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I’m sorry, I got careless. It was the anniversary of your death, and I got careless.
I was too busy looking up to the sky, wondering if Mandos had allowed you to enter his halls or if you were out there, drifting in the void between the stars.
Are the rest of our brothers drifting as well? Our father?
Are you drifting alone, or have the Valar granted us at least one single mercy? That we can be with one another, even in the void?
I was too busy thinking. About you. About how it felt when I knew that you were gone. When I knew that I was the last one of us. That I was alone. All alone.
So very, very, alone.
I was too busy hoping that out there somewhere at least you had found peace. You, out of all of us, deserve it. The oldest of us. The best of us.
I was too busy missing you. I got careless.
I didn’t hear the Orc. I didn’t smell it. I didn’t even sense it.
I did feel his knife plunging deeply into my leg, too deeply.
I felt my arms react before it could slice the rusted metal deeper into my leg or pull it free from my flesh and prepare another attack; its head thudded to the ground with a wet thud.
I don’t know why I did it. I know that I should not have.
I pulled the knife free and let that, too, clatter to the ground next to me. Quickly, it was surrounded in a puddle of blood.
My blood.
I tried to tie something around my leg. At least slow the blood loss. For what purpose, I do not know. The blade was probably poisoned. But I tried to tie it nonetheless.
I’m not sure how well I completed the task. Or if I even completed the task.
The rock is cold and hard against my face. I use the last of my strength and likely my blood to push myself haphazardly over, so that I can stare up at the stars.
I hope Elrond will hear of my death, so he does not worry about my health or whereabouts. Who would tell him? For once, I hope. that Artanis will spy upon me.
I know that she would want to ease his heart, too.
I cannot tell if the stars are getting dimmer, or if my vision is.
I don’t know where you are, brothers.
I’m about to find out.
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Maglor woke slowly, comfortably. Safe and warm inside of a cave, tucked away from the storm he could hear booming and flashing outside of the small and mysterious rocky haven.
It was perhaps the single most terrifying experience of the third age.
The last thing he could remember was pulling the Orcs blade out of his leg, and the surprise he felt at the speed and amount of blood that had come pouring out of him, faster than water from a hole in the bottom of a bucket. Followed by the cool dampness of the rocky ground as he collapsed onto it against his will, just barely managing to roll himself over to look up at the stars as he died.
Ready for the void or ready for Mandos to come and take him. He hoped for Mandos, but didn’t expect him.
This cave was much too warm and comfortable to be the void, and much too dark and damp to be any hall of Mandos.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Maglor briefly thought to move and check his surroundings, but before it could become anything more than a thought, a voice drifted to him through the darkness. Upbeat and inherently pleasant in a way that Maglor had heard only a handful of times in his life.
“Ah, it's about time that you awoke. I was starting to worry.” The friendly voice drifted over to him from somewhere to the left, soft but distinctly cheerful. There were a few shuffling steps and then a deep metal spoon was held to his lips, “It’s water, you must be parched.”
The spoon, apparently, belonged to a seemingly young woodelf. A Silvan from Greenwood, he would guess. Judging by the browns and greens of the outfit and numerous weapons strapped to or nearby the new elf. Some concealed, some not. Some that were concealed were concealed better than others.
From all that he had overheard about King Thranduil’s elves, all the poorly or not so poorly concealed weapons likely weren’t even the ones he should be most worried about.
Maglor forced his eyes back upwards to the honest and sincere looking face that hovered near him, finding himself surprised to find he had blond hair.
If only he could remember why that was surprising.
The woodelf lowered the spoon, “If I wanted to harm or kill you, I’d never waste my time on something so unreliable as poison. Especially diluted into water.”
Maglor’s brain felt fixated on the hair color. It seemed to think it was important, that it reminded him of something but wasn't able to find any relevant information. An annoying side effect of blood loss, that in Maglor’s personal experience and opinion, never got less annoying no matter how many times one experienced it.
It was possible that it simply reminded him of his family. Of Celegorm.
“I would have simply left you on the rocks where I found you. Or traded you to the nearby Goblin population for safe passage for the remainder of the year. And definitely not spend many, many hours painstakingly ensuring you didn’t bleed to death or succumb to the venom that was on the blade.” The mystery elf drank the water off the spoon, as a final demonstration and then refilled it.
The spoon was pressed to his lips again. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, you have to drink.”
As a rule, Maglor did not accept much of anything from anybody. Under any circumstances. The only consistent exception to this rule was Elrond, and this young blonde wood elf was certainly not Elrond.
But… He was very thirsty.
Slowly he sipped the water from the spoon, the woodelf waited a few moments to ensure that he was able to swallow it without issues before dipping it into what must have been a bowl of water nearby and returning it to Maglors lips. “There, see? No poison.”
Unless it just wasn’t a fast acting one, but he didn’t think those were suitable first words to say to another elf.
“Why did you bring me here?” Maglor managed to ask instead, his voice much more hoarse than he would have anticipated it being. Which, in hindsight, was foolish. He couldn’t recall the last time he had the company of any living creature worth speaking to. He took another sip of water.
“It is difficult to stop profuse bleeding in a rainstorm, funny enough.”
Maglor made to sit upright and inspect what the wound on his leg looked like, unsuccessfully. His back did not even make it off the cave floor before he stopped himself with a surprised gasp of pain.
The woodlelf grimced with sympathy, the expression suspiciously genuine, “The blade slashed upwards into your abdomen, likely injured a muscle or two. You’ve also got a few broken ribs.”
“Several of them, actually.” The elf cleared his throat and set the spoon down somewhere, “Eight, to be exact.”
Maglor frowned at the mystery elf, “I do not recall the orc breaking my ribs.”
“That's because the Orc didn’t break your ribs.” This time the grimace was significantly more guilty in nature, “I did.”
“Interesting rate of payment for assisting somebody who did not ask.”
The other elf gave him a confused look, but was otherwise seemingly unaffected by Maglors tone. “You did ask for my help. Twice. Although, to be fair, it was probably more than that but it took a while for you to speak a language that I understood. For the record, I was already helping when you asked.”
Quenya. He must have been speaking Quenya. He hadn’t done that since he had last seen Maedhros.
Did the woodelf know that it was Quenya? If he did, that would give him away as a Noldor. A
Fëanorian. A Kinslayer.
Probably not, how could he?
Hopefully not.
Did he?
“And I did not break your ribs as payment,” The other elf adjusted so that he was sitting on the ground instead of crouching, “I did it to keep your heart beating. The venom the Orc had on his blade is paralyzing. Limbs, muscles, organs, It isn’t picky. I had to keep your blood circulating so that the antivenom could neutralize it.”
“I asked you to help me?”
The woodelf nodded, “Yes.”
Maglor grunted. He had no recollection of that, but it was possible. Why would the woodelf lie about something like that? It didn’t seem likely there would be a benefit from such an act. “How long was I asleep?”
“Just under a week. Forgive me,I have forgotten my manners. My name is Legolas, of the Woodland Realm.” He pressed his fisted hand to his chest and lowered his head in a show of polite respect, “Well met.”
Every iota of panic that had made a home in Maglor’s bones returned with a vengeance.
This time nestling into its preferred location; in his chest, where it could wrap its fingers around his lungs and heart at the same time.
Threatening to squeeze until all air or blood flow was entirely restricted, but never quite fully doing so.
Already, it was harder to breathe.
It all made sense now. The reason Maglor was so fixated on his blond hair.
There were very, very, very few elves left on Arda with such brilliant golden hair. The only two blonde elves that lived in the Woodland Realm (at least as far as Maglor was aware) was King Thranduil and his only son, Legolas.
“Well met, Legolas.” Maglor suddenly found himself glad for the hoarseness of his voice, it helped to hide the slight tremble he had not been entirely successful in hiding.
For his father, Thranduil, was probably one of the last elves alive and east of the sea that had been present at any of the kinslayings he and his brothers had perpetuated. Even worse, Thranduil had been in the throne room when Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin had ensured Dior and Nimloth did not live through the burning of the city.
Worst of all, it was rumored that Thranduil was personally responsible for the death of one of his brothers. If anybody would have reason to hate and do something horrible to or with him, it would be Thranduil.
Or Thranduil’s son.
Maglor knew that the Woodland Realm had cave-like cells at the bottom of their mountain home. Is that where he really was? Deep in the fortress of a King that had good, logical, reasons to despise everything that Maglor was as a whole?
Did Legolas know who he was? Did he know enough of what he looked like to identify him? Thankfully if he had noticed Maglor hadn’t introduced himself, he didn't say anything about it.
Maglor had never before wished he’d let an Orc punch him in the face before in his entire life, but he did now. At least if his nose was broken it would lessen his chances of being identified.
Maybe this is what he deserved.
Maybe he should just let Legolas do it. Do whatever it was that he or his father was going to do.
But…..but if he was going to let himself die; he would have done it the morning after his older brother had left him alone on Arda. He would have flung himself into the sea after the Silmaril. Or laid down on the beach and never got up again. Let the tide wash him away.
Far Away.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t because he wasn’t ready to find out where his brothers and father were. He wasn’t ready to find out the limits of Eru’s mercy.
He still wasn't ready.
“You should get some rest,” Legolas said to him kindly, empathetically. As if he had read Maglor like a book, or better yet, read the tremble that had been in his voice. “You lost more blood than you think, and are still very weak. When you wake, I will have warm food prepared to help you regain more strength.”
Before Maglor could respond, Legoals got up and retreated away to wherever he had been when his charge had woken,
He did his best to stay awake.
Just in case.
Just in case Legolas knew exactly who he was, so at least he would not be caught unaware again. But Legolas was right, he had lost a lot of blood. And was very weak.
He would stay awake. He would ignore the rhythmic sound of the rainstorm outside, and the dripping from the cave mouth into the puddles that laid below.
He would stay awake. He would ignore the soothing crack and pop of the small fire that was nearby, doing its best to warm and light their dark space.
He would stay awake. He would ignore that even if he did not trust the elf he was with, nothing within him sensed any immediate danger. But it had to be a trick.
He would stay awake. He must stay awake.
He would stay……….
He woul……
He……….
…………
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When Maglor woke an undetermined amount of time later he found himself largely alone in the cave. The only company being the small fire that had been built nearby, the occasional bubble bursting on the surface of whatever soup or stew was in the cookpot nestled in the coals, and the continual drip of the world slowly drying out at the mouth of the cave.
Bright sunlight stretched its way inside the top of the cave mouth, its beams not quite hitting the stone floor but its presence lighting it up better than any fire could ever hope to.
Maglor took the opportunity to look around himself, finding his sword laying on the ground next to his right hand, hilt practically resting in his palm.
Odd that Legolas would let him remain armed. Maglor looked past it, for now.
The doorway of the cave had been partially blocked by what appeared to be large, heavy stones Likely to keep him out of view from any passing creatures.
He looked to the back of the cave, finding it much deeper than he expected. There were far too many boulders littering the floor for him to accurately guess its depths, or make sure that he truly was alone.
He didn’t sense anything, and hoped that this time his senses would not lead him astray.
He looked around again, closer this time but did not see any hint that he was underneath a massive mountain. For all intents and purposes it appeared to be a regular cave.
Finally he looked over to the small fire, ignoring the way even the smallest of movements sent shooting pains through his leg and chest, and found a note lying pinned to the ground by a stone near a clean bowl and spoon.
‘This isn’t poisoned either, in case you were worried.’
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A gentle humming filled the cave, lulling Maglor out of his dreams. It was uncommon for any creature to walk near him while sleeping and not wake him, so he did his best to ignore the fact that Legolas had managed to do it twice now.
Once when he left in the morning and the second time when Legolas had returned from whatever errand he had been on before.
Maglor ignored the slightly unsettling feeling that realization gave him and focused on the fact that he knew the song that was being hummed, somewhere in the depths of his mind he knew it.
It was old. Maybe even as old as Maglor himself was.
From ages and lands now long since passed. Sunk, to be exact.
He could not think of the name, nor any of the words, but he knew that he knew it. Somewhere.
Perhaps it was from Menegroth, something Thranduil might have heard sung to him as a child and repeated it to his own son. Perhaps it was older.
Maglor wasn't going to ask, so there really was no point in wondering about it any longer.
“I told you that the stew wasn’t poisoned.” The light hearted voice drifted over to him as the song faded away.
“Tasted like it was.”
Despite the lack of humor that Maglor had delivered the words with, Legolas laughed with sincerity. “Probably. I put Bab-wren root into it, it’s more bitter than it has any right being.”
“For fun?”
“In case you tried to leave while I was gone and tore open the stitches in your leg. Bab-wren root slows bleeding and quickens wound closure.” Legolas' voice was getting closer, but his body had not yet appeared.
“You're very dedicated to the idea of me not dying for an elf knows nothing about me.”
“Perhaps.” Legolas said, finally appearing at Maglor’s side, “But then, I’m very dedicated to most things not dying if given the chance to do something about it.”
“Why?”
If he was surprised by Maglor’s question, he did not show it. In tone, expression or hesitation to speak. “Because long ago me and my people realized that you can either come out of this better or you can come out of this bitter. There’s already more than enough bitter creatures in this world.”
“But I could by anybody, wandering the base of the Misty Mountains by myself.”
“You could be,” Legolas agreed readily, “I think that the only thing I might regret saving would be Sauron himself. But even then, I would not regret my actions in and of themselves. For if it had been anybody but Sauron, I would have hated myself for walking by without doing anything.”
Maglor grunted, not knowing what to say in response. Not trusting his voice not to betray him even if he did.
“Besides,” Legolas added in a lighter tone, “My Ada says that too much routine is bad for you and I spend most of my time killing things, so every now and then I do my best to change things up a little bit..”
Legolas pressed a waterskin into his hand and moved to help Maglor sit up enough to not choke on its contents. The support was thoughtless yet exact, taking almost all the burden of his weight away from his still aching ribs. Clearly, this is something that the Prince did often.
It was easy to picture him doing this exact same thing for his warriors in the Greenwood forest.
This time, Maglor drank the water without suspicion.
After a second sip Maglor put the stopper back in and laid it on the ground, Legolas slowly helped him ease back down to a lying position.
“Do you mind if I take a look at the wound on your leg, see how it's healing?”
Maglor thought about it for a moment. Trusting things did not come naturally nor easily to him, it never had, but even less so as he got older. The ability was almost entirely extinguished by the time the second age ended.
But he had already been forced to trust Legolas more times in the last however long since the Orc had attacked him than in the entirety of the past decade alone. Did trusting him one more time really make that big of a difference?
Maglor eventually grumbled a response, “I suppose.”
Legolas quickly set to work. Faster than anticipated, the bandage that had been covering the deep and dark slash had been removed and the cleaning process begun. Surprisingly light and gentle for hands so clearly weathered with violence.
“Well?” Maglor asked, partially to distract himself from the pain that cleaning it was inflicting.
“Well, it’s certainly still attached.” Legoals paused, and began to put some sort of salve over the wound site, “I don't think your leg is too thrilled about that fact right now, or perhaps more specifically with me since I’m the reason it’s still here.”
Despite himself, Maglor exhaled a ghost of a laugh through his nose. He wasn’t sure what he had expected from Legolas, King Thranduil’s only son and reportedly one of the greatest warriors of the third age, but it certainly was not this.
Not this gentle nature and quick humor.
“It will simply have to get used to it.”
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Maglor found himself continually fading in and out of consciousness for what he would have guessed was another several days. It was impossible to tell if this exhaustion was born from his wound, blood loss, the antivenom, or the simple fact he hadn’t allowed himself the time or circumstances to rest in much too long.
Elrond always liked to remind him that he needed to rest more. Maglor liked to forget that information every time Elrond reminded him.
Sometimes Legolas was there when he woke, but more often than not he was alone in the cave unless at nighttime. Regardless of time of day there was always some kind of warm and healing food resting on the coals of a fire near him, close enough that Maglor could help himself without having to move around too much.
Generally speaking, Legolas seemed content with minimal to zero communication, and outside of wound care he usually did not speak unless spoken too.
Maglor did not talk or ask many (if any) questions even in the best of circumstances.
Being trapped in a cave with a leg stubbornly refusing to heal with the only company being the son of one of the only elves on Arda old and stubborn enough to hold a personal grudge against him, was just about as far from what Maglor would consider ‘the best of circumstances’.
So Legoas’ business remained just that.
Legolas’ business.
And his continual sporadic errands away from the cave for extended periods of time remained a mystery. A fact that had never once bothered Maglor until now.
Now being several hours past sunset and there was not so much as a whisper of or from the Woodelf in any capacity. Legolas had never once returned after sunset before this.
Maglor tried to convince himself the tight feeling in his chest was growing claustrophobia after being in the cave so long without seeing the sky, and not concern. Definitely not concern
Real and genuine concern.
He thought very briefly about trying to go and search for Legolas or some clue as to where he could have gone and what might have happened to him. At the very least make it to the mouth of the cave to keep a better watch out for him.
But that idea was quickly dismissed from his mind. With his leg remaining stubbornly unhealed, even going to the bathroom was a ten to twenty minute process full of grunting, swearing, sweating, and extreme pain. And that was with Legolas’ assistance. There was less than zero chance of Maglor being genuinely helpful in any capacity if he tried to get up and go help. At this moment it seemed the most likely outcome would be tearing the wound and his vein back open and bleeding out on the cave floor by the time Legolas actually DID arrive.
He would simply have to wait.
He tried to stay up and wait for him, but with the sun already set each and every passing hour seemed to add another several pounds to the tightness in his chest.
Somehow, he forced himself back to sleep in order to ignore it.
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This time when Maglor woke the soft and familiar humming was just barely managing to echo itself around the cave, and the tightness that had remained in his chest even in sleep vanished instantly. Leaving mostly relief.
Maglor hated himself for it the instant the emotion arrived.
He sniffed lightly at the air, and a fraction of concern creeped back into his heart, “You are bleeding.”
Legolas’ reply was quick and light as it always was, “Technically, so are you.”
“You were not bleeding earlier in the day.”
“I could have been,” Uncharacteristically Legolas’ voice did not draw closer but remained wherever he had chosen to settle himself that night. “There is no way for you to know one way or another, you were asleep when I left.”
“I would have smelt it and woke up. As I smell it and woke up now.” Legolas laughed, as if Maglor had told him a particularly funny joke. Despite himself, and the fact that he did not ask questions, he found himself asking, “What?”
Legolas chucked to himself for a little while longer before saying, “Apologies, you sounded like my father just then. When I was still an elfling he used to tell me that he could smell when I had not eaten or drank enough that day and had to come inside for a snack or glass of water.”
If Maglor wanted Legolas to tell him why he was bleeding, then he had to crack his icy exterior. Just a little bit. Just enough. “My oldest brother used to tell me and my younger siblings he could tell when we had not washed properly in the morning or evening because our eyes changed color.”
“Did you and your siblings not look to each other to confirm if it was true?”
“Yes. My brother claimed it only worked for the oldest child.”
Legolas laughed at this too, and the sound was light enough that Maglor could have sworn it lit the cave for a half a second the same way a lightning bolt lights the sky in a storm.
Maglor tried again as the laughter faded away, “Are you bleeding badly?”
There were a few long moments of silence, like Legolas was wondering how much or what to tell the elf he had rescued that had not introduced himself or given any other name or title to address him by. “I was bleeding worse several minutes ago, but I am nearly done with this final row of stitches and it will be nothing to concern yourself about.”
“I was not concerned.” It was unclear if Maglor was saying this for his own benefit, or for Legolas’.
“There will be no need to be curious about it, then.”
“It could be poisoned.”
“It isn't. I would know if it was-” There was a small hiss of pain and a steady exhale from somewhere in the cave, “Besides it was from getting slightly impaled by a farmers pitchfork, and not a Orc or Goblin sword. So, if anything, it will give me a bad infection.”
“A human attacked you?” The incredulous tone in Maglor’s voice increased, “Successfully?”
“No.” Another small grunt of discomfort. “A spider did.”
“A spider had a pitchfork?”
Even though he had not told a joke, Legolas laughed. Perhaps it was the image it conjured in one’s mind of a spider with an equally tiny pitchfork. “No, I was trying to wrangle a spider out of a farmer's barn rafters and it threw me against the barn wall, which happened to house the pitchfork.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Incredibly so.”
“Strong spider.”
“Not particularly strong,” Legoals corrected, “If anything it was rather weak considering it was half the width of the barn. Must have been hungry, probably why it had settled for eating sheep and pigs whole instead of elf.”
Maglor had forgotten how big the spiders were in the forest of Greenwood the Great. He had forgotten just how close he had strayed on this pass through the mountains, and that they did not always stay within the confines of the forest anymore.
He didn’t voice a single one of those thoughts, however. For if one had the luxury of forgetting about the constant reproducing and general hateful activities of Ungoliant’s descendants, one also ought to have the grace not to rub it in.
Instead, Maglor looked over to the bow that lay near the extremely dim firelight, “You could have just shot it with your bow.”
“I could have, but venom has to be extracted from a live and largely unharmed specimen for it to be suitable to turn into an antivenom.”
“My sympathies.”
“Keep your sympathies until I tell you why I decided I should extract from the spider what I needed to make more antivenom.”
Despite himself, every muscle in Maglors body tensed and his hand searched for the hilt of his sword. He let his silence speak for him.
Unphased by his silence as he always was, Legolas explained, “I think the reason that your leg isn’t healing the way that it should is because too much of the antivenom bled out while I was still trying to stitch you back together and there's still some venom stuck in there.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, it's preventing your body from healing any further than it has. I’m going to have to do a second treatment to get rid of the remainder, I’ll warn you now it’s going to be one of the most unpleasant experiences you’ve had in a very, very, long time.”
“The first did not bother me.”
Finally, Legolas' voice was drawing a bit closer to him, “Nothing could have bothered you except Mandos himself. I broke seven-”
“Eight.”
“Right. - Eight of your ribs and you didn’t so much as twitch a toe.” The woodelf appeared on the other side of the fire and sat next to his bow, the blood on his shirt looking black in the dim light and long shadows. “Any additional treatment gets increasingly worse with each dose. My people always try to make sure that we overdose on what is needed for the antivenom so that we don’t have to do a second treatment, even if the wound is worse than we thought.”
“What makes it worse?”
“There are lots of theories, I doubt we’ll ever know unless we get to ask the foul soul that made the creatures in the first place. But even if we did, I doubt that he would be very forthcoming.” Legolas produced a wooden bowl out of seemingly thin air and began to scoop some of the stew that he had left for Maglor into it.
“What does it feel like to you?”
Legolas took a few mouthfuls of food and chewed on them slowly, staring contemplatively into the occasional flicker of flame the coals were able to cough up. “It feels like the venom knows the treatment is there to remove it, and it doesn't want to go.”
“If I don't want another treatment?”
This question, Legolas did not have to think over. “With no second treatment, your body will most likely not be able to heal the wound much beyond what it is now. In a few more weeks the venom will begin to break down and liquify the flesh it's touching. The flesh around the liquified area will quickly become necrotic and gangrenous, you will either have to remove the limb entirely and pray to whatever Valar might listen that it will be enough to save you, or you will die.”
“I suppose we do a second treatment, then.” Without thinking and more to himself than to Legolas, Maglor added, “The Valar would not listen to my cries anyway.”
“Don’t feel too special.” Legolas said, more somber and Maglor had yet heard him be, “They’ve never listened to any of mine, either.”
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Legolas had needed about nine hours to do all the necessary work and preparations that came with brewing a new batch of antivenom. It appeared to be an extremely complicated and exact process with lots of mixing, boiling, straining, and diluting, Legolas seemed to have the entire recipe memorized, quickly going about his work without stopping to think or read instructions. It was mesmerizing in a way. It also made him think of Elrond, which always elicited a twinge of regret, guilt, or longing inside Maglors heart. It simply depended on the day, and the last time he had made a visit close to the Valley of Imladris.
At least waiting until the morning to do the second treatment, it gave them all day to draw comfort from the fact there were very few creatures, good or bad, willing or stupid enough to investigate pained screaming in the daylight hours.
There were limitless creatures, mostly bad, that would swarm to the sound at night.
Last night the idea of what they were going to do did not feel so overwhelming. It had felt like a necessary evil in life. Maglor had met and overcome many necessary evils throughout his time, what was one more?
But now, in the daylight. It did not so much seem a necessary evil but an unnecessarily painful and humiliating way to die.
If Legolas sensed any of Maglor’s newfound foreboding, he said nothing of it. It was frustratingly difficult to tell if Legolas was simply oblivious to everything, or simply frustratingly committed to appearing as if he was.
“Are you ready?” Legolas asked, and looked at Maglor’s face. Which must have looked like many things, ready being the least among them. “I promise not to let you die. I’ve put far too much work into keeping you alive already to go ahead and ruin all of my own hard work. It might feel like you are, but I won’t let that happen.”
“Get it over with then, quickly.”
Legolas made a face that Maglor could not even guess what it was supposed to convey, and then he pricked the needle under the surface of Maglor’s dark and angry skin on his leg, as close to the wound as he could ever dare.
The antivenom was slowly injected.
It started out as the smallest of pinpricks. Even smaller than the prick of the needle that had gone into his leg, and the sensation was more of a suggestion of an itch than anything else.
Slowly but not as slowly as Maglor would have liked the pinprick grew into the size of a hand, then a plate, and then had encompassed the entirety of his leg. The itch grew from a dull sensation into nothing less than white hot agony.
It took only a minute or two for him to immediately understand that Legolas had not been underselling the unpleasantness of what he was about to experience, as the pain spread into his torso and arms.
The only thing that he could understand after that was that it hurt.
A lot.
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The world was coming back to him slowly, bits and pieces of whatever nightmare had been tormenting his mind being pulled away, replaced by the familiar stench of the cave he’d been in for weeks and the low humming of songs that he could just barely recall knowing at the edges of his mind.
Maglor couldn’t remember most of what had happened to him inside his mind, he just remembered being so desperate to find his older brother. Or, more accurately, for his older brother to find him. To be saved by him. Protected by him.
Like he used to be, so very long ago. He wanted to feel that again, Needed to feel that again.
He remembered in his dream calling out for him in every name he had been bestowed with, even his Sindarin one. Screaming out for Maedhros until the white void of his agony swallowed him whole.
“Did I say anything?” Maglor asked, voice gravely enough that he already knew the answer. Of course he had.
Of course he had.
“You cried out for your brother.”
“I did?”
Maglor could remember searching for Maedhros in the depths of his mind and pain. He could remember feeling so desperate to find him that in that moment nothing else had mattered.
He could remember wondering if the burning he was feeling was anything similar to what Maehros had endured in his last moments, or if it paled in comparison. He wasn't sure which answer would bring him comfort. Probably neither.
What he couldn’t remember was if he had said the name out loud.
Maglor hoped that he hadn't. Prayed that he hadn't. He knew that the Valar did not answer his prayers, but if they were going to, now would be the time.
Not for him.
For Legolas.
To save the young elf from having to make the choice between living up to his gentle nature that wanted to save and protect things, and his loyalty and love to his father that would dictate he go against all of those very things.
Save him from becoming another victim to the horrible decisions and acts that had already torn apart and burned so many families and cities.
“Yes, you were calling for your brother, Maedhros.”
Maglor froze.
Along with every single organ within his body.
His blood standing still within his veins.
Breath dying in his lungs.
Unbothered, as always, Legolas spoke in the tone that Maglor had come to understand was his natural one, “You didn’t use his Sindarin name, of course. But I’ve been in Elrond’s halls enough times to recognize you and your brothers' many Quenya names.”
Finally, Legoals looked into Maglor’s face, who was shocked he did not see any of the generational hatred he had expected to find there. Instead, Legoals lightly tossed him the waterskin with a small, good natured smile, “I was never going to let you know I knew who you were, Maglor, for your own comfort. Unfortunately for both of us, you’ve given me no choice.”
“How long have you known?” Maglor managed to ask, his tongue feeling leaden and slow in his mouth.
“From the very night I found you. Before I even brought you into the cave.” Legolas gave him a few moments to soak in the new information.
“How?”
Legolas shrugged, “Combination of things, probably. There are very few that travel completely alone and unprepared these days, unless they don’t particularly care what happens to them. I can feel the difference in Elves born in the first age, and there are not very many of you left in Arda.”
He began to dig through a cloth bag that had been plopped down next to him, stopping momentarily to look back at Maglor to say, “I’ve heard enough descriptions and seen enough paintings and artworks of your family. Most telling, however, I can still sense the light of Valinor in you. Dimmer than Glorfindels or Lady Galadriels, but it's still there. I can feel it.”
Maglor had to struggle to keep his eyes from welling up a little, it didn’t seem possible. He had burned the light from his soul so long ago. So many actions ago. Too many actions ago.
“I doubt that.” Maglors voice came out more of a croak than actual words, but Legolas seemed to understand what he had meant.
“You can doubt my words all you like, but you asked me a question and that is my answer. Believe it or do not, the answer will not change.” Legolas produced a waterskin from the sack, pulled the stopper from it and took a drink. Sealing it closed once more he lightly tossed it across the fire to where Maglor was still laying on the cave floor, cushioned on a bed of dry grasses and head pillowed by moss. “Have a drink, it’ll help.”
Maglor picked up the waterskin and frowned at it slightly, “Is this when you finally poison me?”
Legolas laughed heartily at that, the sound likely echoing out the mouth of their cave for several miles even though Maglor had asked it with all seriousness. “No, this is not when I poison you. Although some might argue that fact, my friends and I drink it all the time and so far it hasn't killed any of us.”
Frowning at Legolas with lighter suspicion than almost any other creature on Arda would have received, Maglor pulled the stopper off and gave whatever was inside the waterskin a deep sniff.
And practically gagged.
“You drink this willingly?”
“On the good days we mix it into some type of fruit juice, on the bad days we drink it straight and hope it hurts more than whatever happened earlier in the day.”
Maglor thought about giving it another sniff, but quickly thought better of it. Before he could think better of his next idea, he quickly poured some of the horrific smelling liquid into his mouth and tried to swallow it before the taste overwhelmed him.
It didn’t work.
Pride alone kept Maglor from spitting it out and sputtering and coughing like a fool for a full five minutes. The familiar burn of alcohol warmed in his stomach, far warmer than any one single drink that was given him before this.
Maglor’s stubborn pride, however, did not prevent Legolas from laughing at him for at least half the time he struggled not to cough, “That’s the typical response.”
“Yes,” Maglor paused to suppress another cough, “I imagine that it is.”
He sealed it back, and tossed it back to Legoals who caught it with ease. Maglor stared at Legolas from across the fire, he couldn’t help it.
Thousands of questions overwhelmed his mind, while Legolas looked back at him with the same knowing sympathy he’d had on the first night. The first night when he had been overwhelmed with fears that Legolas had known his true identity.
Was it true that Legoals knew it was him? Even then?
“Are you going to tell your father?” Maglor eventually asked.
Legolas gave a soft snort, “I was always going to tell my father.”
“Won’t he be angry that you knowingly helped the last living son of Feanor?”
“Angry? No, he won't be angry.” Legolas thought about it for a moment, the warm firelight keeping his features soft and open. He took another drink from the waterskin and passed it back across the fire. “My best guess is that he will say something along the lines of: ‘Probably not the decision that I specifically would have made if I were in your shoes, my Greenleaf, but I was not in your shoes and therefore cannot begrudge your decision.”
This time, Maglor did not hesitate before taking his own second drink. This one went down marginally better than the first. “What do you think your father would have done if he had found me?”
Legolas thought this over as well, and Maglor allowed him. He always had respect for any creature that took its time to think about important questions. “I think my father believes that if he had been the one to find you, that he would have simply not interfered. He would have walked away, leaving you exactly where and how he had found you.”
“I believe, however,” Legolas continued, catching the waterskin when Maglor passed it back to him, ““That if my father had been the one to find you, he would have done his best to stop the bleeding without putting hours of effort into it and taken you to the nearest human town, dumped you there and washed his hands of the entire situation.”
“Your father is a better elf than I gave him credit for. I apologize.”
“He is a better elf than almost everybody gives him credit for. Probably better than he even gives himself credit for. I have a question for you now.”
“Yes?”
“How’s your leg feeling?”
Maglor was stunned enough by the circumstances and still groggy enough from the treatment he hadn’t even thought about his leg yet. Gingerly he moved his left from side to side, finding none of the stabbing pain from before. Even the very veins in his leg seemed to be sturdier.
“Better,” He gave it another experimental flexing of his muscles and little wiggle of the whole leg, “Much better.”
Legolas’ smile was big and bright, “Excellent.”
“Thank you, Legolas.” Maglor managed to scrape the words out of his throat by force of will alone. Even if they burned more on his tongue than the alcohol had.
“You are welcome, Maglor.”
Time passed in comfortable silence, the only noise the crackle of fire and occasional howling of either wolves or wargs. It was difficult to tell from such a distance. Before too much of the warm confidence of the alcohol faded, Maglor asked, “What song have you been humming?”
“I’m not sure the name of it, to be honest.” Legolas answered, a bit embarrassed, “But I know most of the words. I can sing it for you if you like, as long as you promise not to be too harsh on my voice.”
“If I were to sing anything right now, Legolas, I can assure you that I would sound even worse than anything you’re about to conjure.”
“Bold words from an elf who hasn’t yet endured what I’m about to conjure.”
Never before had Maglor ever been remotely thankful that his brothers had been the ones to die on that day in Menegroth’s throne room. But now, he could not help but feel the smallest suggestion of what might have been gratitude to whoever had been responsible for events unfolding the way it had. If Thranduil had been the one to die, then Legolas would never have been born and raised to be the elf sitting across from Maglor.
Maglor knew even before the Woodland Prince had begun to sing the song that brought him a deeper sense of peace and comfort than he even remembered could exist for him. Memories of better times wrapping around him alongside the song.
Elrond was right, as usual. The world needed Legolas. They needed his heart, his laugh, and his relentless good spirit.
Legolas could have sounded worse than a donkey having a temper tantrum, for all the difference it made to Maglor in that moment. And the moments following that one.
Several songs and a few more drinks later, against his will his eyes drifted slowly closed.
Maglor’s dreams, for once, were light and restful.
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When Maglor woke the next day he knew that he was alone in the cave, and would remain that way. Legolas had seemingly packed up all the warmth and light in the cave with him when he had left.
The small fire that had somehow been relentlessly burning for a few days over the three weeks had gone cold, though the pot remained nestled in the fire with the lid on top. Likely cradling a final meal for him.
He did not feel as much relief with the knowledge that he had the cave to himself for the remainder of his stay as he thought he would.
The lack of relief was briefly overshadowed with self-annoyance.
A pack that Maglor had previously not even known existed was neatly packed and set next to him, bedroll and blanket strapped securely into place on the bottom, the pack's drawstring top was open to reveal medical supplies and several weeks worth of traveling food.
To the very front of the pack a note had been pinned.
Your leg should be healed enough to travel in another day or two, but I will not be home to inform my father of all that happened for at least another week yet. Feel no rush to leave.
The pack and everything in it are a gift.
Goodluck, be safer. Don’t put all of my hard work to waste.
P.S - I promise that I haven't poisoned anything in here, either.
Maglor tore off the note and crumpled it up, tossing it into the pit of ash where the fire had once been. He hated owing favors to others.
He hated it so much in fact that he had always endeavored for as long as he could remember to not owe anybody anything. Now he owed the Crowned Prince of Greenwood the Great not one favor, but two.
At the very least.
The absolute nerve of some elves.
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