Work Text
There were very few things that could be considered more impulsive—more reckless, stupid, dangerous,
invigorating
—than leaving the safety of the girdle. Stepping through the metaphysical waterfall of power that drew out their border sent electric shocks through Daeron’s body as the cool winter air hit his face, staining his cheeks red and cooling his breath before him in clouds of vital heat. The world outside was in the midst of its winter, an unwise time to travel north, he supposed, but one in which he would anyway.
He had maybe five days maximum before Thingol got suspicious and asked Melian about recent border crossings.
As much as he would like to wander through the forest, draped in blankets of white and silver, he had to make good time. It was two days of constant travel north, then two days back, if he’d been accurate with his calculations; there was no time to waste to stop and smell the metaphorical roses.
He wrapped his sister’s cloak around his shoulders a little tighter and made for the village he knew la just beyond the bounds of the trees in sight, at the foot of a waterfall. They had horses there—the strongest in all Beleriand—could ride for days. Some said that they had been blessed by Tulkas, or was it Nessa? He had never asked. He didn’t need to know. All he needed was the ride.
As he travelled, he was alone with his thoughts. It was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, he had plenty of time to decide exactly what he was going to say to whoever came to greet him—something along the lines of ‘I was stranded on my travels; I just need a place to stay,’ or ‘I got lost on my way to the havens; I’m bad with directions, please let me stay here a night,’—but he also had plenty of time to think about exactly all of the reasons they could turn him away. He was Doriathrim, one of people hostile to them. He was a rival, perhaps even an enemy. He was a liability, lest Thingol discover exactly who had so kindly given his ward shelter. But he wasn’t going to turn back.
He had been doing his reading on the Eldar and on the supposed customs of his kin over the sea, divorced so entirely from the real world that they had the time to develop such systems (even the eternal spring of Doriath came with its dangers). The way they named their children, raised them, punished wrongdoers; the way that they married.
All under the eyes of Manwë and Varda,
he shuddered. The concept was voyeuristic, unattractive, he marvelled at how
some
of them had managed to be so
productive
.
Under the laws of the ‘Eldar,’ supposedly of which he was one, he was married several times over, a polygamist. He had questions; plenty of them, but he suspected that when it came down to it, most would take a backseat.
The cold intensified the further north he went; even Arien climbing high in her arc did nothing to ease the chill from his being.
This is nothing
, he told himself,
others have survived worse.
But he was not others, and his hands were beginning to shake. He tore a strip of fabric off of the hem of his tunic and stuffed it into his mouth to keep him from biting off his tongue. Still, his steed seemed unfazed, and so he continued.
Turning back would not be an option. No, not until he was at death’s door—not until he could hear the call ringing so loud in his ears that it drowned out even his voice. (Figuratively, of course; he kept his mouth closed lest he breathe the cold into his lungs.)
There were things that he needed to set straight.
There were things that needed to be done, and people that needed to be met, lives to be lived, and all of them by him.
He would not be happy if he spent another day sitting pretty in court, resident songbird, perhaps loved, perhaps appreciated, but never truly understood—never truly
known
.
Well, not never.
He narrowed his eyes; half outside of his own body, he found himself stronger, nerves steeled. If he did not reach his destination, it would be his end. Riding on was his only option. Ride on he did.
---
The base was hidden well in the snow; he had expected a wall of harsh stone and banners flying the Magpie and Star emblem that he had come to expect from any of the Fëanorion’s ambassadors, but what he saw before him were three turrets fashioned from marble and enamel. Delicate, fancy,
white.
They merged and shifted perfectly into the snowstorm in such a way that he could not be sure he was really seeing them until he could touch them. They were connected by sturdy walkways, lit with glass cylinders that omitted an ethereal blue glow, rather than by torches.
He felt as if he had walked into one of Melian’s bedtime stories about the days when the world was lit only by paper lanterns and stars. The part of him that would remain forever a small child longed for her arms and for the warmth of the hearth at the centre of the main hall. He shook longings of home from his mind. His lips may be numb, but he could still speak, and as long as he could speak, he could do what he came for.
He rode right along its borders, searching for some sort of entrance, but the place seemed impenetrable. He would have to try for his backup plan.
His hands fumbled at the strap of his pack, working to undo the knot that kept the snow from touching the contents within—a notebook, several scholarly texts, food, liquor and a single silver knife. He pulled the knife from its sheath and threw it hard so that it soared over the wall. Quick as lightning, a black-gloved hand reached up and caught it.
“Who goes there?” They called down, then, with disdain, “and that was a pathetic throw.”
“I’m a fr—friend of your Lord,” he cried back, hesitant to speak for any longer, all too aware of the dangers that came with the chill.
“We’ll see about that,” they said, then motioned to—presumably—someone further along the ramparts in a complex series of hand signals.
Then the figure rose so that their face was in view, and the arrow strung in their bow was staring him down. They were a
Noldo
, and about as typically
Noldor
as you could get; sharp features, high brow, dark hair and alabaster skin, but there was something slightly odd about them. They were ever-so-slightly imperfect, like a circle drawn nearly correct, but off-centre for a fraction of the line. There was something far more human in them than he had seen in an elf before.
Their eyes flitted away from him for a moment, before they lowered their bow and vanished from sight. The blip of a figure dressed in black, stepping out into the white surroundings drew his attention. He dismounted and stumbled towards them.
They were a different figure to the one on the walls—tall, slightly darker, with thick, straight, black hair and shockingly grey eyes; almost bright enough to be considered white. A spark of recognition hit him—he had seen them before—they were one of the higher-ranking soldiers, present at the
Mereth Aderthad.
“C-Canaethor?” He asked, reaching out to cling to the wall only to find his hand glanced off of its surface.
They gave him a stiff nod and let him collapse through the entrance. His final thought before losing consciousness was that they must be very strong to be able to wear so much metal jewellery out in a blizzard like that.
---
He awoke in a hot bath, under the supervision of a masked attendant. He suspected that beneath the barrier he would find that this servant, too, was mildly uncanny. He began to consider the prospect that the lord here, comfortable in his own discomfort, derived joy from eliciting such a feeling from any visitors.
He could feel his toes, though, and that was pleasure unlike any he’d ever experienced. He sighed, basking in the warmth and the steam. The attendant shifted— “What’s your name?” He asked, sitting up in the tub.
They started, then stared—he presumed—at him blankly.
It began to occur to him that he was someone who was very naked in a community of people who had never not been wearing at least one garment, even if that garment were jewellery. “Is there any chance I could get dressed?” He chanced.
They nodded, then gestured towards a chair in the corner of the room. Those were not his clothes. “Excuse—” he turned back only to find the attendant had left. He sunk back into the water. It seemed that what had previously been a welcome, thawing spring heat had become the unbearable beating down of the summer sun.
He stepped out of the bath, biting his lip as the cold air touched his skin, and examined the garments. They were simple—or, rather, simple as you could get in a Noldorin community—heavy black overcoat, embroidered in shining black and gold thread to form that same emblem that branded everything up there; a soft red blouse, perhaps silk, and close-fitting black breeches that reached as far as his ankles.
He considered his situation.
Well, the clothes looked comfortable enough, save the fact that whoever had laid them out had neglected to supply him with any kind of shoes.
It scared him how much they suited him (aside from the red, of course; red really wasn’t his colour.)
He pushed open the door and found, to his pleasant surprise, a rather reasonable excuse for not being supplied with shoes. The ground below him was covered in thick furs and, beneath that, a rich, patterned rug that reached across to the other side of the room. And the room—the room; these were someone’s bedchambers. He had no trouble guessing whose.
He tugged at the sleeve of the overcoat.
“Am I being treated as a guest, or as a captive?” He asked, because it felt like something that needed to be established sooner rather than later.
“’Patient
,’ is probably more accurate.” Maglor’s voice was the smooth flow of pouring honey behind him. “Why did you come here? And why alone?”
“I came alone—” Daeron turned to face him, then found whatever he’d been planning to say lost on his tongue. He looked different than he remembered. His skin had lost its warm glow, his eyes no longer shone as bright; there were the marks and lines of stress and weariness beneath them. There was a neat little scar that just missed his brow, raised white flesh improperly healed.
It’s rude to stare
, he scolded himself. “I came alone because I would not be able to justify the risk of bringing a companion. I came in the first place because…because I needed to see you—” he cursed internally— “to speak to you, I mean.”
Maglor smiled. It wasn’t the smile that he remembered, with the promise of mischief and scandal; it was softer, gentler, as if the northern winds had carved all of the rough bits away from him. “I’ll admit, I was hoping you’d come.”
“You were?”
He nodded. “I missed having someone more—with the greatest respect to my companions here—on my level to talk to.”
There
was that glint. Despite his instincts, it left him a little more at ease. “Still, you could’ve simply written.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to write back.”
Maglor waved his hand. “I’d have found a way.”
“Oh, of course you would.”
He laughed—Daeron noticed that he seemed to be missing a canine, instead, a single golden tooth, so pointed that it was almost a fang, held its place.
“You look like—”
“Like I’ve been through Angband?” He laughed again, “not quite; you’ve got the wrong brother. Most of these are actually from sparring; my soldiers are better than theirs—besides, you should see yourself.”
He pointedly avoided glancing at the mirror in the corner of the room, but he had some idea of how he might look. He certainly wasn’t as smart as when he had left.
“I probably shouldn’t show you around for security reasons, but would you like to see something beautiful?”
“I already can,” he said, before he could stop the words. “I mean—”
Maglor just winked. He decided there was very little to be gained from attempting to explain himself and, really, were they in such a position that comments like that would be inappropriate? He remembered, like the sudden realisation of a forgotten hot drink gone cold, the questions that he had come to ask.
He followed him out of the room and through another passage lined with carpet.
These must be the living quarters.
He wondered how many people would’ve seen him passed out before they dumped him into that bathtub. His hand strayed to his hair, still sopping wet, bleeding damp into the fabric of the overcoat. He prayed he didn’t encounter any cool breezes.
“Just through here—” Maglor knocked on a door at the end of the corridor and slipped through. Daeron followed him into a small room with a blazing fireplace, next to which sat a young woman in a rocking chair, humming quietly to a bundle held against her chest. He paused.
There was a
baby.
In a place like this?
He wondered and then, to his own shame,
whose?
He tried to meet Maglor’s eyes, but his attention was elsewhere. The woman handed him the child.
“The first baby born out here.” He slipped it into Daeron’s arms; it was small, smaller than any infant he had ever seen—and it looked softer, more breakable. He found an icy terror creeping up his throat as he considered that, as long as he held it, he was responsible for its life. He glared at Maglor. “Hope for the future.”
The woman smiled at him then walked cover and took her child back. He hoped that his gratitude was expressed well enough in the relief in his expression.
“A military outpost is no place for a child,” Daeron murmured.
“Oh, no, of course not! Maemel is leaving after the snow lifts.” He stared Daeron down. “A blizzard is an even worse place for a child.”
“I meant no offence.”
“I am the healer here,” Maemel interjected, “I would not risk letting someone die if I chose to leave when I didn’t absolutely have to. Besides—” she shifted the child in her arms— “this one’s just as strong as his papa.”
“You’re obsessed with the man,” Maglor smiled.
“You’ll come to understand eventually.”
“I’m always told I will,” he said. “Thank you.” He bowed to her and then ushered Daeron out of the room.
“Who is the child’s father?” He asked.
“Some ranger, I believe, I don’t make a habit of getting closely involved in my company’s love lives.” He shrugged the question off, but there was a tightness to the way he spoke. Daeron cupped his jaw, forcing their eyes to meet.
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be proper.” He pushed his hand away, but his touch lingered there for just a second too long. It took them both several long seconds to realise that Maglor had neglected to let go. “Sorry.”
He remembered again— “I needed to ask you something—”
Maglor’s gaze refocused on something just over his shoulder. “Can it wait?” He frowned. “It looks like I have something to deal with.”
He followed his eyes to see a young woman with chin-length ginger hair and an inquisitive smirk watching them. She raised her eyebrows and Maglor directed him back to his quarters before following her to wherever he was supposed to.
He scanned the room, locating a bookshelf in one corner, almost overflowing with its contents. He selected a tome at random—upon flicking through the pages, it appeared to be some sort of guide to a contraption he had never encountered before. It was also written entirely in Noldorin Quenya. He collapsed into a chair with it. It was perfect.
---
“In ned alfoeg, melethron?”
Maglor froze in the doorway. “Was that Noldorin?”
“Most of it—unless if that last word exists in both.”
A smile crept onto his lips. It was a smile that thrust him back into the throes of delightful memory, of heavy breath and poetry in the darkness and privacy of night. He realised that he had lost all sense of time; there were no windows to the outpost, and he had no idea how long he had been out. Maglor took his hand and drew him up from where he sat. He realised he found it very hard to care about that particular problem.
“You know,” he said, tracing an arc over Daeron’s cheekbone with his fingertips, he savoured the touch, “if you wanted, I could teach you more.”
Daeron pressed his thumb to Maglor’s lips before he could move in any closer. “What is this?”
“Fun,” he said, “friendship.”
And then Daeron, despite being almost entirely uncertain of what it meant, allowed their lips to meet, letting every sensation flow between them, feeling as much as possible, as deeply as possible and
wanting;
wanting
more.
He allowed him to pull the overcoat back over his shoulders, to undo the buttons of the red blouse and, in exchange, he unclasped the heavy jewellery from around his neck, letting it fall to the ground with a dull chink.
He traced kisses over Maglor’s jaw, delighting in the way that he shuddered and pulled him closer, winding his fingers into his hair.
It was still wet.
---
He buried his face in the back of Maglor’s neck, clinging to the warmth of his vitality—the fire had gone out ten minutes ago and he was drifting in and out of sleep, a gentle respite.
“Write to me.” The words were so quiet—so soft in the heavy night that he wasn’t sure that he had heard them right. “You will, won’t you?”
“You won’t be able to write back.” He indulged in the feelings of closeness, the luxury of slow breath.
Maglor chuckled. “I told you already. I can find a way.”
---
He left on schedule, dressed up in heavy fabrics and furs and as warm and comfortable as he could be. The journey back was far easier than the journey there, aside for one thing.
He’d forgotten to ask Maglor if all of this meant they were married.