Title: Thy Eternal Summer
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Rating: T
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Pairing: Maglor/Elrond
Warnings: AU - no kinslayings, age disparity
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: When he is sent to support his brother in negotiating with King Thingol of Doriath, Makalaure sets eyes on Elrond Peredhel and is utterly lost.
AN: This was written for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elwinfortuna as a treat for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
innumerable_stars 2017 as a thank you for running such a wonderful fest.
Some notes on the AU: this takes place in a world where the kinslayings never happened and Feanor rules over the city-states of the Noldor as their High King. Maglor is unmarried and did not leave a wife behind in Valinor.
I'm not a poet at heart, so all quotations herein come from the Sonnets of William Shakespeare.
Here on AO3.
Thingol’s heirs sit together by their ancestor’s throne. Their hair shines with all the colours of twilight, and their grey eyes peer down at him from under long lashes. They are almost identical, but long millennia of telling his own twin brothers apart has served him well; the prince on the left is more restless. He is kept in place by his brother’s hand on his own, and the threat of a pout pushes at his lower lip. He, Makalaurë realises, is Elros – the elder – the one who is said to forgo court in favour of roaming the wilds with bands of Edain warriors. The calmer twin, with his bright eyes and his gentle manner, is Elrond.
To Makalaurë’s right, Maitimo is greeting the King of Doriath with practised words. Practised indeed: he was half-ready to pitch his brother from his horse if he heard them murmured in his presence once more. Now, he can barely hear them over the rush of blood in his ears. The youngest prince is staring at him with a flush spreading over the tips of his pointed ears, and…he is lovely beyond measure. Makalaurë swallows hard, unable to tear his eyes away.
…
He sits out in the forest, on a fallen tree long overgrown by moss and ivy, surrounded by heavy boughs and the weighty magic of Queen Melian. He has felt her gaze on him more than once as he has moved through her halls, and while there is little doubt in his mind that she can sense him out here, at least he is unable to see her in turn.
What he can see, aside from dripping green for miles on end, is the image in his heart. The youthful face of Elrond Peredhel is fixed in his mind and no matter how hard he tries to think on other things, he finds himself unable to do it. Sonnets have sprung from his pen in the evenings, dedicated to the youth’s graceful hands and the dark river of his hair; notes have been plucked from his harp in attempts to soothe his soul only to transform into odes before they fade from the senses. It is maddening. Makalaurë is here to support his brother as he negotiates trade for the sake of their fractured, fractious people. The Ňoldor are proud and argumentative, even amongst themselves – perhaps especially amongst themselves – and their division into smaller city-states under the rule of High King Fëanor is a matter of scorn for the Sindar. Even though, he reminds himself, the young Princes are descended from Ňoldor themselves – Idril’s grandchildren, he recalls, and tries to remember how exactly that makes them related.
He has no desire to become like Aredhel’s son, skulking after a kinsman with a long face and an eager heart. He occupies himself by tracing family lines in his head while plucking the strings of his harp. It lays in his lap waiting for his full attention, but he is reluctant to give it. The way he’s feeling, Elrond Peredhel will have an unasked-for ballad by the end of the hour.
But music is the subtle magic of his heart and it will not be denied. Notes weave into song and sonnet rises unbidden to his lips – one penned the previous night in vain desperation. It’s first stanza leaves his throat, sweet as birdsong in the ancient wood, before his throat closes and Makalaurë buries his face in his hands to weep.
…
He is weary in heart and in soul by the time he slinks into the great hall for dinner. The feast is already spread out upon the table, which groans beneath the weight of roasted vegetables and salads, grains and loaves, honeyed fruits and nuts. Makalaurë slides into a seat left open by his brother’s side and takes a goblet of wine. The look Maitimo gives him does not inspire confidence, but his brother chooses not to turn away from the conversation he is already engaged in, allowing Makalaurë some degree of peace.
He helps himself to a soft, seeded roll and endeavours to eat as much of it as he can, drizzled in honey in an attempt to make it more appetising. The feast is impressive indeed, but Makalaurë has little appetite. The heaviness of his heart has surely killed it.
A glance along the table shows that he is not unobserved. The glowing-wise eyes of Queen Melian are upon him, and sat next to her, her youngest descendant watches him with similar intensity. Makalaurë’s heart twists – for all his desperate desires, he would rather lay down his head and let his fëa flee to the West than attract the concerns of Prince Elrond. He is young and fair beyond measure, and Makalaurë may yet be fair but he is old and somewhat twisted with it. The Eldar find their hearts in their youth – a time he spent on a distant shore in a time before Elrond’s grandparents were even an idea.
He lowers his gaze to his bread roll once more. He abandons it, and his seat, in the space of a heartbeat; he takes his wine goblet with him.
…
There is no escape to the forest the following day. Rain drips through the great canopy, turning the air thick as soup. The whole world seems to smell of life and green, and Makalaurë sits by the window of his chambers, breathing in the humidity. Maitimo, his beloved brother, has left him to his heartache; has brought him a carafe of sweet water and a bowl of fruit and oats that swim in milk and honey and left to perform his negotiations alone. Breakfast had appeared near appetising when first he placed it by Makalaurë’s side; it has since turned to an unappealing paste.
Makalaurë has abandoned his harp for the day. It rests on a chair on the other side of the room, and he has bent all his will against it. He will not play. He will not - cannot - make the same mistake as he did the day before and give himself over to his own spell. He is not strong enough to twist his songs away from the subject they so desperately crave.
Half-written lines are scrawled in black ink over hundreds of pieces of parchment. He should burn them, he thinks, but he cannot bring himself to do it. Rather, he chooses to ignore them along with his harp and hope that they will fade from his heart and mind if not the paper. And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beauty was of yore - he snorts derisively. No words he can write, no song he can compose, will ever do justice to one so fair and wise and young.
Shall I compare thee -
Haply I think on thee -
None of it, and never. He pushes words aside and seeks to drown himself in green air and the sound of rain.
…
The rain has ceased by nightfall, but Makalaurë remains by his window, staring out into the gathering gloom. The forest is dark and deep and under its boughs the world is unchanged. Here, in the twilight, he can feel the echoes of the elder days as they must have been before Arien and Tilion began their chase through the sky, before even the Great Trees lit the world.
He does not like Doriath. He finds it a disconcerting place, full of memory and – alas – desire.
His chamber door opens. Maitimo, no doubt, with some attempt at bringing more sustenance. He has heard the songs go up as the evening’s feast began, and though his heart trembled at the sound he could not bring himself to join them. At the rate he is going, he is unlikely ever to sing again.
He is aware of Maitimo moving, lighting candles and murmuring to himself, but his voice is different. It is kinder, softer, and sweeter than it has ever been, and Makalaurë’s resolve to ignore his brother evaporates as soon as he realises that this is not his brother. He turns from his view of the dusk to see a slender figure watching him – silver eyes round with shock and a candle trembling in a long hand.
Elrond. Elrond Peredhel in his chambers. Stars and Valar he has offended someone greatly to deserve such a fate. He closes his eyes and turns away.
“Forgive my intrusion, Prince Maglor,” Elrond says. “Your brother bade me check on you.”
Never before has the Sindarin rendering of his name sounded so sweet. Maglor from Elrond’s lips…the sound of it is almost enough for him to forgive his brother this imposition.
“I have some skill in healing, Lord, if your headache is troubling you,” Elrond continues.
“Headache,” Makalaurë echoes. Maitimo will suffer for this. He swallows and turns his gaze once more to the young Prince yet standing by his door. Elrond is not looking directly at him; rather, his gaze skirts over the abandoned harp and scattered papers and the lingering sludge that was intended to be Makalaurë’s breakfast with growing concern. It is written clear all over his fair face, and Makalaurë jumps to his feet.
Concern is unwarranted, even though the lack of food makes him stagger a little. Alarm is even less so, although Prince Elrond appears to disagree with him. He should have burned the papers on his desk. He will burn them – and Maitimo along with them, curse him – but first he –
Prince Elrond’s hand curves around his elbow and the whole world seems to narrow to that small contact. He is drawn to a halt by the young Prince and his deceptive strength and by the obvious alarm in his wide eyes.
“I –“ he says, and curses himself. He is Makalaurë, famed bard and master of song, and he has no words to talk to Prince Elrond any more than he has to describe him. “Forgive my brother, for he has wasted your time. My ailment is a temporary matter.”
Temporary only in that they will not remain long in Doriath.
“Be that as it may, I would not see you suffer,” Prince Elrond replies.
He’s so close that Makalaurë can pick out the traces of his mortal heritage. There’s a fine shadow of stubble on his jaw, and the points of his ears are subtler than those of more typical Elven ancestry. He wants to know what other differences there are: wants to know if Elrond has to shave each morning, or if he sleeps with his brilliant eyes closed as the Edain do. He wants to whisper his compositions into those delicate ears, and braid courting-knots into night-dark hair. He wants, so desperately, that his tongue has turned to stone and his heart pounds in his chest. He towers over Prince Elrond, but he is helpless.
The young prince guides him to a nearby seat, his touch gentle and strong in equal measure. Makalaurë can feel the heat of him sinking through the fabric of his robe-sleeve and he feels like he could melt from it.
…
He perches uncomfortably in his seat as Prince Elrond places his candle on a nearby table. Mercifully, it is not the table cluttered with evidence of Makalaurë’s infatuation and he is spared further humiliation. Turning to him once more, Prince Elrond fixes him with a Healer’s gaze – stern and penetrating. It feels as though he is capable of seeing through Makalaurë to his very fëa itself. It’s an expression that reminds Makalaurë quite strongly of Queen Melian, and he cringes at the thought of the Maia-Queen knowing of his desires. But despite that eerie similarity and the fear it inspires, he cannot help but think the role of a Healer suits Prince Elrond well.
“Your symptoms began yesterday, did they not?” Elrond says. He approaches slowly, as if Makalaurë is a horse liable to be spooked. “You were only very briefly at dinner. May I?”
Valar curse him, but Makalaurë nods his head, and permits the young Prince to lay his hands upon him. He rests the back of his hand against Makalaurë’s brow, and frowns slightly before reaching for his wrist. Makalaurë is sure the irregular rhythm of his heart must be obvious, but he cannot control it any more than he can hold back the tide.
“Before then,” he says, finding his tongue at last.
Prince Elrond shoots him an odd and disquieting look. “You do not trust our Healers, Lord?”
Makalaurë shakes his head. “More that I do not seek to bother them with such trivial matters,” he says. “This is a fleeting thing.”
“So you have said, yet it has lasted more than a day,” Elrond argues. “You are unnaturally warm, my Lord, and your pulse is… Fleeting, you claim, but the Eldar are not prone to minor ailments.”
Makalaurë knows this, and yet he cannot bear to admit the truth and so he remains quiet. Elrond studies him closely, and then sighs. “If you will not tell me, there is truly little I can do to ease your suffering. Though I would recommend that you eat something, my Lord.”
“Maitimo said much the same,” Makalaurë replies.
“Your brother has some wisdom, then,” Prince Elrond tells him, even as he turns away. Makalaurë watches him as he goes to the door, listens as he orders a light supper from a waiting servant. His gaze darts to the table scattered with lines of poor love poetry and he has to resist the urge to gather them and hide them away. There is no time to gather the proof of his folly without being suspicious, and so he must sit in agony with them in plain view.
His harp, cradled in the comfort of the seat next to him, seems to sigh. He glares at it from the corner of his eye.
His conversation over, Prince Elrond re-joins him. He hesitates a little, glancing between Makalaurë and his treacherous, deceitful instrument, before Makalaurë takes pity on him and reaches out for the harp. He pulls it gently into his lap with a practised move, freeing the seat for Elrond to claim for himself. The young Prince sits, his gaze fixed on the instrument.
“I must confess, I had hoped to hear you play, Prince Maglor,” he says quietly. “I have heard much of your prodigious skill.”
To deny him would break Makalaurë’s heart as surely as any rejection would. His fingers twitch reflexively against silver strings, plucking a basic chord. The notes fall between them, and with a soft sigh, Makalaurë shifts his grip and bites his lip and begins to play.
Music comes naturally to him. It is the subtle magic that weaves through his heart and his fëa, and with music he has never faltered. Not before now, for his hesitancy to bear his heart stifles his fingers on the strings. But Elrond’s gaze is bright and wonderous, and Makalaurë… He is so very tired of fighting.
He closes his eyes. Bites his lip harder. He shifts his hands and opens his heart and lets music and magic flow. He takes a breath and insufficient words rise to his lips – he has started this and cannot stop, not now that he has started.
“That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by –”
The last two lines build on his tongue and he can’t. They are words that should never be released. He bites down, hard on his tongue and places his hand flat against the body of his harp, letting the notes fade into silence.
He opens his eyes to find Elrond watching him. His mouth is slack with wonder, and his fair face is bright with sorrow and awe. Makalaurë can’t resist that face. He swallows tightly and opens his mouth to sing once more. This time, his words are unaccompanied and his song soft, shy, because what he sings is a falsehood that he knows he will have to deny.
“This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”
Thy love. What love is that? Elrond has no love for him, and that he knows. But still those words have flown between them and now they can never be unheard. He clears his throat and looks down at his harp.
“A poor performance,” he says. “I apologise.”
“No,” Elrond says. His voice is soft and sweet and full of something that Makalaurë longs to put a name to. “Please do not – I very much enjoyed hearing you sing.” There is a flush building in those delicate ear-tips and on the high sweep of his cheekbones. Makalaurë stares, for the sight of him is so lovely that his heart aches. He wants – needs – to kiss him, and yet he holds himself back.
“Then I am glad you were not disappointed,” he says.
…
He forces himself to the main hall for breakfast the next day. Maitimo looks relieved, but Makalaurë barely has eyes for him. Instead, his gaze finds Prince Elrond, sitting by his twin with a strange smile on his lips and his chin cradled in his palm. The young Prince has his hair twisted back in a single braid: a homely style that suits him well, and when he catches sight of Makalaurë watching him, he straightens and his smile widens in greeting.
The simple meal they had shared the previous night did much to lift Makalaurë’s spirits. He feels almost refreshed: Prince Elrond is as brilliant as he is beautiful, well-educated in arts and philosophy and history. He has a way of waxing eloquent on the subjects he enjoys that Makalaurë finds unspeakably endearing.
He sits by Maitimo’s side and endures his brother’s questions and the scolding that accompanies them. He sits through the complaints that he has abandoned his brother in favour of moping and “you know I hate politics, I can’t do this without you”. He watches Elrond from the corner of his eye, and he smiles softly through the scolding until Maitimo gives up in disgust and falls silent.
It is then, only then, that he hears a soft voice humming notes that he has composed. He lifts his head in time to see Prince Elros depart, utterly offended, while Elrond gazes back down the table towards him. He colours under Makalaurë’s gaze, but neither looks away nor falls silent. Instead, the soft smile on his face deepens once more, and Makalaurë’s heart skips.
Which makes thy love more strong indeed. Perhaps he sang no falsehood after all.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Rating: T
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Pairing: Maglor/Elrond
Warnings: AU - no kinslayings, age disparity
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: When he is sent to support his brother in negotiating with King Thingol of Doriath, Makalaure sets eyes on Elrond Peredhel and is utterly lost.
AN: This was written for
elwinfortuna as a treat for innumerable_stars 2017 as a thank you for running such a wonderful fest.Some notes on the AU: this takes place in a world where the kinslayings never happened and Feanor rules over the city-states of the Noldor as their High King. Maglor is unmarried and did not leave a wife behind in Valinor.
I'm not a poet at heart, so all quotations herein come from the Sonnets of William Shakespeare.
Here on AO3.
Thingol’s heirs sit together by their ancestor’s throne. Their hair shines with all the colours of twilight, and their grey eyes peer down at him from under long lashes. They are almost identical, but long millennia of telling his own twin brothers apart has served him well; the prince on the left is more restless. He is kept in place by his brother’s hand on his own, and the threat of a pout pushes at his lower lip. He, Makalaurë realises, is Elros – the elder – the one who is said to forgo court in favour of roaming the wilds with bands of Edain warriors. The calmer twin, with his bright eyes and his gentle manner, is Elrond.
To Makalaurë’s right, Maitimo is greeting the King of Doriath with practised words. Practised indeed: he was half-ready to pitch his brother from his horse if he heard them murmured in his presence once more. Now, he can barely hear them over the rush of blood in his ears. The youngest prince is staring at him with a flush spreading over the tips of his pointed ears, and…he is lovely beyond measure. Makalaurë swallows hard, unable to tear his eyes away.
…
He sits out in the forest, on a fallen tree long overgrown by moss and ivy, surrounded by heavy boughs and the weighty magic of Queen Melian. He has felt her gaze on him more than once as he has moved through her halls, and while there is little doubt in his mind that she can sense him out here, at least he is unable to see her in turn.
What he can see, aside from dripping green for miles on end, is the image in his heart. The youthful face of Elrond Peredhel is fixed in his mind and no matter how hard he tries to think on other things, he finds himself unable to do it. Sonnets have sprung from his pen in the evenings, dedicated to the youth’s graceful hands and the dark river of his hair; notes have been plucked from his harp in attempts to soothe his soul only to transform into odes before they fade from the senses. It is maddening. Makalaurë is here to support his brother as he negotiates trade for the sake of their fractured, fractious people. The Ňoldor are proud and argumentative, even amongst themselves – perhaps especially amongst themselves – and their division into smaller city-states under the rule of High King Fëanor is a matter of scorn for the Sindar. Even though, he reminds himself, the young Princes are descended from Ňoldor themselves – Idril’s grandchildren, he recalls, and tries to remember how exactly that makes them related.
He has no desire to become like Aredhel’s son, skulking after a kinsman with a long face and an eager heart. He occupies himself by tracing family lines in his head while plucking the strings of his harp. It lays in his lap waiting for his full attention, but he is reluctant to give it. The way he’s feeling, Elrond Peredhel will have an unasked-for ballad by the end of the hour.
But music is the subtle magic of his heart and it will not be denied. Notes weave into song and sonnet rises unbidden to his lips – one penned the previous night in vain desperation. It’s first stanza leaves his throat, sweet as birdsong in the ancient wood, before his throat closes and Makalaurë buries his face in his hands to weep.
…
He is weary in heart and in soul by the time he slinks into the great hall for dinner. The feast is already spread out upon the table, which groans beneath the weight of roasted vegetables and salads, grains and loaves, honeyed fruits and nuts. Makalaurë slides into a seat left open by his brother’s side and takes a goblet of wine. The look Maitimo gives him does not inspire confidence, but his brother chooses not to turn away from the conversation he is already engaged in, allowing Makalaurë some degree of peace.
He helps himself to a soft, seeded roll and endeavours to eat as much of it as he can, drizzled in honey in an attempt to make it more appetising. The feast is impressive indeed, but Makalaurë has little appetite. The heaviness of his heart has surely killed it.
A glance along the table shows that he is not unobserved. The glowing-wise eyes of Queen Melian are upon him, and sat next to her, her youngest descendant watches him with similar intensity. Makalaurë’s heart twists – for all his desperate desires, he would rather lay down his head and let his fëa flee to the West than attract the concerns of Prince Elrond. He is young and fair beyond measure, and Makalaurë may yet be fair but he is old and somewhat twisted with it. The Eldar find their hearts in their youth – a time he spent on a distant shore in a time before Elrond’s grandparents were even an idea.
He lowers his gaze to his bread roll once more. He abandons it, and his seat, in the space of a heartbeat; he takes his wine goblet with him.
…
There is no escape to the forest the following day. Rain drips through the great canopy, turning the air thick as soup. The whole world seems to smell of life and green, and Makalaurë sits by the window of his chambers, breathing in the humidity. Maitimo, his beloved brother, has left him to his heartache; has brought him a carafe of sweet water and a bowl of fruit and oats that swim in milk and honey and left to perform his negotiations alone. Breakfast had appeared near appetising when first he placed it by Makalaurë’s side; it has since turned to an unappealing paste.
Makalaurë has abandoned his harp for the day. It rests on a chair on the other side of the room, and he has bent all his will against it. He will not play. He will not - cannot - make the same mistake as he did the day before and give himself over to his own spell. He is not strong enough to twist his songs away from the subject they so desperately crave.
Half-written lines are scrawled in black ink over hundreds of pieces of parchment. He should burn them, he thinks, but he cannot bring himself to do it. Rather, he chooses to ignore them along with his harp and hope that they will fade from his heart and mind if not the paper. And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beauty was of yore - he snorts derisively. No words he can write, no song he can compose, will ever do justice to one so fair and wise and young.
Shall I compare thee -
Haply I think on thee -
None of it, and never. He pushes words aside and seeks to drown himself in green air and the sound of rain.
…
The rain has ceased by nightfall, but Makalaurë remains by his window, staring out into the gathering gloom. The forest is dark and deep and under its boughs the world is unchanged. Here, in the twilight, he can feel the echoes of the elder days as they must have been before Arien and Tilion began their chase through the sky, before even the Great Trees lit the world.
He does not like Doriath. He finds it a disconcerting place, full of memory and – alas – desire.
His chamber door opens. Maitimo, no doubt, with some attempt at bringing more sustenance. He has heard the songs go up as the evening’s feast began, and though his heart trembled at the sound he could not bring himself to join them. At the rate he is going, he is unlikely ever to sing again.
He is aware of Maitimo moving, lighting candles and murmuring to himself, but his voice is different. It is kinder, softer, and sweeter than it has ever been, and Makalaurë’s resolve to ignore his brother evaporates as soon as he realises that this is not his brother. He turns from his view of the dusk to see a slender figure watching him – silver eyes round with shock and a candle trembling in a long hand.
Elrond. Elrond Peredhel in his chambers. Stars and Valar he has offended someone greatly to deserve such a fate. He closes his eyes and turns away.
“Forgive my intrusion, Prince Maglor,” Elrond says. “Your brother bade me check on you.”
Never before has the Sindarin rendering of his name sounded so sweet. Maglor from Elrond’s lips…the sound of it is almost enough for him to forgive his brother this imposition.
“I have some skill in healing, Lord, if your headache is troubling you,” Elrond continues.
“Headache,” Makalaurë echoes. Maitimo will suffer for this. He swallows and turns his gaze once more to the young Prince yet standing by his door. Elrond is not looking directly at him; rather, his gaze skirts over the abandoned harp and scattered papers and the lingering sludge that was intended to be Makalaurë’s breakfast with growing concern. It is written clear all over his fair face, and Makalaurë jumps to his feet.
Concern is unwarranted, even though the lack of food makes him stagger a little. Alarm is even less so, although Prince Elrond appears to disagree with him. He should have burned the papers on his desk. He will burn them – and Maitimo along with them, curse him – but first he –
Prince Elrond’s hand curves around his elbow and the whole world seems to narrow to that small contact. He is drawn to a halt by the young Prince and his deceptive strength and by the obvious alarm in his wide eyes.
“I –“ he says, and curses himself. He is Makalaurë, famed bard and master of song, and he has no words to talk to Prince Elrond any more than he has to describe him. “Forgive my brother, for he has wasted your time. My ailment is a temporary matter.”
Temporary only in that they will not remain long in Doriath.
“Be that as it may, I would not see you suffer,” Prince Elrond replies.
He’s so close that Makalaurë can pick out the traces of his mortal heritage. There’s a fine shadow of stubble on his jaw, and the points of his ears are subtler than those of more typical Elven ancestry. He wants to know what other differences there are: wants to know if Elrond has to shave each morning, or if he sleeps with his brilliant eyes closed as the Edain do. He wants to whisper his compositions into those delicate ears, and braid courting-knots into night-dark hair. He wants, so desperately, that his tongue has turned to stone and his heart pounds in his chest. He towers over Prince Elrond, but he is helpless.
The young prince guides him to a nearby seat, his touch gentle and strong in equal measure. Makalaurë can feel the heat of him sinking through the fabric of his robe-sleeve and he feels like he could melt from it.
…
He perches uncomfortably in his seat as Prince Elrond places his candle on a nearby table. Mercifully, it is not the table cluttered with evidence of Makalaurë’s infatuation and he is spared further humiliation. Turning to him once more, Prince Elrond fixes him with a Healer’s gaze – stern and penetrating. It feels as though he is capable of seeing through Makalaurë to his very fëa itself. It’s an expression that reminds Makalaurë quite strongly of Queen Melian, and he cringes at the thought of the Maia-Queen knowing of his desires. But despite that eerie similarity and the fear it inspires, he cannot help but think the role of a Healer suits Prince Elrond well.
“Your symptoms began yesterday, did they not?” Elrond says. He approaches slowly, as if Makalaurë is a horse liable to be spooked. “You were only very briefly at dinner. May I?”
Valar curse him, but Makalaurë nods his head, and permits the young Prince to lay his hands upon him. He rests the back of his hand against Makalaurë’s brow, and frowns slightly before reaching for his wrist. Makalaurë is sure the irregular rhythm of his heart must be obvious, but he cannot control it any more than he can hold back the tide.
“Before then,” he says, finding his tongue at last.
Prince Elrond shoots him an odd and disquieting look. “You do not trust our Healers, Lord?”
Makalaurë shakes his head. “More that I do not seek to bother them with such trivial matters,” he says. “This is a fleeting thing.”
“So you have said, yet it has lasted more than a day,” Elrond argues. “You are unnaturally warm, my Lord, and your pulse is… Fleeting, you claim, but the Eldar are not prone to minor ailments.”
Makalaurë knows this, and yet he cannot bear to admit the truth and so he remains quiet. Elrond studies him closely, and then sighs. “If you will not tell me, there is truly little I can do to ease your suffering. Though I would recommend that you eat something, my Lord.”
“Maitimo said much the same,” Makalaurë replies.
“Your brother has some wisdom, then,” Prince Elrond tells him, even as he turns away. Makalaurë watches him as he goes to the door, listens as he orders a light supper from a waiting servant. His gaze darts to the table scattered with lines of poor love poetry and he has to resist the urge to gather them and hide them away. There is no time to gather the proof of his folly without being suspicious, and so he must sit in agony with them in plain view.
His harp, cradled in the comfort of the seat next to him, seems to sigh. He glares at it from the corner of his eye.
His conversation over, Prince Elrond re-joins him. He hesitates a little, glancing between Makalaurë and his treacherous, deceitful instrument, before Makalaurë takes pity on him and reaches out for the harp. He pulls it gently into his lap with a practised move, freeing the seat for Elrond to claim for himself. The young Prince sits, his gaze fixed on the instrument.
“I must confess, I had hoped to hear you play, Prince Maglor,” he says quietly. “I have heard much of your prodigious skill.”
To deny him would break Makalaurë’s heart as surely as any rejection would. His fingers twitch reflexively against silver strings, plucking a basic chord. The notes fall between them, and with a soft sigh, Makalaurë shifts his grip and bites his lip and begins to play.
Music comes naturally to him. It is the subtle magic that weaves through his heart and his fëa, and with music he has never faltered. Not before now, for his hesitancy to bear his heart stifles his fingers on the strings. But Elrond’s gaze is bright and wonderous, and Makalaurë… He is so very tired of fighting.
He closes his eyes. Bites his lip harder. He shifts his hands and opens his heart and lets music and magic flow. He takes a breath and insufficient words rise to his lips – he has started this and cannot stop, not now that he has started.
“That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by –”
The last two lines build on his tongue and he can’t. They are words that should never be released. He bites down, hard on his tongue and places his hand flat against the body of his harp, letting the notes fade into silence.
He opens his eyes to find Elrond watching him. His mouth is slack with wonder, and his fair face is bright with sorrow and awe. Makalaurë can’t resist that face. He swallows tightly and opens his mouth to sing once more. This time, his words are unaccompanied and his song soft, shy, because what he sings is a falsehood that he knows he will have to deny.
“This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”
Thy love. What love is that? Elrond has no love for him, and that he knows. But still those words have flown between them and now they can never be unheard. He clears his throat and looks down at his harp.
“A poor performance,” he says. “I apologise.”
“No,” Elrond says. His voice is soft and sweet and full of something that Makalaurë longs to put a name to. “Please do not – I very much enjoyed hearing you sing.” There is a flush building in those delicate ear-tips and on the high sweep of his cheekbones. Makalaurë stares, for the sight of him is so lovely that his heart aches. He wants – needs – to kiss him, and yet he holds himself back.
“Then I am glad you were not disappointed,” he says.
…
He forces himself to the main hall for breakfast the next day. Maitimo looks relieved, but Makalaurë barely has eyes for him. Instead, his gaze finds Prince Elrond, sitting by his twin with a strange smile on his lips and his chin cradled in his palm. The young Prince has his hair twisted back in a single braid: a homely style that suits him well, and when he catches sight of Makalaurë watching him, he straightens and his smile widens in greeting.
The simple meal they had shared the previous night did much to lift Makalaurë’s spirits. He feels almost refreshed: Prince Elrond is as brilliant as he is beautiful, well-educated in arts and philosophy and history. He has a way of waxing eloquent on the subjects he enjoys that Makalaurë finds unspeakably endearing.
He sits by Maitimo’s side and endures his brother’s questions and the scolding that accompanies them. He sits through the complaints that he has abandoned his brother in favour of moping and “you know I hate politics, I can’t do this without you”. He watches Elrond from the corner of his eye, and he smiles softly through the scolding until Maitimo gives up in disgust and falls silent.
It is then, only then, that he hears a soft voice humming notes that he has composed. He lifts his head in time to see Prince Elros depart, utterly offended, while Elrond gazes back down the table towards him. He colours under Makalaurë’s gaze, but neither looks away nor falls silent. Instead, the soft smile on his face deepens once more, and Makalaurë’s heart skips.
Which makes thy love more strong indeed. Perhaps he sang no falsehood after all.
