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coupleoffanfics · 4 months

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teehee I have a small thought (batfam related, yk that one where y/n gets killed)

imagine if y/n was brought back by the pit, but instead of being a "shell" in that hc u made, she becomes completely stoic, like just blurts out what she was feeling back when she was neglected with the most blank expression ever, I imagine it being more focused on bruce and Damian since yk..bruce was the shittiest parent ever, and Damian with his sparky ass insults.

You…God, damnit Anon. You summoned me and I suddenly have the motivation to write after reading your two requests.

I don't know if you wanted a one-shot or HC. So I just went with a HC because it's much easier to push out. Though if you want me to make a one-shot feel free to ask. I'll take 7 years to write it. Though at the end I did sort of a one-shot.

Damian should have known something was wrong when y/n didn't start thrashing around and attacking anything that moved after crawling out of the pit. She just stared at her hands, clenching them into firsts and then unclenching them slowly.

Maybe Damian was too relieved to see y/n breathing and moving to really care. Maybe he thought that she was just in shock. Coming back to life isn't always expected and it can take a real toll on someone.

Not to mention that y/n was, compared to her brothers, far weaker. Not just physically, but mentally as well. So it's not surprising that she was so docile, right? It's only a matter of time before that effect wears off and she'll be normal. Or something close to normal.

Okay, maybe deep down Damian knew that there was a chance that he wasn't getting y/n back. Everyone knew that there was no getting her back, but he was willing to take the risk. He came this far and it didn't take long for Bruce to pick up on what his youngest was doing.

Damian has his big sister back and he's not going to let her go again. It's only a matter of hours before Bruce comes breaking down the door to drag them back to Gotham. So Damian took the time to clean up y/n.

She was still in her funeral clothes for goodness sake. She reeked of death, but that didn't stop the boy from hugging her tightly.

While getting cleaned up, she doesn't say a thing. Or even make a lot of noise. It was almost like she was still dead.

By the time Bruce gets there, he's not surprised by Damian's actions. He thought of doing the same thing, but he couldn't bring himself to do such a thing. He couldn't disrespect her life by bringing her back. How could he dare think of that when she looked so at peace when she died.

He remembers how her body was tense before it became horrifyingly relaxed. There was a fear of death in those [eye color] eyes, he knows because he saw it. But it was so quick and fleeting that he could have missed it if he wasn't so close.

In a twisted way he wished y/n had clung on to him just like she did when she was a wide eyed little girl and cried. Cry that she didn't want to die. Cry that it was too early to leave now. Cry that she didn't want to leave them.

But all she did was give a crooked smile and mumble to herself as blood dribbled down her chin. She spoke incoherent things to herself. A name or two slipped from her cold lips, but they weren't ones of her family. From what he gathered it was just a close friend and her significant other's name. She died thinking of those who cared and loved her back. Not of the family that she couldn't stand to be around.

Even when her own adopted father held her dying from close, they were far from her line of thought.

So seeing y/n alive was gut reaching for Bruce. There was no pain, anger, sadness, or joy on her face. She was just there. Staring at him with an uncomfortable indifference.

Damian was ready to start a fight with Bruce. Not a physical one, but he would cross that line if he needed to. He was ready to defend himself in what he thought was best for y/n. Yet Bruce lets out a quiet sigh and tells that it's time to come home. How anticlimactic.

The plane ride back to Gotham is long and quiet. It also felt cramped by how close Damian was to y/n and unwilling to give her too much space.

By the time they made it back to the manor, everyone was caught up to date. The development is surprising to some while others not so much.

Everyone is in the bat cave. Gathered around to see y/n back from the dead. The silence is deafening as they wait for something. Just something from her, but she walked past them all. Out of the cave and to where her room was. Nothing was out of place in her room, though it was mostly empty after she had moved out a few years ago. She laid on her bed and slept as if nothing was amiss.

That's where the family infighting starts. Question of was this the right thing. What are going to do now? Why the hell did you think this was a good idea? There's going to be a lot of hash words being shared, but at the end of the day what was done was done and they had y/n back. They weren't going to mess up the second time.

Did they really get a second chance because it didn't feel like it. A week would pass and y/n has yet to come out of her room. She's alive and breathing because the trays of food left outside her door are always empty.

The camera's installed while she slept showed that she was doing nothing. All she did was lay in bed. She'd get up to use her private bathroom, but other than that there wasn't much. She was rotting away alone in her room.

This rang familiar bells in Alfred, Bruce, and Tim's head. y/n wasn't prone to long depressive episodes, so this could be something similar. The lack of socializing and excessive oversleeping was typically a big red sign for them to do something. In the past they would not force, but push her into doing social things or at least being out of her room.

They could approach this situation the same way, but they'd have to be extra careful. This was a unique and tricky situation to be in. It was also odd if not worrying that she hasn't succumbed to lazarus fever.

They could try to bribe y/n out of her room with activities that have to do with her old hobbies.

"Alfred is baking today, he said might need some help."

"I just stole the keys to the batmobile, you wanna take it for a ride?"

"Hey, do you want to…um, play a video game with me. I remember we used to play Hellflight Deadcraze a lot. They came out with the 3rd game. I just bought it today, so...Yeah."

Though the likelihood of that working is low. If they're really desperate to interact with her, they might as well just bust down her door.

At some point all the poking and prodding is going to irritate y/n. Whoever popped her bubble is going to be on the receiving end of pent up emotions.

I don't believe y/n would ever intentionally say how much the family's treatment harmed her. Again it would bubble up and fester for a while before she explodes. The thing about y/n is that she has an inferiority complex. In her life she aimed to please and help.

She understands that Gotham is dangerous. A lot of people need help and she couldn't bring herself to pull them away from their job. To her it would be like pulling a fireman away from a fire to chat as people burned alive. Even if the fire was out the fireman would be tired and need to rest, so she couldn't just pull them wherever she wanted to go. She shouldn't pester them.

In y/n's eyes, she was never worthy of being a hero because she wasn't good enough. She was never worthy of being with the family because she wasn't helping enough. She should do this to prove her worth. She's not worthless because she can do this for you and this as well!

She embodies inferiority and self-loathing. Someone that feels insignificant and has the strong urge to do more. She has- or had in this situation, hope. Hope that she'll be worthy of love. Love, affection, praise is what drives her and will seek it out if she's desperate. If she does ask or seek it out she'll be feeling guilty since she didn't really do anything to get it. In her mind she was being greedy and she couldn't help herself.

Bonus

"Just stop. Leave me alone." Her voice was almost pleading as she gripped the wrapped gift box. The gift was a symbol of peace, almost a treaty. That's all it was supposed to be, but she acts as if she had been spat in the eye.

Seeing that Bruce wasn't listening to her, she dug her nails into the gift. Almost tearing into the [favorite color] wrapped paper. He stood before her like an unmoving entity. The longer he stood by the more she wanted to snap into herself. She didn't want to slowly curl into a ball. She wanted to snap herself together with a violent and almost sickening crack. This just wasn't fair.

Clenching her jaw, her voice became much colder. It wasn't as cold as the middle of winter, yet it still had a chill to it.

"I thought you'd get it that I didn't want this. I shut you out, but you- all of you just keep buzzing. None of you are getting the hint. You just keep coming back louder than before. Why can't you let me be alone? Why can't you act overworked and tired? Why can't you just leave things the way they were?"

Bruce was conflicted upon hearing her say that and would try to claim that everything is going to come around. Everything always comes around in the end and this wouldn't be any different. They are going to get through this as a family.

y/n's frown would deepen and her eyes would furrow at his attempt at comfort. She looks as if she just ate something that was expired, leaving her mouth with nothing but a nasty sour taste.

"Because we're family." She whispered to herself before almost grimacing at the words. Her voice became sharp and cold as a blade, "I don't understand why you'd suggest that I was still a part of the family. I don't think I've been family for a good while now."

She clicked her tongue as she dropped the gift box while looking Bruce in the eyes. "Come on, you can't say you cared about me after I stopped being useful. When did you realize that I wasn't anything special? Was it when I kept crying about punching villains or when I was too slow to teach."

Seeing the conflicted look in his blue eyes confused her. Why would the truth conflict someone unless it was pity. Even after all this she's just a pitiful little crybaby to him. One good hit and she's out wailing on the floor for someone to kiss her boo-boo away.

Somehow this hurt her. Her pounding heart felt like it was twisting on itself. She wanted to cry and laugh at how she thought things couldn't get any worse. Then somehow it did. The universe, the world, the Wayne had proved her wrong yet again. It was as funny as it was sad.

She could have broken down there, but she needed to hear it. She had to hear the truth, so she kept twisting her heart with her own hands. It didn't matter how much it hurt.

"Or maybe you were in denial? You had wasted a lot of time and resources on a dud. Then Damian threw cold water on you and left you shivering, right? I'm just leeching off of you and the others. Then…Then you choose them over me. I was an afterthought, or is that being too generous? Did I ever circulate in your mind before this?"

Her voice was becoming shrill and gruff like she was on the verge of tears. "When did you realize that I was dead weight, Batman? Did I make Bruce Wayne look more caring to the people when I talk about how much I love my family? Did my life serve any use or was I always just a speck of dirt on your shoes?"

Those words were far from the truth, yet with how she spoke Bruce knew that she believed in all that she was saying. Each and every word was true to her. Honestly he didn't know what to say. This was all too much. Having to hear your own child degrade themselves with such honesty was heartbreaking.

Taking his silence as a sort of confirmation, y/n ordered him to leave and of course he did. He'd fix this somehow. He just needed time. They needed time.

I cut off the ending because I didn't want to write too much. Anyway I hope you enjoyed it. I haven't proofread this, Google Doc says there aren't any errors (probably a lie), and it's 3 in the morning. Goodnight.

#batfamily x batsis #batfamily x reader #batsis reader #yandere batfam #God damn you anon #you beautiful bastard #I'll clean this up later when I sleep #x reader #x batsis reader

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welcomingdisaster · 3 months

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need to keep quiet ft. maedhros rescuing maglor?

@grey-gazania here is my best attempt to fulfill both prompts! pardon the length; it got a little out of hand. <3 ao3

This could have been over quickly, if not for Maglor’s pride.

He is among the least conspicuous of his brothers; dark-haired and grey-eyed, as so many of the Noldor, tall but not excessively so, not particularly fair of face. In his wanderings he had not worn finery—there is none left to wear—and had not held himself particularly apart from the tattered few remaining servants yet by his side.

But one thing he had left.

His silver circlet with the carved orchid, which had been on his brow during his journey aboard the stolen ships. He had set it aside only during his brief reign as regent, forced to take on a heavier, grander crown. As crown prince of the Noldor he returned to it; as the lord of the Gap he had worn it.

For it is among the few pieces of jewelry made by his mother’s hand, and not his father’s; a slightly-awkward foray into art not her own, and yet beautiful for it, the petals of the orchid rendered with the sensibilities of a sculptor. Inside she pressed the name she had given him in beautiful, looping Tengwar.

And even with all lost he had not been able to force himself to discard it.

It had been pressed to his scalp under layers of grime, tangled in locks too heavy with mud and blood to curl. There had been no time to stop and to wash, for they had ridden through conquered land, fleeing from the forces of the Enemy, and thought any stop could be deadly.

Such hurry had not saved them.

Maglor could have put on a better fight. If he had seen the Enemy’s soldiers quicker—if his sword-arm had not been shattered in the battle two months ago and only half-healed— if he had not been choking on the black smoke of the burning lands, his throat too rough for war-songs—if—if—if—

His captors are not orcs. Instead some species of goblin, so short the tops of their heads barely reach his waist but no less vicious for it, victorious through the force of their numbers and their cruelty. There are two elven thralls with them, empty eyed, their blank doll-faces covered in gouge-scars, unreachable through word and mind-touch alike. One of them is chained; the other is not, and Maglor wonders why, because he can see no difference between them.

This time, though, they had not been looking to take prisoners. Maglor’s company, ambushed, had had nine elves; of them two were killed in the skirmish and the rest wrestled to the ground, their throats bitten out, life-force spilling onto the burned soil.

Maglor would have suffered the same fate, if not for his pride. If not for his crown. If not for the keen eyed goblin that had held him, gasping for breath and half out of his mind with the pain of his ribs and his arm, and seen the glimmer of silver on his brow.

“Style yourself as a lord, do you?” The goblin has asked him, twisting his broken arm further behind him, and Maglor had been beyond words; could barely understand the question being posed to him. Then the goblin had let him go, just briefly. He made to roll away, gasping, shattered, but one sharp foot kicked at him, and suddenly two of them, not so light as they seemed, were standing on his back, and there was no moving.

From the conversation behind him, snatches of the orcish tongue mixed with rough-hewn Sindarin, he had been able to tell the circlet was being passed around. None of them had been able to read it; none of them read Tengwar, or perhaps none of them read at all. Maglor had strained to turn, to sit up, to see—had been able to push himself up on his elbow just in time to see the gleam of silver pass to one of the unchained elven thralls.

The thrall had looked down at the crown in his hands. Maglor had watched with bated breath as his dark empty eyes followed the lines of the writing. Finally some splash of emotion on that blank face, an automatic flick of the eyes to Maglor.

Lie, Maglor had mouthed, lie. Let them kill me. Spare me your own fate.

The elf’s thin chained hand, so pale if it was not moving Maglor would have thought it wax, or else dead, had shaken. One deep breath, two.

Then he had shut his eyes and read, the perfect pronunciation making it quite clear he had once been Noldor, “Kánafinwë Makalaurë, captain. In the old lands it was the name of the second prince.”

And that had sealed Maglor’s fate.

That assault had been two weeks ago. By now Maglor has grown used to the erratic movements of the camp, the sudden jerks this way and that as the ill-established goblin leadership seems to change at random the course of their journey, the taste of black ash in the water, the infrequent meals of bird-meat, the constant, unyielding pain.

In the battle proper his arm had been broken in three places; it had started to heal, before his capture. When he was taken they had wrenched off the sling, had kicked and pulled at the broken bone, sensing weakness, as they had wrestled him into chains. After looking him over the then-head goblin had smashed the toes of his left foot, a terrible pain that left him able to hobble short distances, off-balance and leaning on his heel, but not walk for long, and certainly not run.

His other injuries ought to be easier to bear; cuts and bruises and claw marks decorate his ribs and his neck, and in places his good arm has gone numb from being bound too tightly, and does not listen to him well when unbound, so that he must rely on the questionable mercy of the thralls when he is allowed to eat or drink or relieve himself. Some of the gritty black ash has wormed its way into the cuts on his skin, and they burn to even brush against; he feels puffy and swollen from all sides and wonders if the goblins would have done better to bring back only his severed head and his silver crown. He might have been more recognizable that way.

He had tried singing, in the early days of his captivity. And though even then his voice had come out twisted and choked, a shadow of its former power, it had almost been enough. He had sung a sleeping-tune, a lulling tune, and birds, the last stragglers from the once-living forests, had gathered all about him to listen, and the camp had slept, caught in the melody.

He had managed even to get down from the back of the donkey he had been thrown over, to crawl, still singing, to the edges of the camp. But when he had tried to rise his vision had gone black with pain, and his song ceased, if only for a moment.

It had been enough. Now he is muzzled, gagged, dirty dusty cloth pressing against his lips and scratching at throat with each breath. He tries nothing else.

The purposes of the thralls have become somewhat more clear to him, though he feels himself missing pieces. The one who is not chained never speaks—Maglor is not sure she is able to—but walks freely about the camp. The goblins do not see well during daylight, and she functions as their eyes, guiding them and keeping vigil while they sleep through the brightest hours of the sun. She looks at Maglor often, though she will not answer the tentative brushes of his mind; sometimes there is life in her big brown eyes, some glimmer of apology.

Often she stands next to him, a sort of guard. He thinks she is not allowed to touch him. Once when his hands had shaken and he had nearly dropped his water skin she had reached on impulse to catch it, had given it back to him in a quick, guilty motion. When once, during one of their day-stops, he had cried out from the pain of his shattered arm she had caught his shoulder, her grip gentle but pointed, and shushed him, looking meaningfully to the sleeping goblin-leader. Maglor did not need to be told twice; the face she had made in response to his silence might even have been a smile.

The chained thrall, on the other hand, speaks frequently, and his purpose is ill. Clearly he had once known well the land, and now he instructs the goblin crew what they might expect at each turn in the landscape, where elven fortresses and strongholds have been abandoned, what had once been farmland and horse-pasture. It is that thrall that helps Maglor eat and drink most often, all without meeting his eye, and will not look at him otherwise.

Today they have stopped on the shores of a river. Once it had overflowed the deep river-band, but now it is almost dry, making a sort of ravine, and Maglor looks down at the bared rocks far below him, and then at the chained thrall, who looks away as ever, wistful, and knows they both think the same thing.

Almost certainly they would die, if they jumped into the ravine. Almost certainly they could not get away quickly enough to make the distance.

No one is coming for him. That Maglor had accepted on the first few nights of his captivity. No one knows where he had been when he was taken; no one knows he yet lives. All that could have told of his survival in the battle are dead, now.

It hurts worse to think of, because he knows that Maedhros—if Maedhros lives, Elbereth let Maedhros live—would come, if he knew. He has no doubt of that. No part of Maedhros would pay back Maglor’s failure in kind; no part of Maedhros would hesitate, at risk of Doom, to chase him through the burned land. For despite it all Maedhros is nobler than he, more faithful, better.

Maglor breathes in deeply, suppressing a cough at the dust that tickles his lungs, and prays to the lady of the stars. Let Maedhros think I died quickly, in the battle. Let Maedhros know not of this, and hold not my guilt.

Above them the sun is scorching hot. The earth despoiled as it is, burned and torn up, carcasses of trees piled in ugly funeral-mounds, there is nowhere to shelter from the heat. Maglor wishes someone had thought to let him down from the back of the ass—which he is now bound to—for both he and the poor beast clearly suffer for their proximity. The chained thrall, allowed to sleep during the day, sighs and curls up in the shade found underneath one of the great fallen trees. He draws dark earth over his feet; it looks damp, cool. Maglor envies him.

The unchained thrall, who must be awake, ambles back and forth around the little camp, less the regimented paces of a watch-guard and more the random movements of a sleepwalker. There are goblins awake too, Maglor knows, on the edges of the camp; he can hear their faint conversation.

When the thrall passes by him Maglor catches her eye; if he were not gagged he would smile.

She inclines her head a little to him. Motioning for him to sleep, Maglor thinks, and winces. Nods down at the donkey. Too hot.

She repeats the head motion, a little more insistent. Maglor blinks. Something behind him?

It pains him to turn and look, his shoulder muscles and rib-wounds aching at the pull of the motion. But nonetheless he does turn, and sees that birds have gathered on the fallen trees, a rather heterogeneous assortment; ravens and magpies, songbirds and sparrows, one great hawk sitting discordantly among the prey-birds.

The goblins are not there to shoo them, and they do not make noise enough to wake them or to draw the attention of the distant guards. Maglor looks at the thrall-woman and shrugs, though even that little motion hurts. He is tired of the power pain has over him; it should certainly grow dull and pointless by now, should wane, and yet its bite controls him just as much as it had two weeks ago. He goes limp, because that hurts the least, and watches what unfolds.

Certainly the thrall-woman might be expected to scare away their unexpected guests; both of them know she shall not. She hesitates for a moment, clearly caught between fear and some desperate, painful hope; when one of the sparrows hops towards her she holds out her hand by impulse to catch it.

Her hands shake as she unwinds the little piece of parchment fastened around its leg. There is one word written on it in clear, bright Tengwar, so large Maglor can effortlessly read it even with the distance between them. Sharp hand.

Quiet.

He watches the elf-thrall’s throat bob as she swallows. Remembers the betrayal, before, from the other thrall. Her hand rises to her throat; he wonders if she is thinking of the irony of the request. Of the hurt she had been dealt.

Finally she turns to him. Holds out the note, to be sure he has seen. Raps against the parchment once with her nail, waits for his nod. Slips it back to the sparrow.

The birds take off all at once, leaving behind only one of the magpies. Maglor feels his heart beat hard against his ears, pressure building in his chest. He is grateful to be able to bite down on the gag.

What can he do, he wonders? His arm is broken, his toes. His hands are chained together and bound to the saddle of the donkey. He is useless.

Worse than useless. He is a liability.

One beat passes, two. Maglor tries not to imagine that he knows the sharp hand of the writer. Tries not to read into the single pragmatic word, the dark ink, the worn parchment.

Tries to tell himself that he is dreaming; that he is mad. Certainly it is easier than dashed hope. Certainly it is easier than the horrible, choking fear.

He will come, and I will doom him.

The elf-maid resumes her paces. There is a different energy to her now, a different tension underneath the set of her shoulders. Maglor listens to the sighing of the donkey and the sleeping rumbles of the goblins. The chained thrall whimpers in his sleep.

Do not wake, Maglor begs in his mind. Do not wake.

He marks the time not by counting but by reciting verses in his mind, prayer hymns. Eight verses; half an hour, give or take, given the speed of recitation.

Then finally he hears it; the drawing of a bowstring, the sound of an arrow in the air. Maglor strains himself to sit up in the saddle, and succeeds only in hurting his ribs; walls back against the back of the donkey, suppressing coughs into the spit-soaked cloth gag. The pain is so overwhelming that for a moment all thoughts of rescue are lost; all he can focus on is the sensation of his diaphragm hitching, the pain that leaves his chest as an over-inflated water skin and yet still somehow robs him of air.

He can feel the skin of the donkey jump, its dark itchy fur pressing into the skin of his forearms. It too is bound. It too cannot run.

Somewhere there is a faint thud. He can hear the quick gasping breath of the unchained thrall, and then she is half-running to his side, her face terrified. She has seen something.

And finally, finally, a familiar mind brushes against his, huge and solid and warm, and he weeps with it. A sob threatens him, and he holds his breath, unwilling to both make noise and to let it rock through him.

Maedhros’ thoughts are regimented; structured very purposefully to let no feeling through. Do you hear me, brother?

Yes, Maglor thinks, Yes, Elbereth—yes.

I will be there soon, Maedhros says, I know you are bound; I will cut you down. We must be silent, and we must be swift. We are badly outnumbered, and we cannot risk pursuit.

You ought not have risked this at all, Maglor thinks, stupidly, desperately grateful. There is nothing he would not do, now, to have Maedhros’ arms around him; to have his brother take him down and hold him tight.

Maedhros does not answer. The elf maid turns to him and begins to undo the ropes that bind him to the ass’s back; in his mind Maglor begs the animal not to bray with relief. She is half-done when the huge shadow of Maedhros looms over her shoulder; the rest he cuts through swiftly with his sword. The chains will have to wait; Maedhros reaches for the gag and Maglor draws back, speaking in their minds.

Leave it. If I have nothing to bite I will cry out.

Maedhros pales, but does as he is bid. He draws Maglor slowly into his arms, looping his chained hands over his neck—that pulls at Maglor’s arm, and his eyes water—and steps back, gesturing for the elf-maid to follow him.

As they turn Maglor sees the other thrall, the chained man, curled still sleeping in the cold dark soil. His dreams are ill, as they ever are. If they woke him, perhaps he would shout. If they woke him, perhaps he would leave with them. He had once been Noldor, Maglor remembers. He had once known this land.

Maglor thinks of all the people who would stop to help him, betrayal or none, risk or none. Finrod, bright-eyed and noble despite the horrible doom upon him; Fingon, stubbornly, fiercely hopeful even though his grief, stubbornly, fiercely kind. Elves better than him; elves more noble, less bloodstained. Dead lords.

I want to live, Maglor thinks, and says nothing. Leaves the chained thrall behind.

Maedhros bears him away, over the burned ground and the bodies of the goblin-guards, and just then Maglor is grateful for the blinding pain of his ribs and his arm, for the ache in his toes, for the ashy smell of the air, for the

Dreams do not feel so.

* * *

There is a little company of elves waiting for them on the edges of the forest. Bow-men. Warriors. The last, likely, of Himring’s men, her guards. That Maedhros has brought into enemy territory—that they had followed him, knowing full well the risk—bears not thinking about.

Even the few swift horses spared for the journey seem like a waste, a desperate measure. Maglor watches, distant and glassy-eyed, as the elf-maid that aided him is helped onto the horse of one of Maedhros’ archers. Then Maedhros murmurs brace yourself low in his ear and pulls him onto his own horse with him, still using his chained hands to hold them together.

Maglor falls against him, shaking and dizzy with pain, each part of his a different disconnected, heavy thing, and loses time. There is some period where he is vaguely aware of the movement of the horse, of bone striking bone in his broken arm, of the heat of Maedhros’ body next to him, the air brushing against his skin.

There are fingers—fingers on his jaw and his face, and he recoils. The low rumble of Maedhros’ voice stops him, soothes him, though it takes him a moment to grasp the meaning of his words. Maedhros, he realizes, is working free the gag shoved into Maglor’s mouth.

It comes out spit-soaked and oddly crunchy around the edges, tasting of dust and of blood. Maedhros rubs at the junction of his jaw, chasing away the little ache left behind. Maglor, so full of aches he feels more ache than elf, could weep at the care of it.

They are riding still when Maedhros presses a water skin between his lips and coaxes him to swallow. The water is warm with the heat of Maedhros’ body but clean, pleasant. It lends Maglor the strength to settle against Maedhros’ chest, to listen to the steady beating of his heart and watch the burned landscape go by.

“How?” he whispers. How did you know I was taken? How did you know where?

“The birds,” Maedhros says, “thirty years I spent upon the cliffside, and for thirty years I heard only their tongue; and their tongue I still speak now. Usually it is not in their nature to listen well to me, but their land has been despoiled as much as ours had, and their desire to spite the enemy is great.”

Maglor hums. The birds. Of course the birds.

“Try to rest,” Maedhros tells him, “we will not be able to stop during the night, for in the darkness the enemy’s forces are at their strongest. If we ride through the night we might be able to come to contested land, and then to elven strongholds, buried deep into the sides of the hills.”

Maglor means to tell him that he cannot rest; that he is far too hurt and it is far too hot, that certainly the shock of the capture and then the escape has been too great. But the words seem far away, barely worth saying. The dark landscape begins to blur together around him, and he does not notice at all when night falls.

* * *

When he wakes they are no longer horseback. Above him a pale-pink dawn rises, and the razed lands have given way to a sparse sprinkling of forest, pine tree branches swaying in the breeze. Someone yanks at the chain on his wrists, and Maglor cries out in pain, curses them automatically—thrice-damned ditch-dogs—and at that someone laughs, not the biting fire of goblin laughter but warm and elvish.

“Easy,” Maedhros says, “easy, little ferret. We are only trying to free you.”

His hand finds Maglor’s good hand. Squeezes.

Maglor looks down, and sees that one of the archers is working open the locking mechanism of the chains, pressing a thin metal wire inside it. It jingles, stubborn.

He would not mind it, he thinks, if they cut off the bad arm, so horribly swollen and twisted, barely a part of him at all. And how horribly it hurts now.

But the lock yields, and the chain is off, his shoulders protesting the change in positions. Maedhros sits behind Maglor, and pulls him to sit up, leaning against him. Maglor watches, feeling slow and stupid, as he shakes out a flask.

“For the pain,” he says, and presses it against Maglor’s lips. The liquor, mixed thickly with herbs and with honey, bites at throat, the sweetness coating his tongue. Still Maglor drinks as much of it as Maedhros lets him. He feels the effects almost immediately; his body is further from him, his mind fuzzier around the edges and warm.

Maedhros wraps an arm around him from behind, bracing him. “He will set your arm, now,” he says, “as much as he might.”

The archer moves forward, offering him a little smile. Promises to be quick with it.

Then even the liquor cannot save his dignity. Maglor shudders at the first touch of cold fingers against the swollen flesh of his arm; howls as the horrible scrape of bone against bone, of something within him being pulled and straightened, and through it Maedhros holds him tightly and kisses his hair from behind him. Talks of crisp clean sheets and tea with milk and walking barefoot through the mountain rivers.

It is only later, his arm and his toes bound, his ribs and neck covered in sticky roadside poultice, that Maglor finds it in himself to speak. Leans his head against Maedhros’ shoulder and murmurs, “You ought not have come. You have heard tales, I am sure, of how the battle started.”

Both of them think of it at once. The younger brother pulled to pieces in front of the elder; the horrible grief-stricken charge. Maedhros shudders. Bends, again, to kiss Maglor’s hair.

“I would have come then too,” he says, “if I were him.”

The words ought not settle to warm and secure in Maglor’s chest. And yet they do, they do.

#my fic #maedhros #maglor #i'll clean it up later and put it on ao3 #but for now!#:)

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