Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Amrod hated this part of the forest—despised it, really—with the kind of theatrical loathing usually reserved for scratchy wool cloaks and cold soup. It always smelled like wet stone and dying things, and tonight was worse. The cold snapped at his nose like an insult, and the silence was so complete it felt personal. If this had been any other kind of nonsense, he’d have turned on his heel, made a dramatic speech, and told Amras to chase his ghost-owl fantasies on his own.

But there was something out here.

Something flickering just beyond sight.

"Tell me again," Amrod grumbled as they stepped over a treacherous log slick with frost, "how this isn’t just another one of your famous ghost-owl hallucinations? You know, like the time you swore a squirrel whispered ancient secrets to you."

Amras flicked a half-frozen pine needle at his brother with all the grace of a petty monarch dismissing a court jester. "It moved," he said, offended that he had to explain himself. "Thank you very much. Light doesn’t move like that. And it shimmered. Like destiny. Or moonlight on a puddle. But mostly destiny."

"Oh, well. If it shimmered," Amrod said, throwing his hands up in mock reverence. "Obviously not an illusion, then. Probably the spirit of a forgotten candle on a quest for redemption. We should knight it."

"Shut up and walk faster," Amras shot back, adjusting his cloak with all the gravitas of someone dealing with a walking headache.

The flicker returned. Pale, blue-white, like heatless fire. It blinked twice near the treeline—then vanished again.

Both twins froze.

The silence that followed was wrong.

No wind. No snow shifting. No distant night-creatures.

Just that smell. Smoke. Blood. Char. Fear.

They broke into a jog, moving as one, and crested a shallow rise where the trees split wide enough for moonlight to flood the ground. And there—at the very center of a patch of scorched soil and torn underbrush—they saw him.

A baby.

Maybe a year old. Likely less. A filthy, hunched shape in rags, curled halfway beneath a bramble bush like he was trying to vanish into it.

He was staring right at them.

Amrod's breath caught.

Not because the child was crying—he wasn't. Not even a whimper.

But because of the way he held himself.

Tense. Rigid. Like something half-dead that had already decided running would only make the end worse. And his eyes—wide, green, terrifyingly sharp—burned in the moonlight.

"I…" Amrod didn't finish. There wasn't anything to say.

Amras stepped beside him. "Okay. That's a baby."

"Ten points, dearest twin."

"That baby looks like he survived a war."

Amrod nodded. "And doesn't want rescuing."

"No," Amras agreed. "But he's getting it anyway."

They stepped forward slowly. The child didn't move.

Then, abruptly, he did. A twitch, sudden and jerky. He flung himself back against the bush, shoulders bunched, mouth parting—but no sound came. No scream. No cry.

He just stared, panting, one tiny hand outstretched as if to push them back by sheer will.

"Whoa," Amrod said softly, halting mid-step. "All right. You're terrifying. We get it."

"He thinks we're going to hurt him."

"Of course he does. Look at him. Look at—" He stopped, swallowing.

Even beneath the dirt and blood and crumpled rags, the signs were visible. Bruises. All over. Some green and yellow with age. Some so fresh they looked painted. One deep, ugly handprint wrapped around his neck, darkening his throat. Old scars. Red, raw scrapes. Burns.

Burns.

"He's a baby," Amrod said again, voice quieter.

"No," Amras replied. "He's something else."

They watched him shake. The cold had him—tight around the chest, bones rattling under skin. He blinked far too slowly. His lips were cracked white. His knees knocked together even as he tried to press back farther into the underbrush.

"Can he even stand?" Amrod asked, keeping his voice low, not because he feared being overheard—there was nothing in these woods but silence—but because anything louder might shatter the boy.

Amras squinted at the tiny form hunched in the thorns. "Doubt it. Look at his legs. He's trembling so hard I'm surprised his bones haven't shaken loose."

"Stars," Amrod muttered. "He looks like he's held together by sheer spite."

"Spite's powerful," Amras said, hands on his hips. "I mean, look at Father."

Amrod didn't smile. Not this time.

The child had begun inching backward again, but he wasn't going anywhere. His body was all reaction, no direction—just fear rattling in a shell too small for this much pain. His movements weren't coordinated, not anymore. One hand dragged uselessly through the snow, too numb to curl properly. His head lolled a little to one side, eyes still sharp, still searching—but blinking more slowly now. Long, wet blinks, like he was fighting sleep or shock or both.

He didn't cry. He didn't whimper. He didn't scream.

He simply watched, every muscle screaming retreat even though he couldn't move.

"No," Amras said, voice quieter now, less glib. "He's past standing. He's in survival mode. His body's shutting things down to keep the core warm. He's not thinking anymore."

"Not even a year old," Amrod said. "And already knows to go silent when predators come near."

That silence pressed on them again—thick and wrong and ancient.

Amrod crouched slightly, getting eye-level without moving forward. "He's terrified of us."

Amras raised a brow. "Well, I did wear my most intimidating fur-lined cape."

"He doesn't even know what a cape is. He sees two tall strangers with weapons and fire in their blood."

"And good hair."

"Shut up."

Amrod studied the boy again. His eyelashes were crusted with frost. His hands—so tiny, barely more than curled petals—had the raw, red stiffness of fingers too long in the cold. Blue crept up under the fingernails. The bruises across his neck—deep, finger-shaped—looked as if someone had tried to choke the life out of him more than once. There was no way he was more than one year old, but that didn't matter.

His body was covered in stories no child should carry. Some new. Some healed badly. Some old enough to have been forgotten—except they hadn't been.

The boy's eyes never left them.

"I don't think he wants saving," Amrod said quietly. "I think he just wants this to be over."

Amras was silent a moment. Then: "Too bad for him."

Amrod glanced at him.

"We're Noldor princes," Amras said, crossing his arms. "We are terrible at taking no for an answer."

"Also terrible at subtlety."

"Exactly. So let's be big and annoying and warm and not leave a baby to die in a bush."

"That's your battle strategy?"

"Worked on your cat."

"She still tries to kill me."

"Yeah, but she hasn't succeeded. That's progress."

They fell quiet again. The baby's breathing had grown shallower. His eyes fluttered, just once, and Amrod swore under his breath.

"Okay," he said. "No more standing around being tragic. He's about to pass out."

"And if we grab him?"

"He'll panic."

"And if we don't?"

"He'll die."

There was a moment—an unspoken one—where both brothers simply stood there, sharing the same thought neither dared to say aloud: What if he doesn't survive the night, even with help?

But Amrod wasn't ready to lose him.

Not even before he knew his name.

Not even when he wasn't sure he had one.

So Amrod made a choice.

Without another word, he shrugged off his outer cloak—the heavy one, fur-lined, thick with travel-dust and ash from the forge. He stepped forward, slow and careful, and laid it on the snow just out of reach of the bramble patch.

He didn't reach for the child.

He didn't speak.

He simply sat.

Right there in the cold, with his back to the wind and the damp seeping through his leggings, Amrod folded his legs under him and lowered himself to the ground—close, but not too close.

"He's not going to understand what you're doing," Amras said softly behind him.

"I know."

"You're just… laying down."

"I'm waiting."

Amras studied him for a moment. "You're ridiculous."

"Thank you."

Amras sighed. Then sat down too, about a dozen paces to the left—far enough to give space, close enough to act fast if anything changed.

The baby didn't move.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

But he saw.

He saw the cloak. He saw the prince who'd made himself low and still and small, without weapons or orders or open hands.

He saw Amrod settle into the snow and stay there.

And something—something small and brittle and desperate—cracked behind those too-wide green eyes.

A flicker.

He didn't reach forward. He didn't crawl. But the trembling in his arms stopped for a heartbeat. He blinked slower. The feral tension in his jaw loosened, just slightly.

He was dying. That much was obvious. But his body wasn't giving up—only collapsing under too much weight.

And now… now there was something soft in front of him. A cloak. A warm patch. A flicker of heat.

The boy shifted.

It was barely a movement.

But he inched forward—no more than the length of a hand—dragging himself with clumsy elbows and numb fingers until his forehead brushed the fur-lined edge of the cloak.

Amrod said nothing.

The child stared at the cloak for a long moment.

Then, finally, as if the act itself exhausted the last of him, he slumped forward—onto the fabric—and went still.

Not unconscious. Not fully asleep.

Just… still.

Every part of him limp, crumpled, tiny fingers curled into nothing.

"That's it," Amrod whispered. "You can have that. It's yours."

Amras rose slowly, brushing frost off his knees. "And now?"

"Now I pick him up."

"Gently."

"Obviously."

The baby didn't resist as Amrod gathered the edges of the cloak around him and lifted him from the ground. But he didn't nestle into the warmth either. He simply lay still, stiff as driftwood, his breath shallow against Amrod's collar.

Not trust.

Not safety.

Just too tired to fight.

Amrod held him as if holding fire—a delicate, unpredictable thing that could burn even as it froze. The boy didn't cry. Didn't squirm. Just stared, blank-eyed, over Amrod's shoulder, watching the trees recede as the twins began the long trek back toward Formenos.

"He's not sleeping," Amras said after a few minutes.

"No."

"Just pretending?"

"No," Amrod said. "He's surviving."

Amras didn't answer. There wasn't anything to say.

The frost-covered trees grew thinner as they walked, the forest easing into ancient pine and silver ash that marked the outer ring of Formenos. Between the branches, pale starlight glinted down like watchful eyes, and far in the distance, warm gold lights flickered along the city's edge.

But none of it touched the baby.

Amrod carried him with both arms, cloak drawn tight, but the boy didn't lean in. He didn't tuck his face against a heartbeat. He didn't melt, or tremble, or shift. He simply remained. Awake. Alert. Utterly silent.

Amras watched them from just behind, pace steady, hand near the hilt of his dagger—not from fear of attack, but something subtler. The baby hadn't cried. Hadn't babbled. Hadn't made so much as a snort. That wasn't just trauma.

It was discipline.

And that made Amras uneasy.

"He hasn't blinked in two minutes," he muttered.

Amrod didn't look back. "I know."

"Are babies supposed to do that?"

"No. Definitely not."

"What do you think he is?"

Amrod glanced down. The child's eyes—those sharp green eyes—flicked up instantly, locking onto his face like a blade finding a joint in armor.

Not confused. Not searching.

Reading.

"I think," Amrod said slowly, "he's not from anywhere close to here."

They walked on in silence for a while.

The forest changed.

Snow grew thinner underfoot. The shadows less dense. Old stone pillars peeked through the trees here—half-swallowed by roots and time, carved with runes and faces and fire-birds lost to memory. One had collapsed entirely, moss eating its base. Another still glimmered faintly under moonlight, its patterns shining gold when the light struck just so.

Normally, the air here felt peaceful. Protective. The bones of the land humming softly under foot.

Tonight, the woods were holding their breath.

Every breeze felt like it curved around them, watching.

Amras clicked his tongue. "Even the trees don't like him."

"He's not doing anything."

"He doesn't have to."

"Neither do we. And look what we are."

"Touché."

The baby shifted, ever so slightly, at the sound of their voices.

Not toward. Never toward.

He didn't seem to recognize the words. Not Sindarin, not Quenya, not anything familiar. But the cadence—the tone—made his brow knit. Not in confusion.

Suspicion.

He was listening. Not with a child's passivity, but with something deeper. Cautious. Measuring.

"I swear he's making notes in his head," Amras muttered. "Like he's planning how to escape if we screw up."

"He's half-dead."

"Doesn't mean he's not thinking."

"No," Amrod agreed. "It doesn't."

Chapter Text

They crossed a low stream near the final ridge before the city.

The cold water ran dark and silent beneath a sheet of glass-like ice. Amrod stepped across the stones with care, watching the baby's eyes flick to the water. He stiffened.

Just a little.

The fear was automatic, not panicked. Conditioned.

"I think he expected me to throw him in," Amrod said quietly.

"That's insane," Amras whispered.

"So is whoever raised him."

"Raised?" Amras shot him a look. "More like broke."

Amrod didn't reply. He looked down again at the bundle in his arms.

The boy's fingers were curled into the edge of the cloak—not clinging, just holding it, like an anchor in unfamiliar territory. Not safety. Not comfort. Just a barrier between his skin and everything else.

Amrod adjusted his grip slightly—slower than he ever had to for any blade—and the boy's eyes flared, full of cold clarity, then dulled again.

He was still too weak to fight.

But that didn't mean he wasn't preparing for it.

"You're not going to die out here," Amrod murmured. "Not like this."

The boy didn't react.

But he was listening.

The gates of Formenos loomed ahead, flanked by blackstone pillars carved with the sigils of Fëanor and his house. Light spilled out from torches above the wall, flickering down across the snow-covered road.

Two guards waited at the main gate, spears upright, faces sharp in the cold.

As the twins approached, the elder of the two—Telrun, with a scar across one cheek and far too much pride in his rank—stepped forward, squinting into the night.

"Lord Amrod? Amras? What in the stars—?"

Then he saw the bundle in Amrod's arms.

He stepped back.

So did the other guard.

They didn't even seem to notice they had.

"What is that?" Telrun asked. Not ‘who.' What.

Amrod tightened his grip on the baby slightly. "A child."

"That's not a child," the second guard murmured. His eyes hadn't left the tiny, fur-wrapped form. "Look at the shadows."

Amras narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"There's something moving," the guard whispered. "Around him. I swear I saw it. When you stepped through the trees. Like the light bent wrong."

"He's exhausted," Amrod said flatly. "Not conjuring illusions."

The baby didn't move. But he was awake. His eyes flicked from one guard to the other. Calm. Calculating. He didn't blink.

Telrun frowned. "And you just… brought it here?"

"‘It' has a broken body, a bruised neck, and not a single pair of shoes," Amrod snapped. "Yes. I did. Would you prefer we left him in the forest for the wolves?"

The silence that followed was long, brittle.

The guards didn't answer.

But they opened the gate.

Inside the outer ring of Formenos, the torchlight grew warmer, casting long shadows along the ancient halls. But the warmth was purely cosmetic. The twins could feel it immediately:

Eyes.

The baby wasn't just making the guards uncomfortable. The house itself responded to him.

The hearths didn't roar. The walls didn't sing with returning sons.

They watched.

As if the ancient stones of Formenos knew something had entered that didn't belong.

Servants glanced out from corridors, then froze.

A steward carrying firewood stopped in mid-step and stared, pupils wide.

One of the kitchen staff dropped a tray when the bundle passed. The clang of silver echoed too loudly in the stillness.

Amras didn't break stride.

Amrod didn't slow.

The baby remained as he had the whole way—silent, breathing thinly, eyes open and unblinking.

But the flickering was real.

Out of the corner of the eye, strange shadows twisted. Not from the baby. Not exactly. But around him.

The lanterns dimmed when he passed.

The air chilled, just slightly.

And still, no sound from the bundle.

A pageboy leaned toward a serving woman in the hallway. "That's the thing they found outside the wards," he whispered. "The one that makes the lights flicker."

"Hush," she breathed. "Don't look at it. Just don't."

Amras rolled his eyes. "Honestly, you'd think we dragged in a balrog toddler."

Amrod muttered, "That might be easier."

They turned the final corner that led to the forges.

Heat blossomed, faint and welcome.

But even here, where fire should roar loudest, the torches seemed… reluctant.

And still, no one stopped them.

Because no one wanted to get close.

They carried the baby into one of Formenos's side rooms — a spare chamber often used for travelers or wounded smiths. A fire had been lit. Fresh linens had been placed on the bed. A silver basin steamed beside neatly folded cloths.

Everything was as it should be.

And Mistalír stood beside it, as calm and polished as the steel instruments she preferred.

She bowed her head as the twins entered — crisp, precise, perfunctory. Her white robes were unwrinkled, her expression composed. Only her eyes betrayed anything: cool, gray, and sharp.

"Is that the child?" she asked.

The way she said it — that the child, not your child, or he, or even the baby — made Amras's skin crawl.

Amrod said nothing. He held the boy a little closer as they stepped into the room.

Mistalír approached, frowning slightly. "He's filthy."

"He was abandoned in the forest," Amrod replied.

Her expression did not change. "You said he was injured. I see frostbite. Bruising. Malnourishment."

She circled them like a surgeon assessing a corpse, not a child.

Then she stopped.

"You brought him through the main gate?" she asked quietly.

Amras raised an eyebrow. "What of it?"

Mistalír glanced toward the window, where shadows flickered unnaturally against the firelight.

"I was told by one of the guards that torches dimmed when he passed."

Amrod's jaw tightened.

Mistalír stepped closer. "Children don't do that."

"He didn't do anything," Amrod said. "He's half-dead."

"And what is he?" Mistalír asked, still calm. "You assume he's Elven. I've seen no proof."

"We don't need proof," Amras said sharply. "We found a baby covered in wounds, left to freeze and die."

She was silent for a long moment. Then she said: "Even still. He may not be what he appears."

Amrod's arms curled tighter around the boy. "Do you treat all your patients like this?"

"No," Mistalír said. "Most of them aren't surrounded by bending shadows and an unnatural stillness."

The baby hadn't moved.

He hadn't whimpered. He hadn't clung or cried.

But now, as Mistalír took another step forward, he did something else entirely:

He disappeared inside himself.

Not physically — he was still there, still breathing, still watching.

But everything about his posture changed. His spine locked. His gaze dropped half an inch, unfocused. His fingers stopped twitching. His breath barely moved his chest.

Amras felt it like a slap.

"Oh," he said softly. "He's gone under."

Amrod didn't move. "What?"

"He's still awake," Amras said. "But he's hiding in his own head. He's been through this before."

Mistalír didn't seem surprised.

She didn't pause, didn't kneel, didn't speak to the boy. She simply reached out, cool and mechanical, to take him from Amrod's arms.

That was a mistake.

Because Amrod didn't just shift — he turned bodily, drawing the baby away from her reach with a force that bordered on violent.

Mistalír's eyes flashed. "You called for a healer."

"No," Amrod growled. "We called for help."

Amras stepped beside him. "Mistalír," he said, still using her name — barely. "You forget yourself."

"I serve the House of Fëanor," she said coldly.

"Then act like it," Amrod snapped. "Because all I see is a cold woman afraid of a baby."

Mistalír's mouth thinned. "That is not a normal baby."

"Neither are we," Amras said. "Maybe he's just one of us."

Mistalír stepped back — not far, just enough to show she understood the conversation was over. Her next words were quieter. But they were no less cruel.

"I'll return when you're ready to treat him like a patient, not a possession."

"He's not yours to treat," Amrod said.

Mistalír looked once more at the silent, frozen child in his arms — then turned and walked out without another word.

The fire flared as she passed through the door.

The door shut behind Mistalír with a gentle click. It should have felt like peace returning. But it didn't.

The boy hadn't moved.

Amrod sat down slowly on the thick rug near the hearth, settling the child in his lap without jostling him.

The little body in his arms was still stiff. Not limp — rigid. He was exhausted, but alert. Not trusting. Never trusting. But cornered enough by hunger and cold that he no longer fought.

"Okay," Amras said, crouching nearby. "Let's start with something small."

He reached for the tray someone had left — probably a servant before the healer arrived. It held soft bread soaked in warm broth, a cup of watered honey-milk, and two slices of pear.

Amras picked up the bread first. "This one's my favorite. Nerdanel used to feed us this when we lost our teeth wrestling."

"Speak for yourself," Amrod muttered.

"You screamed like a dying warg."

"I had dignity."

"You had molars in your hand."

"Are we telling stories," Amras said brightly, "or feeding the possibly magical, traumatized baby?"

Amrod sighed. "Feeding. Please."

He adjusted the child slightly, propping him up with one hand. The baby allowed it, only because his limbs were too tired to argue.

Amras tore off a small piece of soaked bread and held it out.

The baby didn't move.

"Open," Amras said, voice gentler now. "You don't have to do anything. Just… eat. Please."

No response.

"Okay. Fine." He glanced at Amrod. "Hold his head just a bit? Support, not force."

"Got it."

Carefully, they angled the boy to make it easier to swallow, and Amras brought the bit of bread to his lips.

The child's mouth stayed shut.

Not clenched — just sealed.

Not angry.

Not stubborn.

Just… no.

But his eyes watched. Always.

Those huge green eyes flicked between Amras's hand and Amrod's face. Watching. Calculating.

Amras set the bread down. "He doesn't understand us."

"He doesn't need to. He knows what food is. He's just too afraid to take it."

Or afraid it's a trick.

Or poisoned.

Or will be taken away again.

They tried the milk next.

Amrod dipped a finger in the warm liquid and touched it gently to the boy's bottom lip.

Stillness.

Amras was frustrated. "This is not getting anywhere."

He crouched down mindful of the watching eyes and dipped his fingers in the milk, slowly, deliberately, bringing them to his own lips and licking.

"See? Everything is alright. Do you want to try?" He motioned to his brother to try again.

Then, after a moment, a tongue flicked out — quick as a mouse — and licked the milk.

It was the only movement he made.

A pause. Then he did it again.

Tiny sips.

No sound.

No expression.

But he drank.

They stayed like that for nearly half an hour. Letting him lick drops from Amrod's finger. Not rushing. Not touching too much.

The bread was ignored. The fruit, untouched. But the milk?

Gone.

He finished the cup drop by drop.

Then sagged slightly, his head drifting toward Amrod's shoulder.

Not comfort.

Just gravity.

"Do you think he's asleep?" Amras whispered.

"No," Amrod said. "He's watching the flames. I can feel it."

The baby's gaze hadn't left the hearth, even though his face was buried half in Amrod's cloak.

Amras lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the rug. "You'd think he'd cry."

"He's past that."

"I hate it."

"I know."

"He should scream. Kick us. Spit at us."

Amrod nodded. "He's too smart."

And that, somehow, was worse.

Amras rose and fetched a second blanket from the bed. "We should lie him down. Let him rest."

"You think he'll tolerate it?"

"Only one way to find out."

Very slowly, Amrod stood, still cradling the child close. His arms were starting to ache, but he ignored it. Together, they approached the bed and knelt beside it.

Amrod shifted his grip, trying to slide the baby into the bedding—

The child locked.

Back arched, shoulders pulled in, hands clawing into the cloak.

He still didn't cry.

Didn't flinch.

But every inch of his tiny frame shouted no.

Not here.

Not yet.

Amrod pulled back. "Okay. Not tonight."

Amras nodded and began piling extra blankets near the hearth.

They made a nest. Not a bed. Not a crib. Just a warm, soft, cocoon of cloth and quiet. A place close to the fire, far from the door, tucked into the safest shadows the room had.

Amrod sat down again and shifted the baby into it.

This time, the boy didn't resist.

He didn't relax either.

But he lay still.

Eyes open.

Watching.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

He fell asleep like a stone drops into water.

No slowing, no shifting, no softness — just a collapse.

Amrod didn’t even notice the exact moment it happened. One breath the child was watching the hearth, eyes wide and haunted, and the next… gone.

Not relaxed.

Just quiet.

Still wrapped in the makeshift nest of blankets and cloaks beside the fire, curled too tightly for comfort, too loose for trust.

Amras crouched nearby, watching. “He’s not even twitching.”

“He’s asleep,” Amrod said.

“No. He’s unconscious. That’s different.”

They fell silent again.

Outside, the wind howled faintly around the spires of Formenos. Inside, the only sound was the steady pop of firewood and the slow, rasping breath of a boy who had fought too hard for too long.

Amrod leaned back against the stone wall. “We should bring in Father.”

Amras didn’t move. “Now?”

“Yes. While he sleeps. Before someone else—” He stopped. Didn’t finish the sentence.

Before someone else tries to touch him like the healer did.

Before someone starts asking questions neither of them can answer.

Amras rubbed a hand over his face. “You know Caranthir will hate this.”

“He hates everything.”

“And Celegorm—”

“Celegorm screams when bees look at him wrong.”

“I’m just saying,” Amras muttered, “they’re not going to react well to mystery babies wrapped in sorcery.”

Amrod stood, stretching his arms. “Then we make them.”

Amras blinked. “Since when are you diplomatic?”

“I’m not. I’m tired. And I’m angry.”

He looked down at the child again.

Eyes still closed.

Face still blank.

Arms still curled close to his chest like he expected to be struck if they showed.

“But mostly,” Amrod said softly, “I want answers.”

Amras stayed.

He didn’t volunteer. He didn’t ask. He just sat back down beside the makeshift nest, keeping one hand near the blankets, the other resting lightly on the hilt of his knife — not to threaten, but because protection sometimes needed teeth.

Amrod nodded once and left.

The door shut with a whisper, and Amras was alone with the child and the firelight.

Minutes passed.

Not a sound from the boy. Not a stir. Just that same bone-deep stillness, as if sleep was less rest and more retreat.

Amras watched the flames flicker across bruised skin and thought — not for the first time — that they might be in deeper than they understood.

The door opened without ceremony. No guards. No attendants.

Just the low creak of old hinges, and the soft, deliberate tread of the two entering.

Amras didn’t move from his place by the fire.

Fëanor stepped into the room like he already owned the moment — his presence quiet, but heavy, like a storm gathering behind his eyes.

He stopped two paces from the hearth.

The boy lay exactly where he had fallen asleep: too still, too small, his hands tucked close to his chest as if fending off blows even in dreams.

Fëanor said nothing.

Amrod joined his brother, giving him a quick glance. No change — the baby hadn’t stirred, not even when the door opened.

“He’s been like that since you left,” Amras said quietly. “No movement. Not even a twitch.”

Fëanor tilted his head — just slightly. Then circled once around the fire. The flames bent with him, casting strange shadows across the child’s pale skin.

He didn’t reach out.

He didn’t speak to the boy.

Instead, he said, simply, “Tell me.”

So they did.

Amras spoke first, voice calm but low. “There was something strange at the border. A flickering — like fire seen through water, but colder. We thought it might be a trick.”

“It wasn’t,” Amrod added. “The forest stank of blood. And smoke. The trees were burned in a perfect ring.”

They described the clearing.

The silence.

The boy, silent in the wreckage, filthy, half-hidden in bramble.

“He didn’t cry,” Amras said. “He didn’t speak. He just watched us like he was already dead and waiting for the end.”

They spoke of the bruises.

The burns.

The handprint around his throat — not just a blow, but a message. Ownership.

“He didn’t even flinch when we got close,” Amrod said. “He just froze. Like it wasn’t the first time someone stood over him and decided whether to pick him up or strike him.”

“And the healer?” Fëanor asked. His voice remained level.

“She refused to touch him,” Amrod said. “Not just fear. Disgust. Like he was something broken. Not worth fixing.”

“She called him cursed,” Amras added. “Not to his face. But loudly enough that he heard it.”

Fëanor’s gaze lingered on the fire.

Then on the child.

He made a slow circle — not predator, not scholar, something in between.

A king weighing a mystery in silence.

Once, his eyes flicked toward the boy’s shadow.

They didn’t follow the firelight quite right.

Neither twin mentioned it.

But Fëanor noticed.

When he returned to his place, standing between the fire and the door, his face was unreadable.

Then, without turning his gaze from the child, he said:

“Summon your brothers.”

They didn’t all arrive at once.

First came Maedhros, tall and calm, hair bound back, a fur-lined cloak still hanging from one shoulder. He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once to his father and took up a place by the wall, where he could see everything.

Then Curufin and Celegorm entered together, like a matched pair from a hunting party. Celegorm’s hair was wind-swept, still damp from bathing. He was already frowning.

Caranthir came last, silent, his expression already tightly drawn, like he was bracing for a fight.

None of them looked at the child directly — not at first.

It was Maedhros who broke the silence. “You summoned us.”

Fëanor nodded once, then turned to the twins. “Tell them.”

Amrod stepped forward. Amras joined him — this time silent, letting his brother speak first.

“It started near the northern woodline,” Amrod said. “We saw something moving — or flickering. Almost like fire. But wrong. Cold. It shimmered, then vanished. We followed it.”

“There was a clearing,” Amras added, “burned into the ground. Perfect ring. The trees around it weren’t snapped or splintered — they were seared. Like something scorched the air, not just the bark.”

“There was blood in the snow,” Amrod said. “Old and new. The air smelled like iron and smoke.”

“And in the center,” Amras continued, “was him. Hiding under a bramble bush.”

Every gaze in the room turned — slowly, one by one — to the bundle still curled in front of the hearth.

Still unmoving.

Still silent.

“He didn’t cry,” Amrod said. “Didn’t scream. Just stared at us like he was waiting to be killed.”

Maedhros frowned faintly. “A trap?”

“No,” said Amras. “A child. A baby. Barely walking. Wrapped in rags. Frozen nearly solid. Couldn’t run if he wanted to.”

“Still watching us,” Amrod added. “Still… thinking.”

“He’s intelligent,” Amras said. “But he won’t speak. He didn’t fight when we picked him up — just shut down. Entirely.”

Celegorm shifted uncomfortably. “There are things in the far north that wear the shape of children.”

Amrod shot him a look. “And there are elves in this room who act like cowards.”

Fëanor’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze flicked to Celegorm — sharp as glass.

Caranthir stepped forward, voice flat. “What about the shadows?”

Amras hesitated. “They move strange around him. I won’t lie. We saw it. Fire bends differently when he’s close. Torches dimmed as we passed through the gates.”

Curufin narrowed his eyes. “Is he cursed?”

“He’s hurt,” Amrod snapped.

“Hurt things sometimes carry shadows with them,” Curufin said.

Amras took a breath. “That’s not the worst part.”

Caranthir raised a brow. “There’s worse?”

Amrod’s voice cooled. “Mistalír. We called her to treat him.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing to him,” Amras answered. “Only to us. Called him unnatural. Refused to lay a hand on him. Looked at him like he was something rotten under the skin.”

“She reached for him,” Amrod said. “And he went still. Not afraid. Not crying. Just… gone. Like his mind left.”

A heavy pause.

Then Amrod added, quieter, “I’ve never seen anyone do that before. Not even in battle.”

“He didn’t trust her,” Amras said. “Didn’t even have the energy to resist. Just prepared to be hurt.”

The brothers were quiet for a moment.

Celegorm looked away.

Caranthir frowned, dark and unreadable.

Only Maedhros moved — stepping slowly closer to the fire, studying the child in silence.

“What is he?” he asked.

The room held its breath.

“We don’t know,” Amrod admitted. “But we’re certain of one thing.”

Amras nodded, gaze steady. “He wasn’t born from shadow. He was left in it.”

Maedhros stepped closer to the hearth.

The others shifted subtly to give him room — not out of deference, but because Maedhros, when he moved with purpose, carried the weight of a thousand silent decisions.

He knelt beside the nest of blankets.

The firelight played softly across the child’s face. Pale. Hollow-cheeked. Bruises blooming faintly along his jaw, beneath the dirt and grime. No movement. Just breath. Slow and shallow.

Maedhros looked to a nearby servant. “Bring a basin. Warm water. Cloth.”

The servant hesitated.

Fëanor didn’t look at him — only said, “Do it.”

The man fled without a word.

Caranthir’s voice cut into the quiet. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning him,” Maedhros said, still crouched.

“Why?”

“Because if no one else will treat him like he’s real,” he said evenly, “then I will.”

Curufin folded his arms. “You don't know who he is.”

“I think he’s not dead yet,” Maedhros said. “And that’s reason enough.”

The servant returned — quickly this time — and placed the basin on the low table by the fire. Maedhros soaked a clean cloth and wrung it out with quiet precision.

Then, carefully, he peeled back the topmost layer of blanket.

The child didn’t stir.

He began to wipe the grime from the boy’s brow, his cheek, the curve of his temple. The skin beneath was far too hot. Fever lingered just under the surface. Sweat matted the fine hair along the boy’s scalp.

When Maedhros reached the shoulder, he paused.

Something resisted the motion.

A wrapped strip of fabric — once white, now dark and stiff — had been knotted around the upper arm. He loosened it gently. Beneath was not only bruising, but something worse.

A thick ridge of scarring, pale and warped.

And more.

Thin lines, straight and deliberate, crossed the inside of the forearm.

Tiny burns, clustered at the wrist. A spiral mark, old but precise — like someone had pressed a heated ring into skin and held it.

Maedhros shifted his grip and turned the arm slightly.

The bones weren’t right.

The wrist was swollen, the joint misshapen. A break, long ago. Never set. He ran a finger lightly along the forearm, tracing the shape. Another break. He didn’t need a healer’s training to feel it.

“He’s been broken,” he murmured.

The others turned toward him.

Maedhros unwrapped more of the rags — revealing the thin chest, too many ribs, a shoulder blade sharp as flint. Bruises ran in patches, some recent, some yellowing, some like smudged fingerprints.

But worst of all were the scars.

So many of them.

Not the accidental kind. Not clumsy falls or scraped knees.

Lines, etched with intention. Angled cuts. A pattern that looped and repeated — not for injury, but for damage. For memory.

Maedhros sat back on his heels, cloth still in his hand.

He looked down at the boy, then around the fire.

“He’s not just hurt,” he said. “Someone meant this.”

A silence fell.

Not stunned.

Stilled — like the entire room was waiting for someone to speak what they didn’t want to believe.

Amrod stepped forward slowly. “They didn’t just try to kill him. They practiced on him.”

Celegorm had turned his face away entirely, jaw clenched.

Caranthir looked pale.

Curufin’s expression had darkened — thoughtful, sharp.

And the child, still unconscious, twitched again. His fingers curled slightly.

The hand was narrow and small — covered in more scars.

But the movement was unmistakable.

Even asleep, his hands were braced.

Prepared for pain.

Maedhros turned his head, pulled back a tangle of hair from behind the boy’s ear — and finally saw it.

A pointed tip.

Noldorin.

Perfect.

Undeniable.

He exhaled once — not a sound of relief, but of confirmation.

Then looked up at his father.

Fëanor, who had said nothing since Maedhros began.

Who now stood with both hands behind his back, watching the firelight flicker across bruises and broken bones.

He did not blink.

He did not step forward.

He only said:

“Find who did this. I want names.”

Chapter Text

The child woke before the sun touched the windows.

No warning. No sound.

One moment he was still — a fragile shape curled in wool and fox-fur by the hearth — and the next, his body shattered awake.

It was not a scream.

It was a reaction.

He bolted upright with a jolt so sudden it startled the fire. His breath came sharp and fast, more like choking than gasping, and his hands—too small, too thin—scrabbled at the furs like they were binding him. Legs kicked outward, tangling and twisting in the folds, as though every limb was trying to run in a different direction.

But the most terrifying thing was the silence.

Not a cry. Not a single sound from his throat.

Only breath. Only chaos. Only motion.

Amrod was already moving.

He’d been half-asleep on the stone bench near the hearth, dozing upright in case the boy stirred. But the second the movement began, he was on his feet and at the child’s side.

“Hey—hey, it’s all right. You’re safe,” he said softly, crouching low. His voice dropped instinctively, not with command, but with caution. “It’s just me. You’re inside. You’re warm. Nothing’s—”

The boy’s eyes snapped to him.

And froze him.

They were wide — impossibly wide — the green nearly swallowed by a blown black pupil. He wasn’t looking at Amrod.

He was seeing something else.

Something older. Something worse.

The child recoiled as if Amrod had drawn a blade.

His tiny body twisted, wrenching sideways across the fur-lined floor. Elbows scraped stone. One shoulder slammed into the low edge of the fireplace. His legs thrashed, heels thudding against the wall behind him as he tried to press into it — through it — with sheer, helpless force.

No scream. No cry.

Just a horrifying, suffocating still-breathing panic.

“Stop—stop, you’re going to hurt yourself,” Amrod breathed, starting forward.

As his hand moved, so did the shadows.

It was subtle.

Just a curl of darkness along the floor, a flicker where the fire’s light should’ve reached — but didn’t. The shape of the boy was outlined not only in motion, but in the bending of the light around him. Not from him. Around him.

Amrod halted.

“Amras—” he called, not loud. But sharp.

The door creaked behind him as his brother entered, barefoot and fast, bow still slung across his back from a restless patrol shift.

He took one look at the child — curled like a hunted creature, arms over his head, legs drawn up — and swore softly under his breath.

Amrod started to reach again.

“Don’t,” Amras said, holding up a hand.

Amrod froze mid-motion.

“Stop speaking. Just—stop.”

Amrod didn’t move. “He’s hurting.”

“He’s terrified,” Amras said. He took a slow step forward but crouched low, keeping his hands where the child could see them. “He’s not hearing your words. He’s hearing the tone. And right now, it’s not helping.”

The child’s chest heaved with silent sobs.

No tears came.

His throat made no sound — like crying had been trained or beaten out of him, or maybe he simply didn’t know how.

But he was shaking.

Violently.

His hands — small, dirt-caked, covered in old scar tissue — twitched and spasmed even as they tried to shield his face.

They weren’t fists.

They weren’t reaching.

They were defending.

“Do you see his arms?” Amras whispered. “They’re bracing. He thinks something’s coming. Right now.”

Amrod’s jaw clenched.

He took a small, slow breath through his nose and lowered his hand.

The boy flinched at even that.

Amras crouched further, lowering himself nearly to the floor. “He’s not awake,” he murmured. “Not fully. His body is. But not… him.”

The boy twisted again — trying to make himself smaller, quieter, gone.

There was blood at his lip now, split open from a self-inflicted knock against the stone, though he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes darted once toward the fire and then away, wide and wet.

Amrod whispered, “I don’t think he knows where he is.”

“I think,” Amras said softly, “he’s still there. Wherever he came from.”

Neither moved again.

They watched.

And after long minutes — heartbeats stretched over coals — the boy’s limbs slowed.

Not relaxed. Never that.

Just exhausted.

He slumped back against the wall, shoulders trembling, arms still crossed over his head. His breath came sharp and shallow, but his eyes — gods, those eyes — were still wide open. Watching.

Waiting for the next blow.

And in the low light behind him, the shadows curled protectively like wings.

By midmorning, the entire wing of Formenos had fallen into a strange, watchful silence.

The boy hadn’t made another sound since the panic.

He hadn’t moved much either — just pulled the furs tighter over himself and stared at the far wall, unmoving, refusing food, drink, and even the soft-spoken efforts of the twins.

But the silence wasn’t his alone.

It spread.

It began with the servants — and how they started avoiding the western corridor altogether. First it was the cook’s assistant, who left breakfast outside the room and backed away without knocking. Then it was the laundress, who asked to be reassigned before finishing her delivery.

By the third hour after sunrise, the hall outside the child’s room was abandoned.

The firewood delivery was left haphazardly at the stairwell. Clean linens arrived late — and only because Amrod fetched them himself.

Even the guards posted nearby had started rotating faster than scheduled.

When asked, no one could explain exactly why.

They hadn’t seen anything. They hadn’t heard a threat.

But something about the boy, they said — something lingered in the air near him.

The air felt heavier.

The torches didn’t burn quite right.

And none of them wanted to find out why.

The forge hall was unusually quiet — too quiet for midday.

No hammer rang against steel, no apprentices shouted. The air buzzed instead with something unspoken, heavy, waiting.

Amrod found Caranthir leaning against a tool-rack, arms crossed, jaw clenched. A half-drawn blade lay untouched on the anvil beside him, glowing faintly from forgotten heat.

Amras stood in the doorway, watching.

“You’re avoiding the wing,” Amrod said without warning.

Caranthir didn’t look at him. “So is everyone else.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It’s a pattern.”

Amrod stepped closer. “He’s not a ghost. He’s not a cursed object. He’s a child.”

Caranthir scoffed, turning to face him. “He’s not just a child. He’s something wrong.”

“He’s hurt.”

“Hurt,” Caranthir said flatly, “doesn’t explain the shadows crawling when he breathes. Doesn’t explain the torches flickering out, the silence, the fact that no one can stand being near him for long.”

Amras finally stepped inside. “You know what it sounds like? It sounds like fear.”

“It is fear,” Caranthir snapped. “And not without reason. That child—whatever he is—unsettles the stone under our feet.”

“You don’t know him.”

“No one does.”

“And that’s your excuse for abandoning him?”

Caranthir’s eyes flashed. “You think this is about abandonment? You dragged something half-dead through our gates, laid it at the hearth like an offering, and now act shocked when people flinch from it.”

“He’s an elfling.”

“And that’s supposed to make it better?”

“It makes him one of us.”

“Not everything born to our people is good, Amrod.”

Amrod took a step forward. “Say that again.”

Amras moved quickly, one hand on his brother’s arm, grounding him.

“Let him speak,” he said. “We need to know what they think.”

Curufin’s voice cut in before Caranthir could respond — cool and measured, but no less pointed.

“I’ve known beasts that can mimic children’s voices,” he said. “Creatures that wear the faces of kin. You found him in a burned clearing with unnatural light in the trees and followed him into Formenos like a pair of enchanted fools.”

Amrod turned. “Say it plain, Curufin.”

“I’m saying,” Curufin said, eyes narrowed, “that we’re acting on sentiment instead of caution. Shadows don’t twist themselves for the innocent. They react. To will. To presence

“You think he is controlling them?” Amras asked. “You think a half-starved, barely-conscious toddler is bending shadows like a sorcerer?”

“I think something recognizes him,” Curufin said. “And what recognizes a thing reveals what it is.”

A long silence followed.

Caranthir looked down at the glowing blade on the anvil. “He unsettles the forge,” he said. “You noticed that? The heat pulls back when he’s near. Metal cools faster. The fire doesn’t cling.”

Amrod stared. “He’s barely eaten. Of course he’s cold.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“He’s not doing it on purpose,” Amras said, quieter now. “He’s not doing anything. He’s barely surviving.”

“I don’t think he knows what he is,” Curufin murmured.

They all turned at the sound of boots on stone.

Maedhros entered the forge hall like calm entering a battlefield — tall, quiet, his face unreadable.

He stopped beside them, glanced at the idle anvil, and then at each of his brothers.

“You’re loud,” he said mildly.

“We’re right,” Caranthir muttered.

“That’s possible,” Maedhros replied. “It doesn’t mean you’re helping.”

Curufin folded his arms. “Would you keep something dangerous in the house, just because it’s wounded?”

“I have,” Maedhros said.

Amrod blinked.

Maedhros didn’t elaborate.

He looked at Amras. “Is he stable?”

“No,” Amras said honestly. “But he’s alive.”

“And afraid,” Amrod added. “Of everything. And now he’s going to start hearing us argue about whether to throw him out.”

“No one is throwing him out,” Maedhros said.

Caranthir’s jaw clenched. “Then what?”

Maedhros turned toward the forge fire, staring into the flame. “We protect him. We learn. And we watch. Closely.”

“For how long?” Curufin asked.

“As long as it takes,” Maedhros said. “Until we know where he came from. Or who left him behind.”

The fire hissed — too loud for such a small breath of flame.

Outside, somewhere in the distant corridor, a door clicked shut by itself.

Chapter Text

He did not knock.

He rarely did.

Maglor entered the child’s chamber sometime just before twilight, silent as breath and shadow. The hearth still burned, though low, and the room was quiet—thick with a silence that had weight to it. Not peace. Not yet.

Just exhaustion.

The child lay where they had left him: nestled beneath thick fur, unmoving, eyes wide open but staring at nothing. The twins had taken turns watching over him, but now it was Maglor who stepped into the firelight.

He did not approach the bed.

He didn’t speak.

He sat cross-legged on the rug, a little ways from the child—close enough to be seen, far enough not to threaten. He let the silence rest between them like a drawn bow.

Then, quietly, he began to hum.

No words.

Just tone.

Soft, old, slow.

It wasn’t a lullaby—too ancient for that. A half-forgotten tune from the western shores, back when the light of the Trees had still poured over the waters. A song of ships, maybe. Or rivers. Or starlight—no one remembered the words anymore.

But the melody still lingered in his bones.

The shadows didn’t flee.

They didn’t twitch or coil.

They simply settled, quieter now.

And so did the boy.

Not relaxed—never that.

But his breathing slowed. Just slightly.

His eyes tracked the sound.

And for the first time, he didn’t look away in fear.

He didn’t reach.

Didn’t move.

But his tiny scarred hands, hidden beneath the furs, stilled.

Maglor didn’t look at him directly.

He only continued humming, like the child wasn’t something broken or terrifying—just something too small for the world he’d fallen into.

He stayed like that for nearly an hour.

When he rose at last, he left without a word.

But just before closing the door behind him, he glanced back—and saw the boy still watching the place where he had been.

The fire had burned low, but the air was still thick with warmth.

Too thick.

Amras sat at the far end of the room, near the wall, watching — sketchbook in hand, pencil untouched for the last hour. The boy hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t moved. But he hadn’t slept either.

He lay beneath the table again — not in comfort, but out of instinct. One hand pressed flat to the floor, the other tucked against his ribs. His eyes were open. Staring. Watching the dark.

And then—

The door opened.

Celegorm stepped in.

He moved slowly, cautiously. He hadn’t dared enter since the night before, but something had drawn him now — maybe guilt, maybe pride, maybe the need to see what had rattled them all.

His boots whispered against the stone.

He didn’t speak.

But it didn’t matter.

The boy saw him.

And broke.

It wasn’t like before.

This wasn’t stillness. This wasn’t silence.

This was pure terror.

The child flung himself back against the far wall, heels scraping, legs kicking. He clawed at the rug, tried to crawl beneath the bed, fumbled, crashed into the table leg with a sharp crack of bone on wood.

And then—his breath hitched.

For the first time since arriving in Formenos—

He cried.

Not screaming. Not wailing.

But hot, fast, choking sobs, gulped down before they could become noise. Tears rolled down his cheeks without sound. His mouth opened in a silent wail. His shoulders shook. His whole body shrank.

Like he thought he wasn’t supposed to make sound. Like he knew what sound brought.

Celegorm froze mid-step.

Amras stood instantly.

Then it began.

The room shifted.

No spell.

No incantation.

Just a terrible, raw surge — like a memory exploding from the core of a soul too small to hold it.

Shadows ruptured.

Firelight dimmed.

The stone groaned.

And then—

It changed.

They stood not in Formenos now.

But in a grand hall — bright, cruel, golden.

The walls stretched high, curved with arches. Banners of red and brass fluttered from columns, and the floor was a shining field of white marble, scuffed by bootmarks and blood.

Training circles spiraled outward like a sunburst. Men fought with joyless precision. Tall, wide, armored. No grace — only dominance.

At the center of the hall: a boy.

Six. Maybe seven. Narrow, trembling, barefoot.

But recognizable.

Still him.

Still the child now curled and weeping beneath the table — just older. No less afraid.

And before him stood a man.

The man in red.

He looked like Celegorm.

Horrifyingly so.

Older. Broader. Sharper in every line. His jaw was the same shape. His cheekbones. His posture — the tilt of his head, the half-smile that wasn't joy but performance.

But this one wore power like a crown.

His golden hair was bound back in a long braid, catching the torchlight. His armor gleamed scarlet and steel. A red cape swept behind him like blood on water. And in his hand —

A hammer.

Huge. Heavy. Casual.

Resting against his shoulder like a toy.

He circled the child slowly.

“I asked you to stand,” the man said, voice booming. “And you bring knives.”

The boy didn’t answer.

The man smiled.

Mocking.

“I say fight, and you flinch. I say face me, and you hide. You dart. You scurry. Like a rat with too much fear and not enough spine.”

Laughter rose from the men around them.

But the man kept going.

“You throw fire,” he said, voice dipping low. “You hide behind tricks. Magic. Coward’s work. Woman’s work.”

Another laugh — louder. Crueler.

The boy stood frozen, fists clenched, trying not to tremble.

“Archery? Magic?” the man sneered. “Where did you learn that filth? Who told you that counted?”

He walked forward, each step ringing on the marble.

The boy tried to speak.

“I—”

The man’s voice crashed over his like thunder.

“You are my brother.”

The words landed like blows.

“You wear my name. You carry my blood. And still you shame me. You crawl.”

He stopped inches away.

The boy looked up.

Tears stood in his eyes, but he didn’t fall.

Not yet.

The man leaned down.

“I said fight. And you brought daggers. I said stand. And you tried to disappear. You are nothing. Nothing.”

He said it like scripture.

“You are not a warrior. You are not kin. You are not worthy of the breath in your chest.”

Then—

Softer. Too soft.

“But you are still my brother.”

The boy shuddered.

The man stood straight again.

“Which means it is my right to make you more.”

He raised the hammer.

Just enough to show that he could.

The boy finally fell.

The illusion snapped.

The gold vanished.

The boy was under the table, collapsed in on himself. His knees to his chest. Face buried in his arms.

But the tears were still falling.

Not choked back this time.

Not hidden.

They ran freely, soaking his sleeves, dripping to the stone.

His breath came too fast. Too shallow. He shook so hard that Amras feared his heart might seize.

No one moved.

The fire had died almost completely, reduced to a dull, whispering glow barely flickering across the hearth.

The warmth in the room had turned stale — not cold, not hot, just heavy. Like breath held too long.

Celegorm stood exactly where the illusion had left him.

His body was motionless, jaw slack, shoulders drawn too high — as if his own skin didn’t quite fit anymore. His hands hung loose at his sides, fingers twitching once before curling into fists.

But his eyes…

They were still fixed on the spot where the man in red had stood.

Celegorm hadn’t moved.

Not a step.

Because he had seen it too.

The voice. The smirk. The jawline.

He had seen himself.

Warped. Hardened. Hateful.

And the word brother — which should have been sacred — turned into a weapon.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

The illusion was gone — but it hadn’t left.

It hung in the air like smoke, clinging to the floor and walls.

Behind him, the child had not moved from under the table. Not far — no more than a body’s length away — but the space felt wider than a canyon.

He was still curled tightly, knees to chest, hands drawn to his mouth, where he bit hard into the sleeve of his tunic.

He was staring directly at Celegorm.

Tears hadn’t stopped.

His eyes were red now, his breathing shallow and uneven — panicked, but muted, like he was trying to hide his crying even now.

Celegorm hadn’t said a word.

And the child hadn’t looked away.

Not once.

Even through the blur of tears, through the throb in his palms, the pain in his knees, the ache that lived in his back and ribs — he kept staring at Celegorm.

Not just in terror.

But in recognition.

The red-caped man was gone. The golden hall was gone.

But something of him remained.

The same angle of the jaw. The glint in the eye — not angry, not cruel in this moment, but too familiar. Too close to a face that had once smiled as it shattered him.

Celegorm hadn’t moved.

Not one step.

And that, somehow, was worse.

The child’s breath hitched.

He tried to muffle it by biting down on the edge of his sleeve, hard enough that the cloth tore slightly beneath his teeth.

His shoulders heaved once. A small sob escaped — high, quick, and immediately buried again.

But it had happened.

A sound.

The first he’d made aloud in front of them.

And still—no one moved.

Not Celegorm. Not Amras. Not even the fire, which had shrunk back into coals, as if the room itself were holding its breath.

The boy pressed himself tighter into the corner beneath the table.

Not crawling now — just curling.

His back scraped the stone wall, and his shoulder hit the wood slats of the underside of the table, but he didn’t flinch from the contact.

It was real. Solid. Predictable.

Unlike the man across from him.

Celegorm stared back — wide-eyed, unblinking.

Frozen.

But not calm.

His fists had curled.

His knuckles were bloodless.

His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles ticked along his throat.

He looked struck.

Not by words.

But by a vision.

By a truth he couldn’t unsee.

The illusion hadn’t been some false projection, some sorcerous hallucination.

It had been memory. Real and rooted. And though the man in red had been human, though his voice was deeper, older, shaped by another world — it had been him.

Not literally.

But close enough to hurt.

And the boy had seen that too.

He was still looking at him the way a dog looks at a hand that’s already hit it once — trying to guess whether the next blow is coming now or later.

Trying to predict what kind of man Celegorm would be if given silence, authority, and time.

The line between memory and now had blurred.

And Celegorm didn’t know how to step back from it.

The silence cracked — not loudly, not violently, but with the gentlest sound imaginable:

a door creaking open.

The boy flinched so hard he nearly struck his head on the underside of the table.

A soft whimper escaped his throat — the kind that wasn’t meant to be heard. He clenched it down instantly, forcing himself still again.

Celegorm jolted like something had pulled him from underwater.

He turned his head sharply toward the door, every line of his body tensing — not for battle, but for shame. A memory still clung to him, hot and cloying. His fists were still balled at his sides.

Maglor stepped inside without a word.

He did not blink.

He did not ask.

He saw.

The broken firelight.

The child under the table, curled around himself like a breath held too long.

Celegorm, white-faced and silent.

And Amras, crouched like a tether, one arm out, protecting without pressing.

Maglor didn’t speak.

He let the silence wrap around him like an old cloak.

Then he moved — soft steps, slow and grounded, like he was trying not to disturb the stones beneath him. No sudden motion. No loud breath.

He went to the hearth.

Not to the child.

He didn’t even look directly at him.

Instead, he knelt on the floor nearby — but not in front. Never in front. Off to the side. Present, but peripheral. Close, but not looming.

From his belt, he removed a small folded cloth.

From a pouch, a flask of warm water.

He poured it carefully into a shallow bowl taken from the sideboard — slow, steady, with the ease of someone who’d done this in silence a thousand times.

The water didn’t steam.

But it was warm enough to hold.

The sound of it — soft, real — drifted into the corner of the room like birdsong through fog.

The child tensed.

His whole body pulled tighter.

Shoulders curled over his ribs, knees drawn closer, chin pressed against his arms. He made himself small again. Smaller still.

His eyes — still fixed on Celegorm — narrowed in panic, as though expecting this sound to be followed by command. Pain. A blow.

But none came.

No one spoke.

The only noise was the faint drip of water and the rustle of linen in Maglor’s hands.

The child flicked a glance sideways — fast, defensive — toward the source.

His breath hitched.

But he didn’t look again.

He clenched his eyes shut.

And waited.

The cloth in Maglor’s hand was warm now — not hot, not steaming, just gently warm, like breath caught in fabric.

He held it like a prayer, not a tool.

Then he moved — slow, deliberate, each motion measured to avoid startling the shadows.

He slid closer, low to the floor, his knees crossing the edge of the fire’s reach, his body angled sideways so that his frame wouldn’t block the child’s vision.

Still not reaching.

Still no sound.

The boy hadn’t moved.

Still curled beneath the table, spine tight, forehead resting against his arms. His knees were pulled so close to his chest it looked like he meant to fold himself into nothing.

One hand — scraped, bleeding, half-curled — was visible near the hem of his sleeve.

It twitched once, then went still again.

The tears had slowed, but not stopped.

They just ran quietly now.

The kind that weren’t about panic anymore, or even fear.

Just exhaustion.

He didn’t cry like a child. Not the way children should.

He cried like someone who had learned to do it without making sound.

Maglor reached out.

So slowly the motion was more breath than gesture.

He touched the boy’s fingers.

Just lightly.

And the child… didn’t pull away.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t twist, or strike, or jerk back like a scorched wire.

But he didn’t lean forward either.

He didn’t respond.

Not truly.

He just stayed.

Still curled.

Still frozen.

But no longer fighting.

No longer resisting the contact.

As if his body had decided, quietly and without consent, that the energy for resistance was spent. That if pain was coming, it would be endured in silence, as always.

Maglor pressed the cloth gently to the boy’s palm.

The blood there was mostly dry — smeared rather than pooled, dark along the lines of his knuckles, crusted where the skin had torn.

The cloth passed over it without force.

No rubbing.

No pressure.

Just warmth.

Just water.

The boy shivered, but didn’t move.

His hand trembled beneath the cloth, but he didn’t withdraw it.

Maglor said nothing.

He didn’t try to soothe.

Didn’t praise, didn’t comfort, didn’t speak the boy’s name.

He simply cleaned the wounds.

From where Amras crouched, low near the table’s edge, everything felt suspended — like breath held too long, like fire just about to gutter out.

The boy hadn’t moved since the illusion collapsed. Still curled tightly under the table, knees drawn hard to his chest, arms wrapped around them like a shield he no longer had the strength to raise.

His eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, hadn’t left Celegorm.

Not once.

Even now, after the red-caped phantom had vanished, after the golden hall had burned itself out of the air, after the thunder of that voice had faded into stillness — the boy kept watching.

Not with curiosity.

Not with hope.

With recognition. And fear.

And something worse: familiarity.

He knew that face.

Or something close enough to it to matter.

Celegorm hadn’t spoken.

He hadn’t moved.

Amras glanced at him once — just once — and saw a face more stricken than he’d ever seen on his brother.

No mask. No arrogance.

Only the terrible, frozen knowledge of something unfixable.

Celegorm stepped back once, almost unconsciously, then turned and walked toward the door.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t look at the child.

He didn’t look at either of them.

The door closed behind him with a sound so soft, it barely seemed real.

Amras exhaled. The first breath he’d let go in what felt like an hour.

And still, Maglor worked.

Still, the child did not move.

And Amras — crouched in shadow, watching a boy with too many scars hold still for a hand that hadn’t yet betrayed him — didn’t dare speak.

Because some silences weren’t meant to be broken.

Chapter Text

The light came grey through the high windows — not bright enough to burn, not soft enough to soothe. It crept across the stones like it was afraid to touch anything, and wisely so.

The fire had gone out completely in the night. Only ash remained, thin and dull in the hearth.

Maglor sat slumped against the far wall, legs folded, arms crossed, chin resting on one shoulder. He hadn’t meant to sleep — Amras could tell by the way he still gripped the soiled cloth in his lap, by the stiffness in his neck, by the way his eyes twitched behind his closed lids, as if even rest was something watched carefully.

He’d fallen asleep like someone who hadn’t dared to until the boy stopped shaking.

The boy…

Was still beneath the table.

Curled tight.

Not crying.

Not moving.

But no longer panicked.

Not braced, not hyperventilating, not trapped in some deep illusion of pain.

Just… quiet.

Too quiet.

Amras sat on the step near the hearth, arms resting on his knees. He’d been awake for an hour, maybe more. He hadn’t lit the fire. He hadn’t moved since twilight bled into morning.

He was watching.

The boy hadn’t looked at him.

Hadn’t looked at anyone.

His face was half-hidden in the crook of his elbow, only the faintest glint of green showing beneath the lashes. His breathing was soft — but not smooth. A little irregular, like sleep wasn’t quite sleep for him. Just stillness until something went wrong again.

Then, it happened.

A flicker.

The smallest shift.

The boy’s hand moved — not far, not fast.

Just enough.

Two fingers curled, then reached out toward the small ceramic cup of water Amras had left near the table’s edge. The movement was clumsy. Hesitant. But deliberate.

The boy dragged the cup close.

It scraped softly on stone.

Maglor stirred in his sleep.

The boy froze.

Then… slowly… withdrew his hand.

He didn’t drink.

Didn’t touch the cup again.

Amras didn’t speak.

Didn’t even exhale too loudly.

But when the boy risked the smallest glance outward — just to check, just to see if someone had noticed — and saw Amras watching…

He pulled his hand back under the blanket so fast it might have burned him.

And curled in again.

Smaller than before.

The boy didn’t emerge from beneath the table.

Not when breakfast was left at the threshold.

Not when Amras stoked the fire with careful hands, not speaking a word.

Not even when Maglor, awake now and quiet as a shadow, gently placed a folded wool blanket just within reach.

But he was watching.

Amras could tell.

He never caught the boy’s eyes directly — never really saw them.

But every now and then, the faintest twitch of his head or shift of cloth told him he was being tracked. Not like prey. Not like someone waiting for affection.

Like someone who didn’t know how to tell whether the next person was going to offer food or a fist.

Outside the room, the household had grown quieter.

Not out of peace.

Out of tension.

No one spoke of the illusion — because no one truly knew. Celegorm hadn’t told. Word hadn’t spread. But the atmosphere had.

Rooms that were once lively with sound now felt damp and dim.

Servants left dishes too quickly.

Hallways cleared faster than usual.

Chapter Text

Celegorm hadn’t returned.

He hadn’t been seen all morning, not even once, and though no one said it aloud, the air held a kind of anticipation, like waiting for the second crack of thunder after the first bolt has already struck.

At breakfast, Caranthir muttered something under his breath about “sorcery wrapped in silk,” but he left the table before anyone could respond, his words trailing behind like smoke from an already snuffed flame.

Curufin said nothing.

Not a word.

But his eyes kept drifting toward the west wing and then away again, as though some part of him was measuring something invisible — something he didn’t yet have the language for.

And Fëanor…

Fëanor watched.

Not with scorn, nor concern, but with that quiet, flame-eyed intensity he reserved for phenomena that bent the laws of the world around them — things too powerful to be dismissed and too strange to be fully trusted.

He didn’t speak.

But he was cataloging.

Observing.

Noticing the subtle tilt of space around the child, the gravity that bent inward wherever the boy went.

And Amras, sharp-eyed and newly frayed at the edges, had the terrible, steady feeling that their father wasn’t afraid of what the boy might become.

No — he was fascinated.

It was Fëanor who sent Amras and Maglor away.

No explanation. Just a quiet request, a single glance sharpened to the edge of a blade, and neither of them argued.

Maglor lingered, just a heartbeat longer than his younger brother, his hand brushing the edge of the doorframe as though something in him resisted leaving — as though it ached, physically, to walk away and leave the child unguarded.

But he left.

And Fëanor entered the room alone.

He didn’t approach the boy.

Didn’t speak.

He stepped quietly into the dim chamber and closed the door behind him with a kind of reverent finality, the sound of the latch falling into place somehow louder than it should have been.

The only light came from the low-burning coals and the gray wash of cloud-filtered daylight that barely touched the walls. Even the fire crackled faintly, uncertain of this presence.

The boy hadn’t moved from where he’d curled beneath the table — wrapped in layers of furs, half-hidden in shadow, his face pale and his eyes dull with watchfulness.

But when the door clicked shut—

His gaze snapped to Fëanor.

Not wide with terror.

Not frozen in panic.

Just sharp, focused, alert.

Watching.

Fëanor didn’t speak at first.

He simply stood at a polite distance, hands clasped behind his back, eyes not on the boy but on the space around him — the places where light thinned unnaturally, where the air carried a brittle cold. He watched the flicker of shadow, how it shivered near the boy’s shoulder like it recognized something kindred in the silence.

And the shadows — they responded.

Not violently.

Not with menace.

Just with acknowledgment.

Fëanor tilted his head ever so slightly.

Then, in a voice that was quiet but clear, “You’ve seen fire before.”

The boy didn’t react.

“You’ve lived in it.”

A single blink. Slow. Measured.

And then stillness again.

But Fëanor — for all his fury, for all his burning pride — didn’t frighten him.

Not like Celegorm, whose voice had once broken the child like thunder on fragile glass.

Not like Curufin, whose clever eyes had cut more than comforted.

Not even like the healer, whose visible disgust had stung more deeply than a slap.

Fëanor was heat and danger and glory all at once — but the boy didn’t flinch from heat.

He had been forged in it.

And kindred souls, however fractured by pain or time or origin, sometimes knew each other by instinct.

Fëanor didn’t smile. Didn’t reach out. But something in his stance — some deeper part of him, something beneath all the sharp edges — settled.

His voice dropped lower, edged with something like certainty, “You’re not broken. You’re burning.”

And then he turned.Walked out.

As he closed the door behind him, he spoke — not to the boy, but to the guard standing just outside.

“Watch him. Silently. And if anyone enters that room without my order — they answer to me.”

By the time Maglor returned, the fire had been rebuilt — just enough to steady the chill in the air — and Fëanor was gone.

Maglor didn’t ask what had happened while he’d been gone — he never did — but his eyes swept the room once, sharp and aching, and they saw too much.

The child hadn’t moved far from the table, still half-buried in furs, still tucked into himself like a wound not yet healing. But something had shifted — not visibly, not loudly — just enough to be felt.

Amrod was the first to notice it.

He stood quietly in the doorway beside Amras, both of them returned from wherever Fëanor had sent them. Neither spoke. None of them wanted to be the one to break whatever had changed.

Maglor stepped forward at last, slow and open-handed, crouching at a gentle distance with only one thing in his hands: a scarf.

Soft wool. Blue-grey. Edged with silver thread.

Worn thin by years of love and distance — from Aman to the shores of ice, from memory into exile — it was one of Maglor’s oldest. Recognizable even to the twins.

He folded it carefully, and without a word, placed it on the floor within reach.

The child didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

But his breath hitched — barely audible — and that was enough.

Maglor didn’t press the gift on him.

He simply rose and stepped back, joining his brothers near the wall.

None of them spoke.

Minutes passed, stretching long.

Then—

From beneath the folds of the fur, a small hand crept out.

Slowly.

Cautiously.

Fingers brushed the scarf’s edge.

Not to seize it. Not to hide it.

Just to touch.

And draw it a little closer.

It stayed near him after that, half-cradled, half-watched — like something too delicate to trust and too precious to abandon.

Later, Amrod returned with a tray. Nothing demanding — just warm water, a bit of broth, apple slivers wrapped in cloth.

He didn’t speak.

And Amras — who had seated himself near the hearth with his sketchbook forgotten in his lap — kept glancing at the child out of the corner of his eye, afraid even the sound of paper might shatter the quiet.

It was peaceful.

Not safe. Not yet.

But no longer hostile.

Until Maglor, gently, asked:

“Do you have a name?”

And everything unraveled.

The illusion descended — a cold hall, a throne, a voice, and a lesson not learned but carved into bone.

And when it passed—

When it finally faded like frost melting under light—

The room was still once more.

No fire.

No warmth.

Only breath, and silence, and the weight of a truth that didn’t belong to any of them.

The child didn’t cry.

He didn’t speak.

But the look in his eyes was not empty.

It was haunted.

And when Amrod finally whispered, “That wasn’t a memory,” the words fell into the hush like a blade dropped after battle.

Maglor didn’t move, but his fingers stopped strumming the edge of his tunic.

And Amras, who had known too much too soon, said softly:

“No. That was training.”

A pause. Then, quieter still:

“That was someone teaching him how to be hated.”

Chapter Text

The table was old. Oak, darkened by time and oil and battleplans. The kind of table meant for strategy, for war. Now it was covered in nothing but silence and brothers.
Maglor stood at the edge of it, one hand resting lightly against the grain, like it could anchor him in the moment.
Maedhros sat at the far end, back straight, mouth a tight line. Curufin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, unreadable.
Caranthir paced.
The only one in motion. The only one willing to say what they were all thinking.
“He’s dangerous.”
Maedhros didn’t flinch.
Caranthir pressed on.
“You saw it. You felt it. The shadows — the air. That wasn’t magic. That wasn’t memory. That was something in him.”
“He’s a child,” Maglor said quietly.
Caranthir spun on him.
“So was the fire that burned Tirion. What does age mean to power?”
“That wasn’t power,” Maedhros said, voice calm, but heavy. “That was a wound. An echo.”
Caranthir’s lip curled.
“You think it matters to the stone under our feet whether he meant it or not? We’re all walking through curses now.”
Maglor looked down.
“He didn’t cast it.”
“No,” Caranthir snapped, “but he carries it.”
“And what would you have us do?” Maedhros asked, voice sharp now. “Send him back to whatever put that voice in his skull? Throw him to the wolves because you felt a chill?”
Curufin finally spoke. Low. Controlled.
“We don’t know where he came from. We don’t know what he is. And we’re not wrong to wonder.”
“He’s broken,” Maglor said, more harshly than he meant to. “He’s not dangerous. Not yet.”
“Yet,” Curufin echoed.

Fëanor stood there, watching each of them — eyes narrowed, bright and fathomless.
And when none of them broke the silence, he said only this:
“We don’t discard what burns.”
“We shape it.”