Chapter Text
Maedhros. Maitimo. Nelyo. Brother mine.
The sea has brought Maglor many strange things across his endless wandering over the long Ages. Relics of Beleriand, coins of old with the faces of once-kings worn smooth, and even craftworks of gem and metal.
Never had he thought it might bring him such a miracle.
It fits wholly in the width of Maglor’s hand and then some for it is of an unusual size. Maglor offers his other hand as a bridge as it continues on its slow, unhurried trek. The creature’s soft underbelly is oddly warm against his skin, the trail of moisture it drags behind cools as it is exposed to the air. Maglor watches, fascinated, as its little body stretches forward to his other hand, recoiling for a breath at his touch, then cautiously extending again.
He might have passed it by. Snails are common in the tidepools, their pace too slow to warrant notice. But this one caught his eye at once, for its shell is black as obsidian streaked with a strange, coppery red.
And there, etched clear as day upon the curve of the shell, is a star of eight points.
Maglor presses his cheek against the warm shell, the snail’s delicate horns turning toward him and brushing against the tears slipping down his face.
‘Dost thou know me? Dost thou understand my words?’
The snail lingers there, exploring the wet of his cheek curiously and rasping deeply of his woes. The Elf laughs softly at the ticklish feeling from the gentle scraping.
‘Art thou hungry, Nelyo?’ Maglor asks it. Him—for who else could this creature be other than Maedhros? Who else to bear such a mark but the firstborn son of the house of Fëanor? Who else to wrench such sorrow from Maglor’s own heart than his dearly beloved brother returned to him at last?
At last.
The minstrel dons his makeshift harp of driftwood and hair, fishing net, and the carrier he’s fashioned. A pouch of soft cloth lined with moss and damp leaves made to hold Maedhros there against his chest as he walks brusquely through the sand. They shall never get anywhere were he to let Maedhros lead the way.
As every morning, Maglor returns to the tidepools when the waves are lowest. They are rich in algae and small crustaceans. Maedhros is such a big thing that Maglor leaves him to graze to his fill as he will upon the sea’s bounties without fear of losing sight of him.
Yet still he stands watch for threats. Maglor does not know if the crack upon his brother’s shell and the missing eyestalk are merely a translation of his injuries from before or from the years following this transfiguration. He does not intend to find out.
Betwixt his vigilance, Maglor alternates catching small fish and shellfish to cook for later and strumming aimlessly at his harp. Song has been difficult to grasp of late. Words tangle on his tongue as fish in a net and twice as difficult to free. Mostly, he just sits and watches Maedhros.
There is a wonder in it—this slowness. Never in life had Maedhros been allowed such a leisurely pace. He had been the eldest, firstborn, the high prince, the one who must always stand tallest, speak loudest, bear the heaviest burdens. Every step demanded of him had been swift, decisive, resolute. There had never been time for such stillness.
But now—now he is slow as the moss grows. A few inches each day, no more. Maglor smiles, misty-eyed, as he watches his brother stalk steadily toward an unsuspecting frond of kelp.
‘Thou hast need no longer for haste, Nelyo. Takest thou the world one moment at a time for ever shall I care for thee in turn.’
It comforts him to think this way, though he cannot know what thoughts—if any—his brother still holds.
‘Thou needest fear not fire nor judgment. Thou art mine, and I am thine. No harm shall come to thee whilst I draw breath. This I swear.’
Perhaps Maedhros understands every word. Perhaps he does not.
‘All shall be right now,” he promises through his tears. ‘For we are together again. At last, we are together.’
Perhaps Maglor has well and truly finally gone into the deep end for though the snail makes no sound, Maglor feels, faintly, a weight of presence—acceptance and peace—in the slow turning of that eyestalk.