Archive of Our Own ^beta

Maedhros has come up with at least five possibilities for his mystery guest by the time he reaches the door, and all five of them prove to be wrong. He’s had no word, nothing to assume that someone he cares for might be waiting for him—but that hasn’t been their way, and he wonders at his own stupidity.

Two red heads await him in his meeting room. They’re bent over his desk, and there’s a scuffle as the two hastily try to get away—“Leave it! Leave it!” he hears them whispering, and Maedhros’ mouth sets in a scowl, purely out of a sense of obligation.

It doesn’t last, though, because he can’t keep his smile away. “That document is for the High King’s eyes,” he chides. “Must I scold my guards for letting ruffians into my keep?”

“We made a few corrections,” Amrod replies, folding his hands behind his back; his twin does the same. At their full height, they only reach the middle of Maedhros’ chest, but that makes it easy to sweep them both into a hug. 

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Maedhros tells them when he draws back. “You’re lucky you arrived today, and not in a week's time. Business calls me in—”

“In Hithlum,” Amras finishes for him. “Yes, we read. And we guessed that might be the case.”

“The stories have reached Ossiriand,” Amrod adds.

Maedhros bites back a wince; that cannot be good news. For the moment, he refrains from answering, and gestures for his little brothers to sit down. He offers food, too, but the twins look at him with a smug expression and politely inform him that they’ve had their fill from the kitchens twice over already.

Sighing, Maedhros lowers himself to his chair, leaning forward as he speaks. “What version of the stories reached you, then?”

“We had a few versions.” Amrod crosses one leg over the other knee, hands curling over his shin to hold it in place. It looks almost like the gesture of one wounded, Maedhros worries, but his little brother shows no signs of being hurt. “Starting with this thing about the Sindarin princess. We’d love the real story, rather than this nonsense about her singing Moringotto to sleep.”

“Ah,” Maedhros says.

The twins cock their heads, a prompt for him to continue.

“As far as we can tell, that is the truth,” he answers. “ Lúthien has a Silmaril in her possession. Findaráto aided her, and he is dead. And Tyelkormo and Curufinwë…”

“They are not Kings of Nargothrond,” Amras observes, “so I assume what we heard about them driving Artaresto out into the wilds and enslaving the counsellors is not true.”

“What?”

“Things get embellished,” Amrod says with a shrug. “The Laiquendi don’t write their histories, and everything gets passed mouth to mouth until you find things that bear no resemblance to the truth.”

Amras smirks. “There’s one about a redheaded northern monster,” he says.

“Oh? And which of us is that meant to be?”

“Could be any of us,” the twins muse. “We thought it was you, at first, but sometimes it has two hands. Mind, it also sometimes has a hundred, so that might not mean anything.”

Maedhros’ lip quirks, which isn’t an altogether pleased expression. “I hope you two aren’t doing anything to encourage these stories.”

Amrod and Amras shake their heads. “They tell us in good humour. I think.”

Maedhros gives them a warning look, which they ignore.

“Enough of that, though,” Amrod says, expression turning serious. “We came to ask about the war, because we’ve heard things about that too.”

“Which war?” Maedhros asks warily.

Both his brothers give him an odd look. “That’s what we wanted to know,” Amras answers. “Many seem to be of the opinion that we’re going to be fighting one soon.”

“We want to know who with,” Amrod concludes.

Maedhros’ face hardens as they talk, but after a moment, his reply comes, steady and measured. “I am riding west to speak with the High King, not least because we have a diplomatic nightmare to solve thanks to Tyelko and Curvo. I mean to speak to him about these matters.”

“That doesn’t answer our question.”

“If it is a war, it will be with Morgoth, not Doriath.”

“And if it is not?”

Maedhros takes a breath. “Taking a toy from a child’s hand is not a war.”