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Maglor did not often write ahead. He had grown used over-quickly, in Maedhros’ eyes, to his tricks, knew perhaps that if he sent a letter to warn Maedhros of his coming he would be presented with a feast as fine as the Lord of Himring’s brother deserved, and his own chamber in the fortress made ready for him, and Maedhros with a few spare hours morning and night to spend with him; but if he simply rode, cheerful and vivid, his scarlet cloak the brightest thing on the dull stony hill, into Himring’s courtyard, and told Maedhros, “Come hunting with me!” then he knew Maedhros would be compelled to agree, and leave his duties with some capable deputy for a six-day or two.
Maedhros knew his brother’s tricks well enough, too.
Still – still – when Maglor clasped his forearm lightly, and flashed him that irresistible smile, he found it hard to object.
“I am holding drills tomorrow,” he tried, half-heartedly.
“You are not,” said Maglor, “you did that last month.” Maedhros had never been very good at lying to him. Maglor fixed him with a beseeching look, now. “Pityo tells of rumours of a golden hart roaming Estolad. We might go searching for it, you and I.”
“Whom have you left holding the Gap?” Maedhros asked. “Not Limdir, I hope. He is high-hearted, but I doubt his good sense.”
Maglor rolled his eyes. “Hestien,” he said, “she is as competent a lieutenant as any. Come on, Nelyo. You have not left Himring since the winter.”
“All right,” Maedhros said, yielding with a laugh. Who could not yield, with Maglor’s wide dark eyes lifted to him so? “But tomorrow. It is too late to start now.”
Maglor pouted at that, but Maedhros rather thought he was pleased. All Himring liked Maglor – liked his ready laugh and quick wit, liked his skill with horses and his music at banquets, and liked, too, that their lord smiled more when he was present. And Maglor did so thrive on affection. Were Maedhros as dutiful a brother as he thought he had been, long ago, he would show his own more openly; but Maglor had always understood him very well, so perhaps he gleaned from Maedhros’ eyes what he did not often put into words.
He was merry all evening, as they dined in the great hall and then retired to Maedhros’ chambers to talk privately; recalling, to Maedhros’ eyes, the Tirion-Maglor who had glided through all life’s small dramas and romances with such evident joy in them. It was an affect, at least in part. Maedhros had returned from Thangorodrim and been struck, early on, by how grave this most light-hearted of brothers had become, how solemn and sorrowful. But there was some comfort, even so, in the knowledge that Maglor could yet perform for him.
He turned to smile at Maedhros now. “What are you thinking of?”
“How much you chatter,” Maedhros said, so fondly that Maglor could not possibly take his words with any sting; “I have not had a minute to think in peace since you arrived. Hurry up and sleep: if you wish to go hunting tomorrow I do not want to depart much later than sunrise.”
He watched with some amusement as Maglor readied himself for bed, removing his jewellery piece-wise, and running Maedhros’ hairbrush (having forgotten his own) through his unbound curls, before crawling at last under the sheets of the great four-poster bed. He was the only one of Maedhros’ brothers permitted to sleep here. The others, if they made the mistake of turning up to Himring uninvited (something none of them had done more than once), would be made to keep awake until one of the guest chambers had been made up for them, however long that took. Caranthir, in a fit of pique at this inflexible treatment, had refused to visit for two years after his own unexpected appearance. But Maglor was ever an exception to Maedhros’ rules.
“How cold you keep it here!” he complained. “I do not know how you bear it.” He shivered and pressed close to Maedhros, putting his icy feet against Maedhros’ bare leg.
“Horrible child,” Maedhros said, shoving him lightly. “Get off.”
“I’ll freeze,” Maglor declared. His teeth were chattering. “You’ll be sorry then. Are rations so scarce here that Himring cannot spare any firewood for the chambers of its lord?”
“Perhaps its lord does not see the need for wasteful extravagance in such mild weather,” said Maedhros. “If you had written ahead to tell me you were coming, I would have had a fire lit in your usual rooms.”
Maglor grinned at him, his teeth glinting a little in the dark. “I would have been lonely then,” he said, and nestled his head into Maedhros’ shoulder.
“Hush,” said Maedhros. “We must rise early tomorrow.”
He had no expectation of sleeping himself; he was in a watchful, wakeful state of mind, and had not managed any sleep in a six-day or more. He did not mind – it would be rest enough to watch as Maglor’s chatter quieted, and his breathing slowed, and his mouth curved into the same secret dreaming smile he had worn in sleep since he was very small. But there! He had forgotten that Maglor was performing for him, after all, that his real reason for turning up all tousled and unexpected was not merely because he was bored and restless. He glanced up at Maedhros, now, and put a hand on his brow, and said, “Go to sleep, Nelyo.” His voice was so gentle and firm that Maedhros felt his eyelids sliding shut even before Maglor began to hum a lullaby, and he slipped into dreamless slumber.
His spirits lifted the next day with every mile they rode south from Himring, passing through the wide plains of Himlad and into green and lovely Estolad. The hills of the Eastmarch were forever on high alert, even now that Angband was well-nigh enclosed by the Leaguer; but further south there were those less warlike of their people who dwelt now in peace.
“It is good work, that we do,” Maglor said softly, as though he read Maedhros’ thought. Very likely he did – Maedhros kept his mind guarded, as a matter of habit, but Maglor had a way of understanding him anyway. “Our blood keeps them safe.”
Maedhros did not much like to think of Maglor’s blood – did not like to remember that it was Maglor, and not he, who guarded the most exposed region in East Beleriand.
“I know,” was all he said. All the same, the reminder was welcome. Too often, staring north from Himring’s battlements towards the black fortress in the distance, could he fall into thinking of his watch as naught but a quest for personal vengeance, as though he alone had reason to loathe their Enemy.
Here, in the sunshine, far from the fell chill winds that sometimes blew down from Ard-galen, it was easier.
Maglor flashed him a smile. “Race you to that copse,” he said, and then bent low over his mount, urging her onwards.
Maedhros shouted in protest and picked up his own speed: but Maglor was a better horseman than he, and reached the little cluster of trees nearly a full minute before Maedhros did. He turned his horse to watch Maedhros catch him up, laughing at him.
Maedhros plucked a pinecone from the low-hanging branch of a nearby fir and tossed it at Maglor. “You cheated.”
“Did I!” said Maglor, still laughing. He slid to the ground. “Come: I am hungry. Let us eat.”
“What, make a feast of pinecones?” Maedhros asked; but to his surprise Maglor withdrew from his pack some apples, the kind that grew only in Caranthir’s orchards in Thargelion, and for which Maglor had a particular liking, and with them a round of cheese. He sliced the food up quickly, into small, manageable chunks, and handed half of it to Maedhros before he could think to say, I am not hungry.
He tried anyway: “I—” But then Maglor raised an eyebrow at him, and Maedhros, suitably chastised, ate.
How galling he ought to find it, to be managed like some recalcitrant yearling horse: to be lulled into sleep, and coaxed to eat, and tricked into laughing in the warm breeze – but he could not bring himself to mind. Seeing Maglor was a balm; and having him to himself, with no duties nagging at his heels, more so.
Once he had eaten Maedhros laid his head in his brother’s lap, and slipped into a drowse as he listened to the birds, and the crickets, and above all the lilt and fall of Maglor’s voice as he spoke of some dramatic affair that had recently been discovered in his household – or perhaps it was one of the old epic poems of the Vanyar that he was reciting. Maglor was always singing, even when he was not: the melody of him now filled Maedhros’ heart with contentment.
“There is no golden hart,” Maedhros said a day or two later, watching Maglor as he bent over the pile of firewood he had gathered, “is there?”
Maglor flashed him a slightly sheepish smile, as though to say, You caught me, you caught me. “No,” he admitted. “Are you angry?”
Maedhros could be. He could say, I thought you swore never to lie to me – I thought you swore that I could trust you. For a moment he thought to catch onto that dark flicker of resentment and follow it down, and the colour seemed to leech from the grass and the sky and Maglor’s cloak as all the world went grey; he could see the seams in the whole illusion, and if he plucked at it any more forcefully it would all crumble and he would be back in Angband with Morgoth’s lieutenant whispering pretty lies in his ear—
Maglor was still watching him, although he had stopped smiling.
“No,” Maedhros said truthfully, and exhaled, and the world became real again. “I am not, Káno.”
Under Maglor’s ministrations the fire came at last to life, casting sudden swift red light upon his fair skin. Maedhros thought of torchlight in the great square at Tirion. He thought of Fëanor’s body, crumbling to ash. Then Maglor looked at him and tilted his head, a beckoning gesture, and Maedhros came to sit beside him and thought only that he was glad to have him there, at turns blithe and pensive, and always so unmistakeably himself.
“Thank you, dearest,” he said. “For asking me to come.”
Maglor hummed low in his throat. “I am glad to see you smile,” was all he said.
Maedhros put an arm around him. “It need not always be your duty,” he said carefully, “to – to make sure that I am eating and sleeping properly, and – and try to coax me into smiling. I did not bring you to the East to be so bound.” He was not sure he had phrased that correctly, who once had been thought so silver-tongued. He had not meant his words to imply ingratitude.
To his relief Maglor laughed, a clear sweet sound in the gathering dusk. “I am bound already, Nelyo,” he said, “by Doom and fate and my own sworn word: no hardship, then, to be bound also by affection.”
“Is that all it is?” Maedhros asked. He turned his head to press his face into Maglor’s hair, which smelled of woodsmoke and sea-lavender. “Or are you – are you still trying to save me?” He was clumsy with his speech today, his guard lowered in the easy rightness of Maglor’s presence – the spectre of Thangorodrim lurked between them always, but he need not summon it up quite so blatantly.
“Oh!” said Maglor, sounding almost surprised. He smiled at Maedhros. “That too, of course. I will be trying to save you until the end of the world.” He spoke so tenderly that Maedhros could not bring himself to rebuke him, to say, You know you need not do penance forever.
“You do,” he said instead. “You already do.”
Maglor took his hand, and leaned against him, and they watched as the fire dwindled into the warm darkness of the spring evening.