself sitting on a small stump, listening to Elros and his companion’s banter, and smiling to himself as he did. When one of them requested a song from him, thrusting a lyre into his hand, Maglor found he did not mind at all.     

Chapter End Notes

Of the Elvish (mostly Quenya) words used in this chapter: Alla = welcome/hail, atya= my father, adar = father (in Sindarin), fëa = soul, Ammë = mum, tengwar = letters
Maglor & Elros's pet names for each other, Lindelisso & Anarinkë mean 'song of honey' and 'little sun' respectively. 
Taliska is an early language spoken by the Edain of Middle Earth from with the language of the Númenorians was eventually derived.

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