Wounded

Written for the Archives of Excellence January writing challenge, Before the Beginning.

When little Elrond asks Maglor to play a game that reminds him of his part in the Kinslayings, how does he deal with it?

“Elrond, what are you doing?” asked Maglor.

There before him was a pair of twin boys, one of whom was lying on a makeshift bed of dirty clothes while the other wrapped his leg with one of Maglor's shirts.

“Elros has been fighting the enemy, my lord,” replied Elrond, his grey eyes wide with innocent concern, “and is gravely wounded. I am bandaging his injuries. When I have finished, I must bring him medicine for the pain.”

Maglor sighed. “I see,” he said with a thin smile, “and what medicine will you give him?”

“The healers have forbidden me to use real medicines for my game,” explained Elrond, “so I shall give him elderflower water instead.”

Maglor turned on his heel and walked out of the tent. The boy seemed obsessed with this particular game, as if he wished to heal the hurts of all Arda. Perhaps he did. It discomfited him to think that Elrond often lingered by the healer's tent and asked about the treatment of specific injuries. Not that there had been any to treat, but the smell of the medicines – and perhaps the fact that he was forbidden to go in there – had lured him there with many questions and a strong desire to learn the healer's craft.

The Noldo blinked as an unwanted memory drifted unbidden to the surface of his mind.

The nursemaid lay on the floor in a pool of congealing blood, the young twins curled up with her like two kittens with their mother. It occurred to him that they had never seen death before, and had no idea what it was. It seemed such a shame to wake them up, to pull them back to a reality without their mother, who had cast herself into the river in horror at the sight of their bloody forms. He had forced himself to pick up the boy whose arm was around his brother, as if trying to protect him, and wondered how he would respond to the sight of the one responsible for the losses he had suffered.

Was that it? Did those few hours still haunt the child? Was he unconsciously trying to make his nursemaid better?

Apart from his interest in the healing arts, Elrond seemed happy enough. It had taken Maglor a while to recognise that Elrond's serious demeanour was part of his nature. Elros liked to run around pretending to be a warrior who slew Orcs in their thousands, and loved to sing and dance, to the delight of the other Noldor who dwelt with the sons of Fëanor, while Elrond lost himself in books and spent his time among the scribes and the healers – anywhere knowledge could be found.

When Maglor considered why he was so drawn to Elrond, he realised that he felt guilty and responsible for what the boy had become. But Elrond's demeanour would have been serious whether his mother had remained unmolested at Lonnath or not! Really, what harm had he done him? The boy was merely curious and academically minded; his attitude was decidedly not the product of the raid on the town at the mouths of the Sirion.

Another voice prodded his consciousness. Whether Elrond fully remembered the events of the Kinslaying or not, he had been taken from his mother and would never see her again. All of the sons of Fëanor had grown to maturity in a happy household. The shameful violence of the Kinslayings had occurred long after they had all come of age.

Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes. Maglor knew that when Elrond was older, he would ask about his parents. What would he tell him? The truth? Ai! He cursed the Oath that had weighed him down for so long. As Elwing had pointed out, even if he did regain the Silmarils, what would happen then? Where would he go? What would he do? Who would welcome a Kinslayer into their halls? If he and Maedhros ever did fulfil the Oath and regain the Jewels, the victory would be bereft of satisfaction – and the weight of their father's injunction might be heavier still.

He barely felt the tug on his leggings. A second pull made him look down. Elrond's sea-grey eyes looked into his own.

“Lord Maglor,” asked Elrond, “will you play with me? Elros has grown weary of our game and wishes to practice with his bow.”

“'Healer and patient?'” asked Maglor. “Do you think I am wounded, Elrond?”

“I do, my lord,” replied Elrond, “and gravely so. You must lie down and let me bandage you. I shall use the best salves and medicines I can find to make you better.”

Maglor smiled. He crouched down and drew the kind-hearted boy into his embrace. “Very well, then, I shall submit myself to your ministrations,” he said.

The Noldo lord followed Elrond into the laundry tent to begin his healing. As the little peredhel had said, his wounds were deep indeed, and needed much care ere he could recover.

The End.

Much of this is my own fanon, from my story, Stolen. The name 'Lonnath' is my own, since Tolkien never named the settlement in question. The Professor also tells us that there was love between the half-elven twins and their captor, Maglor.