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magicinavalon · 1 day ago

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like hands in open flame

[Maedhros/Maglor | M | 2.3k | ao3 | ccntw]

Written for @maedhrosmaglorweek Day 6: Cruelty, Reputation & Legend, with marvellous art by the even more marvellous @magicinavalon ! <3

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Protective Maedhros, Angst with a Happy Ending

---

The messenger comes in the early hours of dawn.

Maedhros sees him by chance, up on the battlements. Sleep has been evasive, restlessness eating away at him without obvious cause.

In hindsight, it is no surprise. It tastes all the more bitter for it.

In hindsight, he cannot recall what exactly the messenger says. From the Gap he is, but so pallid and shaking that it is no mystery from whom he brings word. A traitor; a skirmish; a captive.

“Who,” Maedhros asks, a word like a whip stroke. He knows the answer already, can see it in the young Elf’s eyes.

He makes him say it, all the same.

Your brother, your Highness. They are taking him North.

It is only Astaron’s quick hand around Maedhros’ wrist that keeps him from spilling blood in his own courtyard. The young Elf stares at him with wide eyes, and under different circumstances, Maedhros would feel terrible.

Under different circumstances—

But they are no different. And so, he shakes Astaron’s hand off; keeps his sword sheathed but still grabs the Elf by the front of his robes, pulls him close. “Which route did they take? Speak, or Eru himself curse you—“

“Lord—“

“Speak.”

“North-east, your Highness. They’ve gone North-east.”

For the shelter of the mountains, Maedhros thinks, pushing the messenger away. He sees him stumble but is already turning away, running routes and calculations, making plans.

Maglor; they have Maglor. He needs—

Astaron’s hand stops him once more. “Lord, do you think it wise—“

Whatever he finds on Maedhros’ face, it makes his tried and tested Steward waver. He swallows, then raises his chin. “It sounds like a trap, Lord Maedhros. At least let us prepare, gather men, make a plan.”

Maedhros wants to laugh. As if he does not know what it means to prepare, to plan. To think himself certain.

Instead, he inclines his head. “Of course,” he says, and watches the relief wash across Astaron’s face.

When, less than a candle mark later, his horse thunders out of Himring’s courtyard, he almost feels bad about it.

Or he would have if his mind was not entirely taken up with the thought of his brother, and the dull ache of pain where Maedhros should be able to feel their bond.

---

The last time they spoke, they had fought.

It had started with something pointless and silly, some mild irritation that became a stepping stone. Before that, it had started with Maglor’s guilt, and how Maedhros could not absolve him from it. With the way that some nights, in the cold, dark loneliness of the fortress he built, Maedhros cannot quite convince himself that the guilt is as misplaced as he wants to make them both believe.

They had both said much they did not mean. About duty and Maglor’s lack of seriousness; about fear, and Maedhros’ over-abundance of it. How it made them cruel, careless, callous. How Maglor wished for simpler days, and Maedhros had called him naive for it.

As if Maglor has not been holding the Gap for years. As if he had not endured Maedhros and his capriciousness, his scarred hands and savage voice.

There was bound to come a breaking point eventually; accusing Maglor of ignoring their reality, of irresponsibility, of only ever seeking pleasure—

Well. Maedhros had known what he was doing. It was no surprise Maglor had left Himring in about as much a rush as Maedhros currently is in, clamping down on their perversion of a marriage bond until Maedhros could feel little more than the fact that there was someone at the other end of it.

He does not know if it should be relief or terror, that even captured, Maglor is still not letting him in.

At this point, Maedhros does not care; all his stubbornness and frustration have dissolved under the shaking words of the messenger. Maglor may hate and curse him however much he likes, and Maedhros will bear it.

The only thing that matters is that Maglor will be alive to do it.

---

Maedhros rides hard throughout the day, the late August sun burning down on his neck and coating his horse’s flanks with sweat.

He stops when he musts, letting her drink. Then he whispers roughened vowels of Quenya to her until her exhaustion melts away for another few leagues, the two of them swallowing the ground of the Gap, the inverse of Arien far above them.

When she finally abandons him, Mount Rerir is reaching for the sky to his right. He reluctantly submits to the necessity of rest and sits by the side of a small river until the stars alight above him.

Beside him, his mare is dozing. Up ahead East, lights announce Caranthir’s stronghold, nestled into the mountains.

For one brief moment, Maedhros contemplates the detour, then dismisses it immediately. Aside from the delay, he has no nerve for the tact it would require.

Caranthir is pragmatic, of course. But he is also protective of his family to a fault; if he realised that a band of Orcs had dragged Makalaurë past him while he was feasting, he would never forgive himself.

Maedhros is familiar with the feeling. He has no capacity left to shoulder it for anyone else.

By the time Tilion has taken his place high in the sky, Maedhros nudges his horse awake. She huffs, clearly disgruntled, but bears him remounting and directing her through the shadows of the mountains, finally turning north.

There is no hope of finding tracks when it is this dark, but the noxious stench of Morgoth’s brood is lingering. After having spent as much time among them as Maedhros had, it is easy to feel how the very earth tries to withdraw from their touch.

Still, he rides slowly now, letting his mare pick her steps carefully. He listens to whatever carries across the balmy night air. His skin prickles.

When he finally hears the first indications of a sleeping camp, Maedhros is ready to crawl out of his own skin.

He dismounts and tells his mare to stay nearby, but to flee at any sign of trouble. She snorts lightly as if to tell him that he is being stupid, and he is reminded, with a sharp pang, that she is one of Fingon’s breed. She will sooner fight an Orc herself than abandon him to his fate.

Maedhros spares a thought for the regrettable foolishness of the loyal and then unsheathes his sword.

It is almost laughably easy to sneak into the camp. There are two Orcs standing guard, and he slits their throats from behind before they can so much as twitch.

Aside from that, the rough tents have clearly been thrown up in a rush of exhaustion. Considering the speed with which bands of Orcs usually travel, especially when slowed by captives, they must have pushed hard to make it this far.

Maedhros would admire the tenacity, at least, if he was not so tempted to kill each and every one of them in their sleep for daring to lay hands on what is his.

He refrains, if only because he does not know the situation that Maglor is in. Maedhros is not risking anyone taking their chances at killing Maglor in retribution, just because Maedhros could not keep his temper in check.

All is quiet, though. A second sweep of the camp reveals a tent placed conveniently in a circle of the others. Maedhros scoffs at the fact that there are no additional guards stationed; Morgoth must be becoming bold if not even his royal Noldorin prisoners warrant caution anymore. Perhaps Fingolfin has a point in his concerns over the stability of the Leaguer.

Maedhros shakes the thoughts and grips his sword more firmly. With a decisive shove, he parts the hangings.

Inside, all is dark except for a single torch. All is empty, except for the figure kneeling in the middle of the tent, bound to the post, their head covered.

Maedhros recognises him, though. He would recognise him anywhere—the slope of his shoulders, the rhythm of his breathing. The way he looks proud even bound and blinded like this, the very air around him seeming to make room.

“Makalaurë,” Maedhros murmurs, swallowing. “Káno.”

Maglor gives no response, but he seems to go still in a way that has nothing to do with unmoving.

It has occurred to Maedhros, of course, that this is a trap. It is too easy, too clean-cut. There is nothing in the world that could stop him from crossing the distance between them, though; from kneeling at Maglor’s side and to cut through the rough rope that binds his wrists to the tent post.

Maglor still does not speak. Something terrible and harsh settles deep into the pit of Maedhros’ stomach.

When he pulls the fabric off Maglor’s head, he gets the same feeling he had when wandering the battlements in the early morning, seeing the messenger approach.

Of course, he felt restless. Of course, he felt unmoored. Maglor averts his face from him, and it does not hide the hideously black thread that sews his lips shut.

Within Maedhros, something combusts.

The rose-petal lips and the ash-grey violence. The holy-bright light of Telperion and the gutted resignation layered over it. His brother’s beloved voice, and the violation done against it.

“Wait here,” Maedhros says, his voice ferocious and far away. “Do not leave unless I tell you to.”

He does not wait for an answer. Turns, sword familiar and heavy in his hand, and marches out into the camp again.

Five tents, he counts. Two dead guards. The fire within him burns so white, he wonders if it will leave anything of himself behind. Wonders if he can bring himself to care. Wonders, too, if this is what his father had felt like when he found the innards of their grandfather’s head spilt over his well-wrought front steps.

If so, perhaps Maedhros finally understands.

He marches into the first tent and cuts five Orcs down before they can rise from their bedrolls.

The second tent meets him with Orcs who are awake but still scrambling to rise. He spits in their faces, wide eyes unstaring, before he moves on.

Not enough; it is not enough.

There is an Orc in the third tent who snarls; he seems young, Maedhros thinks, in that far-removed corner of his mind that is not consumed by blistering rage and howling impotence.

When Maedhros sinks his sword into his chest, the Orc feels like a mirror; it does not last long, a split-impression, but it is enough to fuel the flames.

The third tent, the fourth; it is not until the last one that Maedhros encounters anything worth calling resistance.

There, their commander awaits him, levelling a crossbow at Maedhros’ chest with a delight in his eyes that is immediately familiar from Angband’s depths.

Maedhros laughs. Thinks of his father, the indomitable fury of him; the way he had all the choices available to him and made all the wrong ones. How he picked, each and every time, with the burning, bristling heart of his.

Maedhros may know little about tenderness—not in the way Maglor craves. He does know all about rage; about the way it entangles itself in all the love he holds, and how it makes a conflagration of everything dear to him.

Around him, the world ignites. He grabs the crossbow by the front and drags the chieftain close to him. When he sinks his sword into his gut, it almost, almost, almost feels like absolution.

---

Maglor, as ordered, still kneels in the one untouched tent.

Outside, everything burns.

Inside, Maedhros kneels in front of him and tries his hardest not to weep.

He cups Maglor’s face between his hands; presses his mouth to his cheek, his nose, his brow.

“I am sorry,” he says, and knows it is a terrible thing to say while Maglor cannot tell him to leave him alone. “We will fix this; I promise, we will.”

This, at least, he means. When he leads Maglor out of the tent, he watches his face; watches the satisfaction play across the beloved lines of it at the destruction he wrought.

This, more than anything, brings him back into his own skin. Brings him the sharp-edged knowledge that whatever he had accused Maglor of had been an indignity.

His brother walks away with his lips sewn shut and his head held high, and Maedhros—

Maedhros vows that he will not stop at anything. That he will lay the world to Maglor’s feet, even if he must burn it all for it.

Maglor presses their shoulders together, a brief gesture. It is in the forgiveness of it that Maedhros understands that he does not need to.

---

Later, they will sit by the river, once more in the shadows of Thargelion.

Later, Maedhros will take his knife to the crude thread mutilating his brother. He will wonder for whom this is the greater torture—Maglor, robbed of the one thing most essential to him save Maedhros only, or himself, forced to cause pain to the one thing he still holds sacrosanct.

Later, Maglor will touch his fingertips to Maedhros’ jaw. His voice will sound rough, but he will smile; he will say, “You know, I would have been fine,” tenderness threatening to spill over. Their bond will spark back to life, an undercurrent of forgiveness. Of protection, Maglor knowing what the awareness of his state would have driven Maedhros to do.

Maedhros will laugh, then, an unsteady sound.

“I know,” he will say, pressing his lips to Maglor’s forehead. “Let me pretend a little longer that I can protect you, no matter the cost.”

Later, Maglor will let him.

Always, Maglor will let him.

#Ahhhhhhh this fic made me so insane #protective maedhros burning everything down like YEAH YEAHHHHHHHHH #mona went off with this #god i love collabing with them #mona tag #fic rec

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