Archive of Our Own

I.

It was rapidly becoming evident they could not hold Amon Ereb for long. 

It had been a near thing already, when they had sent away civilians and non-combatants, along with veterans too weary of war - and with not so much blood on their hands - to Balar. Some farmers stayed, stubborn, those who had lived in Amon Ereb since the twins had first settled there. Every month presented a new debate on whether to close ranks in the fortress or move to a smaller holding. Not all those that remained were Noldor, and their increasingly chill regard did not bode for a longer welcome. Even those who were Noldor dealt with them only as need dictated.

“Too fearful,” said Maedhros. “Those who cared for anyone other than themselves turned on us at Sirion.”

This he said to Maglor in private after drinking enough his breath stank. If Maedhros kept on this way, he’d work through the wine stores faster than their food sources would dry out.

If not for betrayal at Sirion, they might yet have the Silmaril in their grasp. If not for over-eagerness at the caves of Doriath, they might have yet bargained their way to it without another kinslaying. If not for treachery at the Nirnaeth, they might have had two Silmarils more. 

Feanor used to say if you wanted something done right, you either fully trusted whoever you put to task or did it yourself. His sons had tried both, and Feanor never took a third path when there was a more direct route. 

Feanor was dead without further wisdom. Nerdanel would likely not even speak to her children if she saw them now. It was just Maglor left, and his brother, and a handful of their people too fearful of being drowned by the blood they’d shed to leave.

Them…and Elwing and Earendil’s sons. Only Mannish blood could account for the strangeness of their features and growth. 

It would be easier if the children would speak to them in any useful fashion. Their mother was just their mother, their father a distant laugh on the sea-breeze, and Sirion the home they played in. The Silmaril was the star on their mother’s chest, the gulls amusing pests they could cajole into pranking sailors, the streams and rivers markets where vendors would throw them fruit and treats. There were no towering spires in Sirion, and the shaded grooves where old Gondolin warriors played board games with each other were filled with grumbles at the flatness. Up the queen’s tower you had to go to see beyond the sea, and Elwing kept steady watch over it, the glimmering jewel on her chest never far, always shining through the stained glass windows of the tower that was all Sirion boasted for a palace.

Not all of this information came from the little half-elven twins. Some, Maedhros’ spies had relayed to them (“the Silmaril never leaves Elwing's breast”). Other’s, Maglor had seen for himself (the streets of Sirion were tight, dwellings stacked on top of each other, packing people into the waters of Ulmo’s protection like fish in a net). One, Maedhros had told him (“I could not see the Silmaril’s glow once she hit the water. You saw the ships coming from Balar, didn’t you? It must be Ulmo’s doing, to see as far as Balar but not a Silmaril’s glow when it’s right under us.”).

The twins did not talk much with him, but they were bored and mischievous children, and Amon Ereb was the ghost-infested fortress of mannish tall tales, filled with monsters they had been too young to be warned about. If someone yelled, orcs spotted, they knew to hide. They knew how to pet curious sharks and to avoid poisonous urchins. Not Maglor or his brother or their people, though. 

They still would not tell him their names.

“Shall we call them one and two?” mused Maglor. “But who shall be the first? Twins always fight over that. Perhaps once can be Small and the other Short. Or we can continue Dior’s fretful claims to the crown — All hail the Great-Great-Grandson of Elu Thingol!  — and the spare.”

“Don’t,” said Maedhros.

“Come now, Nelyafinwe, don’t you appreciate the continuity?”

It was Maglor drinking now, Maedhros scowling disapprovingly down at him. There were few smiles Maedhros directed at anyone recently, and as winter drew closer and the farmers more fretful, they fought often and not always silently. More and more of their people slipped away, unseen, and only sometimes did they find bodies in the forest, killed by orcs.

Hopefully killed by orcs. 

“Better dead than stuck with us,” muttered Maedhros into his cup.

“Have pity, brother!”

“Pity,” echoed Maedhros. He swirled his wine, the scant drops that remained whirlpooling around the delicate patterning, and then splashing upwards as Maedhros set the cup down. “Make sure, brother, when you add Sirion to the Noldolante, you include your pity in the verse.”

Maglor flinched. Before he could reply, Maedhros was gone. 

II.

The matter of the twins gnawed at him as other issues settled. Maedhros pulled himself from his despair to do the grim task of ruling, as he always inevitably did. Food stores, a clean water supply, letters to their dwindling allies. Maglor rallied the troops and lamented for the days where he ruled over a cavalry that was just one major unit of an alliance that spanned the continent. He had commanded armies. (The plural was important!). This rotting, crumbling garrison in an equally crumbling continent was a step down from his glory days. 

Regret was a good inspiration for the Noldolante. He hummed a few verse-less notes as he tended to the horses, only realizing he had company when the mare flicked an ear at him and abandoned him to eat an apple. 

“Where did you find an apple?” Maglor asked out loud, turning to the Peredhel twins. The one with slightly shorter hair rolled his eyes at him. 

“From the apple bin,” replied the one with slightly longer hair. He was the more polite of the two, which Maglor had learned to be appropriately wary of. 

“We don’t have an apple bin,” said Maglor. “We don’t have apples.”

“We do now,” said shorter hair. “We’ve had them for a whole hour.”

The implication that Maglor was slow on the uptake was not lost on him. He restrained his exasperated eye roll from years of experience dealing with precocious brats. His restraint was centuries out of practice (it had been so very long since any of his brothers had been young), but Maglor was very skilled in many ways. 

“Where have you found these apples?”

The shorter haired one regarded him with deep cunning, for a child that didn’t quite reach Maglor’s waist. “Shouldn’t you know your own castle?”

“Amon Ereb is hardly a castle,” said Maglor. 

“Didn’t you say you and your brother knew everything?” longer hair asked, with very impressive wells of contempt. 

“I am certain I’ve never made such outrageous claims,” said Maglor, who probably had said that at one point. “It must have been my brother.” 

“How much is the information worth to you?” the shorter haired one asked. His cadence was remarkably like that of Maedhros. 

“Is my brother teaching you to bargain?” Maglor couldn’t keep the delighted smile from his face. He would never let Maedhros live it down that his teachings had gone into extorting Maglor. Knowing him, he’d be proud.

“Your brother doesn’t speak to us,” said the longer haired one with all the bluntness of childhood. The shorter haired one nodded. 

How disappointing. “You sounded remarkably like him just now.”

“He’s loud,” said the short haired one.

Maglor laughed incredulously. “My brother? Tall, grim, and speaks only when addressed? Surely not.”

The twins shared a look. “The rest of the castle is silent, so when he speaks it’s loud.”

“You two are the strangest children I have ever met,” said Maglor.  

They were silent for a moment. “Is that why no one speaks with us?” asked the one with shorter hair. His twin bit his lip.

Maglor found himself the unfortunate recipient of two glistening eyes and pouting lips. His stomach twisted unpleasantly. Abruptly, he found he couldn’t keep the vapid smile on his face, nor could he loom over these two little strangers as he had been. He crouched to their height. The mare nuzzled at his hair, but Maglor pushed her snout away and reached for the Peredhel twins’ hands.

They stepped away from him before he made contact. They all froze; the twins with wide eyes, Maglor matching them. Limp in the air, his fingers curled inwards. He rested his elbows on his thighs, pretending that little awkward moment didn’t happen.

“Do the other children not speak with you?” Maglor finally asked. 

“Why do you care?” the longer haired one retorted. “You don’t speak with us either.”

Maglor tried to hide a wince. Rightfully judged by a pair of toddlers; how low the mighty have fallen. “I’m speaking with you now, aren’t I? And my brother and I are in charge of you two so, when you are troubled, you should come to us.”

They regarded this statement with appropriate dubiousness. Maglor himself felt like one of his feet had been cut off and he’d only just noticed. He’d been good with children, once. Maedhros had been better.

How the mighty have fallen indeed. 

“Again, I ask. The other children? The mannish ones,” for elves could not bring themselves to bring children into this war-torn continent of despair and death, “are only about a decade older than you.” There were younger ones, Maglor was sure, but they tended to stick closer to their mothers and so he was frankly uncertain about their numbers or ages. He was mostly certain they did exist. If he ever needed confirmation, he’d just ask Maedhros.

“But they’re so old.”

Maglor’s lips pulled into an unwanted smile. “All of sixteen years. Practically ancient.”

The one with shorter hair gave him another contemptuous look. “We aren’t stupid. We know Men don’t live as long as elves do.”

“They’re still old,” said the one with longer hair. “They only speak of war. And sex.”

Maglor choked on his own spit. When he regained his bearings, he said, “Well! If that’s all they talk about then I think you shouldn’t approach them anyways. Very inappropriate conversation topics for children.”

“We know about war,” declared one twin, as though that was something to be proud about and not deeply, heart-wrenchingly sad.

“I saw the horses having sex once,” said the other twin. 

“All-right,” said Maglor, pushing off his knees to stand. “It is clear to me you two are bored and have far too much time on your hands.”

They watched him with apprehension. “What are you going to do about that?”

“I…” Maglor trailed off. “Will go speak with my brother.”

III.

“The Peredhel twins are lonely and bored,” Maglor declared when he saw his brother again later that day. 

Maedhros’ eyes flicker his way, then ignore him in favor of glaring at a parchment. “So?”

“We are their guardians, however temporary. It’s our responsibility to provide enrichment. Schooling. Dear Eru, what if they aren’t even literate? We have nothing to teach them with except accounting logs.”

Maedhros put down one of the aforementioned accounting logs and turned a piercing, baffled, and judgemental expression upon him. “Makalaure. They are hostages.”

“That doesn’t exempt us from the responsibility, Maitimo.”

Maedhros scowled at him. Maglor scowled back. It would have continued for eons, but Maglor looked away first and took a deep breath. He was not here to antagonize his last remaining family. 

“Hostages against who, Maedhros?”

“Their parents.”

“The one who drowned or the one lost at sea?” 

“Earendil might yet return to these shores.”

“It’s been half a year. If he hasn’t returned already…”

“We might just not have received notice.”

“Because Balar will notify us immediately of his arrival, clearly.” Maglor rolled his eyes and elegantly sprawled onto a musty armchair. “Admit it: we grabbed them in the heat of the moment and now you don’t know what to do about it.”

Maedhros grunted. “Fine. Teach them to read if that’s what you want.”

Maglor reared back into his armchair. “Now listen here, I have important things to do.”

“So do I.”

“But you’ve always been better with children than I!”

“Before or after I became a kinslaying monster?”

“I am also a kinslaying monster, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“And yet only one of us is worried about children's literacy levels.”

“You could care,” Maglor scowled. “If you wanted to. It would be good for you.”

“You’ve lost your edge since the last time you attempted to manipulate me into your responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities!” Maglor sputtered. “I am no more responsible for them than you are.”

“Then don’t do anything about them, just as I am.”

“I am trying to give you the opportunity to do something other than wallow in your grief and self-hatred.” Maglor stood before Maedhros could retort. He threw his hands up and tossed his hair. “But fine! I see you will continue to be a stubborn fool.”

“I expect reports on their accounting prowess!” Maedhros called out as Maglor stomped away. 

IV.

Maglor was not going to teach them literacy. 

Except, apparently, he was. 

He had better things to do, it was true. But he was so very used to commanding armies, and writing ballads that changed the standards of music for a century, and he could do neither of those here. All his captains were battle-hardened and competent. Amon Ereb’s defenses did not need his constant attention. Worse, his music was stalled; all his attempts to add a new verse to the Noldolante ended with him weeping over his lost brothers. It would be a longer verse than Doriath had been, for to explain the tragedy of Sirion he would need to revisit the verse about Gondolin — there would have to be echoes and refrains carried over — and of course bring in Balar somehow…not to mention he still wasn’t sure how to approach those of their own forces who had betrayed them mid-battle…

It's when Maglor started wishing for the wine bottle that he pushed his harp away and scouted for the twins. It was easy enough to find them, for there were no others referred to simply as ‘the twins’. Even Ambarussa had simply been that — Ambarussa.

They really needed a name. Two names, even! Perhaps coming up with them would even inspire creation elsewhere, where it actually mattered, like in the irritatingly un-cooperative lament of Sirion.

It wasn’t that no one had given them epesses. It was just that all the names were in line with their half-elven nature, or one side of it while excluding the other, and a majority were a variation of ‘little boy’ or ‘child’ or other droll and insipid creations. A proper epesse was descriptive not just of appearance but personality.

Maglor was somewhat horrified to realize he’d have to actually get to know the little gremlins if he wanted to give them a proper name. 

He certainly had better things to do than this! But when he grasped for these nebulous things, they slipped away from his mind like fog. He found himself directed, almost without realizing, to where the twins were building an elaborate castle on the sandy remnants of a dead stream. A gigantic tower crumbled slowly under its own weight, upon which the twins employed desperate scaffolding using twigs. It took Maglor a moment to realize this was a child’s recreation of Gondolin’s palace, built off more accurate descriptions than the Feanorians had ever received. 

At first glance, it appeared startlingly like Tirion’s palace. Good to know Turgon never did gain a creative bone in his body.

“A magnificent creation,” praised Maglor as he approached. The twin’s ears rose in surprise and then in pleasure. 

One of them scowled at the sand castle a moment later, his ears curling with embarrassment. “It’s falling apart,” he said.

“Sand does tend to do that,” said Maglor. “Hardly a fault of the architects when the medium is uncooperative.” 

This earned him a tentative smile from one twin and a suspicious glare from the other. 

“Why’re you here?” asked the suspicious one. 

“To teach you.”

“Teach us what?” 

“Literacy.” He paused. “Do you know how to read?”

They shared a hesitant look. “Why do you care?”

“I am not here to judge you.” Maglor found a sturdy rock to sit on, extended his long legs and leaned forward, trying to make himself less intimidatingly large. “It has merely come to my attention that as your caretakers and guardings, we have been remiss in our duty towards your education.”

“We can read some,” said one of the twins. “Old Sorna is teaching us.”

“Oh,” said Maglor. Suddenly, he felt very foolish. Of course the menfolk would take matters into their own hands to keep two rambunctious children in line.

The twins squinted at him in unison, then shared a look. Hastily one added, “But he is only teaching us Taliska. You should teach us Sindarin.”

“And Quenya!”

“And Khuzdul.”

“I don’t know Khuzdul.” Maglor blinked, trying to figure out where the conversation had taken this dwarvish turn.

“Yes you do,” said one of the twins. “Maedhros writes letters in it.”

“Maedhros knows some Khuzdul,” Maglor agreed, slowly, “But he will not teach it to you without the Dwarves' permission.”

The twins looked disappointed. “Dwarves never come here.”

Maglor cleared his throat. “However, Sindarin and Quenya are well within my capabilities.”

They shared another twin-look, then nodded. “Acceptable,” said one of them, in a tone so very like Maedhros’ it made Maglor grin. 

V.

The moons passed slowly, shifting from full to new to full again. Maglor realized a year had passed since the twins had come to them when some of the menfolk decided to celebrate the occasion.

“What’s there to celebrate?” Maglor commented to Maedhros, baffled. The two of them were still in the deep melancholy that came with acknowledging two more of their brothers were dead. He hadn’t realized the menfolk or the twins would count the return to Amon Ereb as an event distinct from the failed attempt to reclaim the Silmaril. “The two of them aren’t even any taller.”

“They’re certainly taller,” said Maedhros. “You just spend so much time with them you do not recognize their growth.”

“I don’t spend that much time with them,” Maglor protested, then realized Maedhros was right. Almost every day he had set aside time to teach the twins literacy, which then turned into teaching them history, which would someday inevitably turn into teaching them swordplay. He was already planning to fashion lightweight practice swords for them. They’d need them sooner rather than later, in this ever-darkening world.

Maedhros followed the curl of his thoughts and rolled his eyes. With more elegance due this private setting he poured them a wine glass each. Before the attack on Sirion, Maglor hadn’t realized Amon Ereb’s wine stores were so deep. Now, he clicked his glass against Maedhros’ and tried not to wonder how much wine was left. The logistics of their drinking habits were his older brother’s purview, but they still affected Maglor.

“You will come to the celebration,” said Maglor suddenly, once his glass was half-empty. 

Reaching for the wine bottle already, Maedhros’ fingers curled around thin air. “I don’t see why I should.”

“Everyone will be there.”

“Then there is company aplenty.”

“The twins will be sad if you are not there.”

A doubtful noise. Maedhros picked up the wine bottle and poured himself another mouthful. “I doubt that.”

“They will. They ask me about you, sometimes.”

“And you tell them nothing flattering, I’m sure,” said Maedhros. His gravelly voice turned friendly sarcasm oddly harsh.

“I flatter you only the appropriate amount,” said Maglor. “Which is to say I am the only one here with any stories of your awkward youth.”

“Most riveting! A tale fitting for the ages and young children alike.” 

Grinning, Maglor sprawled further into his chair. “I do mean it. Come.”

“I don’t know them any more than they know me.”

“The one who is blunter enjoys hearing tales of the Valar, and our history, and languages. He has somehow gotten the Men to teach him their tongues — plural. He is much too small to know more than one tongue, but I suspect he shall sooner learn how to talk with birds than proper spelling.”

“How very elven of him,” said Maedhros. 

“The politer one likes science more than history,” Maglor continued. “And he is cunning. You can’t trust him.”

“He is six sun-years old, Maglor.”

“Seven,” said Maglor. “And he has convinced me to teach him songs of power and of the weaving of the world.”

“We all learned that.” Now Maedhros sounded exasperated. Good.

“Not at six sun-years! Why, if you convert it to Tree-years, I do believe we couldn’t even speak then.”

“A great sign of the boy’s cunning!” said Maedhros sarcastically. “That has nothing to do with him being an entirely separate species with different development rates. Here, give me your wine. It has rotted your brain all the way through.”

Maglor stretched his wine glass far over his shoulder. Maedhros utilized his superior limb length to grab it anyway. Perfunctory, Maglor wrestled him for it, bringing it to his lips against the resistance of Maedhros’ grip. The last remaining wine ended up half in his mouth and half on his chest. 

“Look at what you’ve done now!” Maglor exclaimed, laughing. Wonder of wonders, Maedhros laughed along with him. “As recompense you must attend the party.”

“You’re still on about that?” Maedhros shook his head. “Very well, but you’ll be the only one pleased by my presence.”

He wasn’t, which Maglor lorded over his brother’s head appropraitely. The twins were surprised but not unwelcoming, though somewhat wary. The menfolk were delighted and the elves of the fortress — everyone who was not on patrol or guard duty — were all in attendance, looking pleased that their lord attended this feast. Maglor brought out his harp and for the first time in a year sang songs of merry-making, and children’s laughter filled the air, and his brother smiled without Maglor having to cajole him into it. 

For the first time in a year, Maglor felt something that might be called happiness.

VI.

He’s inside when the star rises. A thundering of footsteps crash through the inhabited parts of the keep. Maglor is on his feet with his sword drawn before his mind comprehended it was only two small children and not an army. The twins trip into his room and Maglor, with reflexes he hasn’t had to use in centuries, manages to throw aside his sword before he accidentally skewers them as they run to him. 

“It’s Mama!” exclaimed one twin. The other one caught his wrist and dragged him to the window.

Maglor followed their fingers to the star in the sky. For a brief, endless moment, his mind is silent as a grave. Its glow is like a pull, incessant, ever present, and he should have known it even without looking, so deep is the well of its gravity. He could look away and stared entranced, and only belatedly wondered, “Mama?” Then the realization came. “The Silmaril?!”

“No, silly,” the first twin exclaimed. “Mama isn’t a jewel. But she’s up there, with it! Wherever Mama goes, the light follows.”

Maglor untangled himself from their grasp. It almost physically hurts to look away from the Silmaril. But he needs — he needs to find his brother. He goes outside, where a crowd has gathered, and finds his brother on the edges, his face tilted up and illuminated by the fossilized light of ancient trees. 

“Surely that is not a Silmaril that shines now in the West?” asked Maedhros without moving his gaze from the sky, for he recognized Maglor without need to see him. 

What else could it be, but that Silmaril that Beren and Luthien had won? The silence in the clearing felt momentous. Not just Maedhros awaited his answer, as though it was not just his brother — his brother who had suffered Morgoth, who had seen things that were not there, who feared he would forget his own mind — but the world itself that doubted what they saw. 

And what did they see? A particularly bright star? Long dead trees? Even now, this far from the glow of its power, Maglor’s heart could not help but be bitterly glad to see their mingled light once more. 

When he spoke, his words curled around power, “If it be truly the Silmaril which we saw cast into the sea that rises again by the power of the Valar, then let us be glad; for its glory is seen now by many, and is yet secure from all evil.”

Maedhros tore his gaze from the Silmaril and looked sharply at him. Maglor met his eyes evenly. 

The world released a breath, and the crowd around them rejoiced, even as the brothers remained silent.

VII.

“Do you think they’re stuck up there?” asked a twin the next week.

“Who?”

“Mama,” said the other twin.

“And papa.”

The second twin made a doubtful little noise. They were all sitting outside, as would, no doubt, become routine. The horrors of Morgoth were less terrifying when illuminated by the Silmaril’s light. Already people were starting to call the new star Gil-Estel. Maglor was pleased, though he would have been more pleased to have named it such himself. So long the Noldolante had been a tale of grief and ruin! This new chapter he was writing would be of hope.

“You believe your parents are up there with the Silmaril?” Maglor could not imagine how. Even the Sun and Moon were clearly dragged along by Maia. The Silmaril’s light was so bright it obscured whatever being or contraption was pulling it across the sky.

“Mama was always with the jewel,” the twin replied. Before Maglor could reply, the other twin spoke. 

“They’re not coming back, are they?” asked the quieter of the two. 

“The Silmaril must have gone to the West somehow,” said Maglor after a brief, awkward pause. Ulmo could have done it himself easily. Frankly, it was more likely they were both dead.

“We aren't stupid,” said the first twin, still looking at the sky with longing. “But you and Maedhros kept saying they would return for us, so…”

“We realized they were dead when you started caring about us,” said the second twin, piercing Maglor with his uncanny gray eyes. “They said that if you weren't casting us out it was because you'd given up on our parents bartering for us.”

He and his brother had been cruel beyond reproach to these children. Maglor sighed. “No apology can make up for what I've done. What we've done. I'm… sorry nonetheless.”

A second pair of gray eyes turned to him. “Are you? Going to cast us out, that is?” 

“Valar, no!” Maglor exclaimed. The twins slumped with noticeable relief. More bitterness curled through him. “Though if you wish, someday when the passage is less dangerous,” and when the Feanorian faction was less likely to be shot on sight, “We can arrange for you to go to Balar. It is more stable there — and. Better, for you, than if you remained with us. There will be others your age, for a change, and Cirdan is a good man. And the king is there, who is your kinsman.” Though truthfully Maglor had no idea how Gil-Galad was related to anyone. 

The twins considered this for a long moment. 

“Someday,” said one twin.

“I'm tired of moving,” muttered the other. “Can't we just stay here?” His small face turned up towards the light in the distant sky. “I like it here.”

Maglor doubted that. “I cannot replace what we have taken, but I promise you I will grant you whatever is in my power to give. An education befitting princes of your station, and — a childhood, as best can be had on these desolate shores, and…”

He trailed off. He, mighty amongst his mighty kindred, once a member of the most glorious and resourceful House of the Noldor, truly had nothing worthwhile left to give even a pair of small children. 

“You're already teaching us,” said the first twin, sounding faintly disapproving. “Can't you take us to see dwarves or something interesting instead?”

“When we were very good and she wasn't busy Mama would take us on trips across the city,” said the second twin. 

“Papa took us on his boat!”

“When they were both home we'd eat together every single day.”

“Eating together!” Maglor grasped it like a drowning man clutching water. “I can certainly arrange that.” He wilted slightly into the dubious silence that followed his proclamation. “If that's something you'd enjoy.”

The twins shared a look, eyed him critically, and turned their faces towards the Silmarils light. “Alright,” said one.

“I still want to see dwarves,” said the other. 

Relieved, Maglor’s ears rose again from where they had fallen. “Breakfast first, then we can talk about dwarves.”

He followed their gaze to the star the twins still called parent, that everyone else named hope, and smiled. 

VIII.

That night, after the twins are sent to bed, a fit of insanity kept Maglor awake into the long, silent hours of darkness. Ink stained his fingers, which had long since cramped around a quill, and he was surrounded by blotted parchment. 

Before he could rip it like all its other unworthy fellows, a hand caught his wrist.

“We do not have the supplies to indulge whatever fit of creative insanity this is,” said Maedhros in his gravelly voice.

“But it is not good enough!” Maglor protested

“Then do your creative planning in your mind and not in our dwindling parchment and paper.” Maedhros freed the crumbled sheet from his grasp and smoothed it out, as best he could with only one hand. He squinted at the scribbles across the entire surface. “What are you trying to accomplish?”

“Give them names, you unrepentant monster.” Maglor’s voice broke. “As I have been suggesting we do for months.”

Maedhros muttered what sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience to their long-forsaken gods.

Abruptly realizing he was weeping, Magler choked out. “I am a monster too. They don't even have names! And I did nothing about it at all.”

“They almost certainly have names,” said Maedhros, throwing the failed attempt at finding good, proper, half-elven and half-manish names back onto the desk.

“None that are available to us.” The tears streamed down his face and blotted the ink of his failed attempts. Maglor’s forehead landed hard on the desk beside it. “I am utterly terrible, but they have no one else, and their father is lost at sea and their mother has become a star, and I cannot keep calling them the one with slightly longer hair or the one that likes the sea or the one that now plans to yell at the Valar because their mother’s jewel is now gallivanting in the sky!”  

Sounding faintly bewildered, Maedhros said, “Surely not.”

Maglor lifted his head. “But he does! He says it is unfair the star is back but not their parents, and if the Valar will not come to Beleriand he shall do as Earendil sought to and go to them. And the other twin is the opposite, loving the stars more fiercely, asking me for all the constellations from every kindred I know. I do not know what to do with them. I have never been responsible for a life other than my own!”

Maedhros sighed, “And that is a sign the wine has gone to your head. Go to bed, brother.”

“No,” said Maglor. “I will not until they have names. Good, proper names! Names so grand that it will not matter I have been calling them twin one and twin two. Names that honor their parents, even if that means honoring that wretch Elu Thingol. Names that will go down in history among the greatest of our kind, and their kind, and whatever half-and-half of half-and-half is.” Suddenly fearful, Maglor clasped the edge of his brother’s shirt. “You will never tell them I have struggled so much with this.”

“Why would I?”

“They will not realize I love them,” said Maglor, and felt his own eyes widen in tandem with his brother’s. He sagged and rested his head on Maedhros’ warm stomach. “They only have us now, brother. Their parents are gone, and though that is our fault, the least we can do is properly care for them. They need names.”

Maedhros was silent for a long moment. “I hear you,” he said, and Maglor was too tired to parse out whatever emotion he was deliberately not emoting. His hand gently carded through Maglor’s hair, an action so ancient it brought Maglor straight to his own childhood, when he had been just one of two, the baby of the family, with a doting older brother and parents who delighted in his every breath.

He was asleep before he realized it.

I.

Maglor found the parchment on his desk. Groggily, not knowing how he made it to bed, he rubbed his knuckles over his eye and picked the parchment up. Like his sword-mastery, Maedhros’ penmanship had become more elegant with his left hand than it had been with his right. Spite was a strong motivator.

But spite was not present here. Underneath the scribbles and incoherent name ideas Maglor had scratch out, his brother wrote:

Elrond - for the one who watches the sky with you.

Elros - for the one who likes the sea.