Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or locations mentioned in this fic, only the story itself.

As usual, I have researched all these elvish words pretty extensively, but do feel free to correct me if I'm wrong as I am (still) not an elf.

Maedhros = Maitimo = Neylafinwë

Maglor = Makalaurë = Kanafinwë

Kurvo = Curufin (who was known to take after his father in that he was also a talented blacksmith)

Amburussa = Amrod and Amras

Peredhil (Sindarin) = Half-elven (in this case Elros and Elrond)

Naneth (Sindarin) = Nana = Mother (in this case Elwing, the twins' mother)

Penneth (Sindarin) = Little one

.&.

There was a dining hall in Amon Ereb, but it was an unnecessary large, drafty place, with nearly as many hearths that required lighting in order to make it a bearable temperature as the rest of the fort combined. Therefore, it was no surprise that it remained pretty much consistently unused, with the servants dining in the kitchen, the soldiers in their barracks, and Maglor and his two charges in a smaller, cosier room with a large, roaring fire.

Sometimes, Maedhros would join them, but the twins always preferred it when he remained in his study. When Maedhros joined them, the air in the room always became thick and heavy with an awkward, uncomfortable silence, whereas when he was absent both they felt a lot more merrier. Maglor always seemed slightly more at ease too, and on a good night they would even try and coax a story out of him.

However, tonight was not one of those lucky nights, as it seemed that Maedhros had found the time to leave whatever always kept him so busy in order to eat with them, and not only was the tension in the room painfully palpable, but Maedhros and Maglor had long ago given up on attempting to finish their dinner in a stiff, unpleasant silence, and had instead left the table in order to pace up and down and shout at each other.

Naturally, they were arguing in Quenya, so the twins had no idea what the topic of discussion was, although Elrond had a strange suspicion that it was probably them. He knew from months of careful observation that Maedhros quite clearly didn't want them there, however Maglor seemed unmovable when it came down to them.

Beside him, Elros was hurriedly shoveling food into his mouth as if he might never see it again, as if ignoring the two wrathful Noldor in the vicinity would make them go away. Normally, Elrond would be doing the same thing, but tonight, as he looked down at the heaped bowl of rabbit stew he felt anything but hungry.

The two Noldor continued to yell and curse at each other, for what felt like forever. Maedhros would send the occasional death glare their way, causing Elrond to bite his lip and shover slightly, while Maglor had positioned himself like a barricade between his wrathful brother and the frightened twins, as if trying to shield them from wirds in a language that they did not understand.

Maedhros must have said something particularly hurtful, for Maglor winced, suddenly frozen. He took a step forwards, towards his brother - who was leaning heavily against the far end of the table with his one remaining hand - and said something with an abrupt, but gentle softness.

"Amburussa are dead!" Maedhros roared in response, switching to Sindarin and slamming his left fist down furiously against the wood of the tabletop.

Maglor flinched, but he bit his lip and remained agonisingly silent, so that the only noise in their miniature dining room was the sound of Maedhros' haggard, panting breaths. The two seemed simply content now to glare at each other, and they did so ferociously, so that the air between them simmered in a way that made it feel as if it were about to explode.

And then, from the table, where the two elflings still sat, frozen, as still as statues, there came a tiny, muffled, gasping noise.

"Achoo!"

The two bickering Noldor both froze, their heads both turning with an almost comical symmetry, identical expressions of horror etched onto their faces.

Elrond could feel his pointed ears turning red under the equally intense gazes of the two Noldor. He averted his eyes and instead stared determinedly down at his still-heaped plate of dinner, completely still, as if he was hoping that in not moving he would camouflage in with the back of his chair. His efforts, however, proved to be completely fruitless when he sneezed again, and the pitiful sound resonated neverendingly around the otherwise painfully silent room.

"What," said Maedhros slowly, eyes narrowed in suspicion, "was that?"

Maglor, on the other hand, immediately spiralled downwards into a mad, parental-like panic. "Elrond," he garbled frantically, "Do you feel well? Have you eaten something funny?" He froze, and then his voice took on a new level of panicked hysteria. "Oh Neylo," he wailed. "What if he's somehow been poisoned!?"

Maedhros rolled his eyes at his brother's fretting, clearly unruffled by the apparent threat to Elrond's life. "Calm down, Makalaurë," he said, grinding his teeth together in irritation. "You're forgetting that they're both half-breeds. He's probably picked up some stupid mortal disease."

Maglor whirled on his brother. "Then what if it's fatal?!" he practically snarled. "What will we do then!? No healer here is in any way equipped to deal with Edain illnesses. Oh, Elrond..."

In contrast, Elros seemed pretty much unconcerned for his brother's health, and he smirked, shooting Elrond a triumphant glance. "Elrond always gets sick," he declared victoriously. "It's because he's such a weak little wimp."

Elrond, who was midway through wiping his nose on the sleeve of his tunic, turned around and grasped the opportunity to take a swing at his grinning twin. He would have landed a blow too, had it not been for the sudden coughing fit that overtook him when his fist was midway through the air, and instead he doubled over, loud, hacking coughs tearing from his throat.

Maglor rushed forward and knelt beside his chair, and began to rub soothing circles on his back as the coughs continued to rack through his tiny body. When they had eventually finished, Maglor's free hand found its way to Elrond's forehead, his cool touch making the elfling shiver slightly. He bit his lip, and frowned in concern as he took the Peredhil's temperature.

"He's burning up," Maglor said eventually, lifting his head to glance at his brother. "It feels as if he has some sort of fever."

Maedhros shrugged nonchalantly. "You should take him to the healer then," he replied, not an ounce of concern showing in his calm, almost detached tone.

Maglor glared at his brother for a brief moment, something unspoken passing between the two, before he sighed loudly and scooped a protesting Elrond into his arms.

"'M fine," muttered the already half-unconscious elfling, his head lolling pathetically against Maglor's chest. "I can walk by m'self."

Maglor ignored him, instead hurriedly exiting the room and heading in the direction of the healing wing. The two remaining elves watched him leave, Maedhros with a detached expression almost akin to one of boredom, while Elros' was twisted into something that looked almost like irritation.

"Elrond always gets sick," he repeated darkly, and Maedhros thought he heard a hint of wistfulness in the twin's bitter tone.

He said nothing though, after all the children of Elwing and Eärendil were not his responsibility.

.&.

"It is naught but a common mortal illness," a worn-faced healer gruffly informed them. Miraculously, the elderly Noldo had somehow obtained some knowledge on the biology of the Edain, and was therefore able to care for Elrond. "He will be fine," he reassured. "There is nothing that a few days of warmth and rest will not cure."

Maglor had all but collapsed in relief at this, and had taken this as a cue to not at all leave the sick elfling's side, constantly there to provide him with warm broth and blankets, should he need them.

However, Elrond spent the first few days of his quarantine in the healing ward in a potion influenced state of constant drowsiness, leaving Maglor with naught to do but sit and twiddle his thumbs and worry. Even still, he was reluctant to leave the Peredhil's side; he couldn't help but notice how tiny he was, swamped in all those blankets, with his pale and clammy face and fearsomely red cheeks, so helpless and weak and fragile and breakable, plagued by an illness that Maglor could do nothing to save him from. His real fear was that he would turn his back for a moment, only to find that while he was not looking Elrond had passed out, or died, or simply shrunk down so much that there was nothing of him left.

"You need more sleep," his brother informed him from the doorway.

Maglor ignored him, leaning over to tenderly brush the elfling's damp hair away from his face, his hand pausing over his forehead in order to check his still feverish temperature. When he glanced over his shoulder a moment later, Maedhros was gone.

.&.

The real downside, however, came with the healer putting a blanket-ban on Elros' presence around his twin brother, saying that there was no use them both getting sick. Maedhros in particular - for some, mysterious reason - took these words to heart, and began locking the irritated Peredhil in his bedroom every night.

During the day, Elros took to aimlessly roaming the fort, stealing into the kitchen or hunting for secret passages or sneaking out into the barracks to watch the soldiers train.

Maglor dedicated all his time to fussing over Elrond, which, in Elros's eyes, was completely unnecessary - while Elrond always got sick, he always got better too, and their Naneth had always been too preoccupied with that stupid jewel to flap around his bedside - and therefore, he generally found himself unchaperoned.

On this particular day, he was outside, traipsing meekly through the slush in the courtyard. Normally, Elros adored snow (it had never snowed by the sea, and therefore the magical white powder was still a novelty to the young Peredhil), but he had quickly learned that it was nowhere near as much fun on your own, particularly when the only other people he could throw snowballs at were more likely to hit him around the head with the flat of their sword than actually play with him. As it happened, his feet were uncomfortably damp, and his nose was rubbed raw with chill, and yet he had nowhere else to go.

He was so caught up in his moping that he missed the giant figure of Maedhros directly in his path, and instead of stopping walked right into him, and was knocked limply to the wet ground. Great, he thought bitterly to himself. Now I'm completely soaked.

"You should go inside," Maedhros said instantly upon noticing Elros sprawled in the muck, not even offering the Peredhil his hand. "It is cold out here, and if you get sick too then my brother may spontaneously combust."

Elros said nothing, merely scrambling to his feet by himself. Why do you care so much, anyway?

He glared up at the Noldo, suddenly unable to control the emotion pouring out of him. "Why won't you let me see my brother?" he blurted out, almost growling. "It's always him who always gets sick, not me."

Maedhros took a deep, calming breath, and said slowly, "Even so, I do not want to risk it, not when there are many who can care for your brother without endangering their own health." He grimaced. "One sick elfling is more than enough for me."

"Elrond always gets sick," Elros practically spat.

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. "So you've said."

The elfling kicked a mound of the snow with his boot, sending clumps of mushy white powder splattering everywhere. "It's not fair," he continued angrily. "He knows I hate it when he gets sick, but he does it anyway." The child took a big, deep breath. "I hate him!" he declared with a ferocious passion. And then, "Why does everyone always leave me behind?!"

Maedhros did not know how to answer that.

Elros shook his head, turning away to hide the tears forming in his eyes. He reached up, and wiped his running nose on the back of his wrist, before tugging his thick cloak tighter around his shivering form.

Maedhros sighed loudly, taking in the moping elfling with an irritated scowl. "Come with me," he commanded, sweeping away purposefully through the dirty snow.

Elros scrambled to follow him. "Where are we going?"

"Inside," retorted the Fëanorian briskly. "It is cold, and you look pathetic standing out here by yourself." And then, "You are not allowed to get sick too."

.&.

That night, in a fit of wrathful desperation, Elrond took a hairpin and jammed it ruthlessly into the lock of his door. To his surprise, he heard the key fall to the ground outside, and after a bit of determined poking with his wooden sword he managed to manoeuvre the key through the gap between the wood of the door and the stone floor underneath.

The lock clicked, and Elros grinned wickedly.

("You are evil," his brother declared upon his arrival to the healing wing, and Elros smiled again, basking in the admiring praise of his twin.)

.&.

"Have you seen my harp, Neylo?"

Maedhros raised his head, neck aching from hours and hours bent over a desk, reading report after report after report, to find his brother standing in the doorway of his miniscule study.

He considered the question. Once, Maglor and his harp would have been inseparable, the instrument practically an extension of his brother's hröa, and Maedhros could have laughed at the image of him frantically turning Amon Ereb upside down in searh of his beloved instrument, had it not come with the sharp realisation that the reason Maglor probably did not know the location of his harp was because he had not touched it in centuries.

"I have not," he said finally, halting before an apology could pass through his lips. And then - in an echo of the words often spoken to a young child in search of their favourite toy - he asked, "Where did you have it last?"

Maglor bit his lip, his eyes boring a hole into the floor. "I do not know," he admitted finally. "Perhaps before the Dagor Bragollach. I am not even sure if I brought it with me when we abandoned the Gap."

Maedhros bit back the surge of remorse that threatened to consume him. So it had been centuries then, since his brother had even thought about his once beloved instrument. "And why do you want it now?"

"Elrond has recovered enough that he is no longer constantly alseep, and is getting rather aggravated at having to stay still all day," he murmured, a sudden, soft smile stretching across his face at the mere mention of the child, "so I offered to sing for him. But I have searched everywhere and to no avail, for my harp still remains missing."

"You dote too much on those halflings," Maedhros retorted, suddenly unable to stop himself. "You have forgotten that they are our hostages, and that we will be rid of them the moment Eärendil returns with the Silmaril." You need to take care of yourself, too.

Maglor stared at him warily, refusing to allow himself to be bated. "Well, perhaps you are being to harsh on them," he responded cooly. "They are children, Maitimo. Children. They do not deserve to be shunned and neglected the way you treat them." And then, "The brother I grew up with absolutely adored children, and he had six younger siblings who all idolised him to prove it."

It was the start of the same argument that would echo between them again and again, so often now that they both knew their part off by heart, only this time Maedhros swallowed his biting retort, allowing Maglor's comment to simmer in the air between them. ("Maitimo is dead," he did not snarl. Did not.) He refused to fly even further off the hook at Maglor, not now.

("He ddoesn't seem to have any of those oh-so-admiring brothers left either, does he?!" )

"There was a harp," he began eventually, with a blunt, hesitant stacatto to his tone, "that Kurvo was making for you, before he-" Before he what? Before he challenged the King of the Sindar to a war and got himself killed? "Before Doriath. He didn't get to string it, but I'm sure you can do that yourself." He took a deep breath, before finishing resignedly, "It is upstairs at the bottom of my closet."

Maglor nodded. "Thank you," he replied thinly.

"Don't thank me," said Maedhros flatly, returning his gaze to the endless stack of parchment heaping in front of him. "I am not the one who made it." ("Kurvo is dead though, so don't thank him either.)

He didn't look up as his brother left, shutting the door carefully behind him.

.&.

Elrond lay on his back and listened to the storm brewing outside he window. It had been heralded for days, a much anticipated downpour to finally wash the snow away, but this did not make Elrond feel any better. He hated storms, hated the ferocious howling of the wind, hatted the relentless battering of rain against stone, hated the electrifying flash of lightening that blew up the sky and hated the whip-like crack of thunder that always followed.

His Naneth had always hated storms too, Elrond remembered. During the day, she would lock herself up in that room for hours on end, with that horrid glowing light that made his eyes hurt, and become even more despondent than usual, constantly muttering to herself and forever gazing out the window as if looking for something (someone, really) that was never there. In the nights though, she would steal into their nursery and slip into their bed, and Elros would curl contently into his Nana's side and sleep while Elrond and his mother clung to each other and listened to the screaming of the storm.

The aftermath of the storm, however, was always Elrond's least favourite part. The next morning they would make their way down to the coast and begin the arduous, stomach turning task of searching through the shipwrecks vomited up by the wrathful sea, the putrid stink of salt and rotting flesh invading their nostrils, endlessly searching, searching for someone they never found. The twins would watch their mother grow franticer and franticer, spending more and more time with the painful-glowing-thing that they weren't allowed near, until finally a message would arrive that would calm her down again.

Elrond shuddered as a particularly fierce gust of wind slammed against the wooden shutters, causing to clatter pitifully, and if sensing his discomfort, Maglor, who had been fretting over him even more than usual ever since the healer had announced that he was not making as much progress as he should have (Elrond had felt more than just a bit guilty at that, after all it was probably his twin's late night visits that were inhibiting his recovery), looked up, worry clearly evident in his silvery eyes.

"Are you alright, Penneth?" he asked gently.

Elrond briefly debated lying to him, but quickly dismissed the idea. It was his brother who was constantly warning him to keep his guard up and not to trust the Fëanorians, and while he had lived by this rule in the beginning, Elrond had soon found himself growing to accept his captors. Maglor, at least, was kind to them, and after everything that had happened Elrond was not about to turn away any kindness being offered. Hia thoughts were instantly interrupted by a sudden fit of coughing, that overtook him like a cloud of misery, and he leaned forward in his bed and shuddered pathetically as the spasmatic movements shook through him. Maglor hastily settled himself on the bed, and gently took the coughing elfling into his arms and began to soothingly run his hands through his short, dark hair, breathing soft assurances.

Gradually, the coughing subsided, and Elrond leaned gratefully into the chest. "I don't like storms," he whispered eventually, and he felt Maglor's comforting grip around him tighten.

"That's alright," murmured the Noldo, gently. And then - with a wistful hint to his voice - he added, "When I was younger I never really liked them either. I used to sneak into my brother's bed at night." Elrond pulled a face, and Maglor laughed softly. "He wasn't always so grumpy," the Fëanorian informed the sceptical elfling. "Underneath all that grumpiness is a kind, caring person, and the best big brother we- er, I could ever hope to have."

Elrond made a small "Mmm-hmm" sound, still clearly doubting the older elf. And then, curiosity overtaking his disbelief, he asked, "How did you get over it? The fear of storms."

Maglor thought about this for a moment. "I guess I just grew out of it," he suggested eventually. "Maedhros helped a lot, and so did my mother, after she found out." He exhaled loudly. "I suppose, when it comes down to it, there are scarier things in the world then bad weather, and when I found those things to be scared of I was no longer scared of storms anymore," he mused absently, although Elrond thought he could hear a few whispers of pain in the Fëanorian's voice. However, Maglor shook himself slightly and grinned down at him, and the Peredhil decided that he must have been imagining things.

"In the mean time," he said brightly, "I am happy to keep you company until the storm has passed. Now, does that sound alright?"

Elrond nodded eagerly, snuggling happily against Maglor's chest, and soon he found himself drifting off into a comfortable slumber.

.&.

He was jolted awake again by the sound of thunder echoing fearsomely outside his window. The candle had burnt out completely, plunging the room into darkness, and it was only by the light from the flashing lightening that Elrond could make out the silhouette of Maglor, half slumped on his bed as if he had fallen alseep there, a book lying atop his open hand and his harp resting beside him.

Elrond reached out, and began to run his hands across the intricately fashioned wood, taking comfort from the smooth coolness of its surface. He remembered when Maglor had first shown him the instrument, who he had admired how beautiful it was.

("My brother made it for me," Maglor had told him, almost reverently.

Elrond had stared at the Feänorian in utter shock, blurting out, "Maedhros made that?!"

Maglor had smiled sadly, gently correcting him. "No," he had whispered. "I had other brothers too, once.")

Loosing one brother was bad enough, Elrond thought - he couldn't even begin to imagine what he would do if Elros died - but to loose five? He shuddered at the mere thought of it. No wonder Maedhros and Maglor both seemed so sad all the time.

The wind outside seemed to be growing more wrathful by the minute, and, despite himself, Elrond could sense a ball of fear beginning to foem in his stomach. It felt as if the fort was going to cave in. He reached out to wake the sleeping Fëanorian, but then thought the better of it, his hand hovering in mid air inches away from Maglor's shoulder. The Noldo must have been exhausted, Elrond decided, if he was able to fall asleep in such an uncomfortable position. Maglor had been nice to him, and he deserved some rest.

Elrond's gentle contemplation was abruptly cut short by the creaking of the door, as it was slowly pushed open from the hallway outside. The deep orange glow of a candle appeared on the wall, bathing the room in a warm light, and accompanying it came a shadow, large and terrible, like the outline of a ferocious beast from the stories he and Elros had once begged Maglor to tell.

"Who's there?" he called, a pitiful tremor clearly evident in his tone.

The shadow on the wall only grew and grew, and then Maedhros poked his head around the door.

"I thought he might be in here," muttered the fiery-haired elf, upon spotting his brother's sleeping form, more to himself than to the frightened elfling in the bed. "He spends so much time looking after the rest of us that he has forgotten that he needs to take care of himself, too."

Outside, the thunder crashed ferociously, making Elrond jump. Maedhros regarded him almost wearily, his silver eyes boring into Elrond's very soul. "You know," said the Noldo eventually, his tone tinged with a surprising softness, "it is just a storm, nothing more. We are inside a stone castle that has weathered storms like this for hundreds of years, and there is no reason that this one should be any different."

Elrond nodded hurriedly, but he still shivered when yet another crack echoed through the night, his knuckles turning white from the strain of clenching so hard.

Maedhros sighed loudly. "Would you like me to stay with you?"

Elrond felt his shoulders slump, and he averted his gaze from the towering Noldo, instead carefully examining his hands, which were folded neatly on the bedspread in front of him. "If you don't mind," he replied sofly, finally admitting defeat. In his mind, the raging storm outside was far more terrifying than even Maedhros could be.

Maedhros observed him for a short while, before shrugging to himself and slumping down in the other stiff, straight-backed wooden chair to Elrond's right, and the two sat in silence for a while.

"You're lucky you have him around to take care of you," Maedhros said eventually, gesturing to where his brother lay, head pillowed in his arms. "If it were just me, I would have left you to the mercy of your immune system."

Elrond considered this. "I think he feels bad for kidnapping us," he replied, matter-of-factly.

Maedhros seemed at a loss for words at this response, and Elrond couldn't help but think that he looked a bit like a fish with his mouth gaping open and closed like that. The Fëanorian shook himself slightly, collecting his words together again, before finally admitting, "I suppose you may be right."

The two fell into a comfortable silence after that, with Maedhros picking up the book that his brother had quite clearly fallen asleep reading and marking his page before flipping back to the beginning, while Elrond leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes, simply content to enjoy the quiet warmth.

That is, until it was shattered by the eerie creaking of the door as it was once again slowly pushed open.

Maedhros' head shot up, his hand dropping the book instantly and instead reflexively darting to grasp the tiny knife stored in his boot. Elrond's eyes widened in panic, however not in fear for his life but in fear for the life of his brother, whose voice could be heard quite clearly through the old, thick wood of the door.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Elrond," he was gushing, "but you'll never guess what happened on the way! I was walking past the entrance to the kitchen when I smelt the most delicious thing ever, and when I went investigating I saw that cook had made the greatest ever looking pastries. I had one on the way here, and it was awesome! Do you know how long it's been since I had a pastry. So I thought that they'd never notice if only a few went missing, so I- Oh," he finished deflatedly, upon noticing that his brother was, in fact, not alone.

"I take it that this is a regular thing," Maedhros stated coolly, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.

The twins both nodded anyway. It would be futile to deny anything at this stage; Maedhros had the type of gaze that could see past your fibbing and into your very soul.

"I- I'm sorry," Elros stammered eventually, quickly breaking under the weight of Maedhros's poisonous stare. "It's just that... well, I know how Elrond doesn't like storms and, er, I... uh, I thought that I'd come and see if he's alright."

The Fëanorian raised a single, fiercely intimidating eyebrow. "You thought that, even though I know that I've explicitly told you multiple times that it would be pointless for you, the only other person in this entire castle with the risk of catching the same illness, to come anywhere near your brother?"

Elros nodded again, scarlet blood rushing to his face and setting his cheeks on fire. The twins held their breath, both silently waiting for the Noldor to explode.

Maedhros took a long, slow, deep breathe, and exhaled loudly, his intense gaze never leaving the practically quivering form of Elros. "It would be hypocritical," he said eventually, with what almost sounded like a hint of weariness colouring his tone, "if I were to reprimand you for forsaking your bed at this hour in order to find your brother, when I am, in fact, doing the exact same thing."

Across the healing ward, Elrond and Elros exchanged confused glances, both unsure what to make of Maedhros' lack of hostility.

If the Fëanorian noticed their silent communication - and he most certainly did; the twins both knew well by now that nothing could ever slip past the hawk-eyed gaze of Maedhros - then he did not comment on it. "Come here," he commanded, "and bring the pastries with you. You took far more than the amount necessary to feed two tiny elflings, I assume?"

Hesitantly, Elros crossed the room, bearing a platter of delicious-looking pastries piled nearly as high as his head. His neck was bowed in weary defeat, and his feet dragged reluctantly, almost as if he was melting under the intense heat of Maedhros' glare. He handed the platter to the Fëanorian, who balanced it easily on his right arm, and stood respectfully back again, shoulders back, neck straight, chin raised; like a soldier being inspected by a commanding officer.

"Take a few pastries and go and sit over there," ordered Maedhros, gesturing towards an empty bed on the far side of the room. When it looked as if Elros might actually protest, he added, "You may stay, as long as you do not risk being contaminated by your brother."

Like lightening, Elros obeyed, hurriedly snatching an armful of pastries before all but running off to seat himself on his designated bed.

Maedhros glared sternly after him, and for a moment it seemed to Elrond as if he might change his mind, but then he shook himself and simply said warningly, "Don't you dare get any crumbs on those bedsheets."

Elros nodded frantically, and Maedhros must have been satisfied by his response, for he turned away and instead offered the platter to Elrond. Hesitantly, the bed-bound elfling stretched out a hand and plucked one from the still heaped mound of food, but soon all of his uncertainty was overwhelmed by the mouth-watering scent of the freshly-baked pastries, and he began to ravenously gnaw on his midnight snack.

Maedhros set the platter down on the bed, before taking a pastry of his own and beginning to delicately nibble on the edges, and for a while the room was plunged into silence.

"Maedhros," said Elros eventually, his voice muffled by the thick wad of food still in his mouth.

Elrond watched in a horrified fascination as his brother spoke without a second thought, spraying crumbs everywhere with every syllable that came from his lips. He began to brace himself for the soon to arrive scolding about mannors and eating with one's mouth full, and was therefore rather surprised when it never came.

"Yes?" was all the Fëanorian said, tersely.

"Please may I come and sit a bit closer? It's cold over here."

Maedhros gestured to the adjacent bed with his stump, and Elros and his pastries scurried across the icy floor of the healing ward with a frantic haste. Elrond caught his brother's eyes and beamed at him, and he smiled triumphantly back before returning his attention to the mound of hot food before him. Meanwhile, Elrond sneezed, and Maglor stirred partially at the noise, muttering something to himself before stilling.

When he had finished eating, Elros stretched himself out over the top of the bed, and soon feel into a deep slumber. Elrond examined him, giggling lightly at his unsightly state; his hair was thrown everywhere and his limbs were sprawled diagonally across the bed, and there was a small trickle of drool hanging from the corner of his open mouth.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and he turned his head to find that Maedhros was examining him with his own wary eyes. Elrond steeled himself, swallowed, and then matched the Noldo's considering gaze with his own, before smiling lightly. The Fëanorian didn't smile back, but he didn't scowl either, and Peredhil decided that that was a start.

Outside, the thunder sounded again, resonating menacingly through the air like the relentless boom of a war-drum, yet suddenly Elrond found that he didn't care. Maedhros was right, it was just weather. He snuggled himself further down into the comfortable warmth of his bed and sighed contently, and soon he felt himself drifting back into the blissful haze of sleep.

.&.

When he awoke the next morning, Maglor was not at all surprised to find that Elros must have snuck in during the night, and was now lying curled up in the adjacent bed, the blankets tucked securely around him, his face smeared with crumbs. What did give him a moment of pause, however, was the sight of his brother lying opposite him in a very similar position to the one he himself had occupied, head cradled in his arms, fiery hair splayed haphazardly around his face, almost like a halo.

Maglor took a moment to examine the slumbering form of his brother, and his heart melted slightly at much younger he appeared. Gone was the hard, biting sharpness of his silvery eyes and gone the glaring wrinkles in his brow, replaced only by a soft, smooth, almost child-like contentness. His posture was relaxed, and the corners of his lips even appeared to be twisted upwards into a small smile. It was as if the thick, tough, beaten outer shell of Maedhros has melted away completely, and left naught the peaceful Maitimo behind.

Maglor felt his mouth forming into a soft smile of his own, as he gazed down at his sleeping brother. His smile only widened further when he realised what his brother was curled so protectively around; a plate upon which sat a single pastry that looked like it was left over from a rather excessive midnight feast.

The smell of fresh food assulted his nose, and Maglor's stomach growled appreciatively. Cautiously, so as not to disturb his sleeping brother, he reached out in an attempt to pluck the remaining pastry from where it lay, encircled in the arms of the eldest Fëanorian.

His fingers were mere inches from the lukewarm piece of food when Maedhros' glazed eyes suddenly focused again, and a hand darted out to curl tightly around his wrist.

Maglor froze, and Maedhros blinked at him, and his eyes swivelled first to Elrond, then Elros, and then finally back to Maglor, upon which they hardened into a cool, warning glare. "If you say anything," he began, almost threateningly.

Maglor felt something inside him twist at the way his brother's mask slid so effortlessly back over his face. It was stupid, he knew, but for a brief moment he had allowed himself to believe that Maedhros might have changed, allowed himself to hope... But even so he knew now that there was still a small piece of his brother in there, still unmarred, untainted, unconsummed by their Eru-forsaken Oath and untouched by the burnt hands of Morgoth, and perhaps this knowledge would make the icy ghost of Nelyafinwë only more difficult to bear.

Outwardly, he allowed a knowing smirk to stretch extravagantly across his face, forcing a gloating purr to hide his disheartened tone. "I make no promises, dear brother," he simply said, lightly.

And before Maedhros could do anything more than release a protesting grumble, Maglor's free hand lashed out, and he grabbed the remaining pastry and shoved the entire thing into his mouth.

.&.

The dining room had been as intensely silent as ever, the quiet only broken by the occasional grunt or cough, or by the noise of spoons scraping against bowls. That all changed however, when the healer arrived, behind him trailing a rather joyful looking Elrond.

"I am sorry to disturb you, my Lords," the worn-faced elf had stated briskly. "But as I recently deemed that master Elrond has now recovered enough to be up and about, I though he may like to join you for your dinner."

"Oh thank Eru," muttered Maedhros, after the healer had been dismissed, leaving Elrond to once again take up his chair beside his brother. "I was beginning to think that he'd never recover, and then we'd be stuck with a perpetually sneezing elfling for the rest of all eternity."

Maglor glanced at him, eyes sparkling with what appeared to be amusement. "You sound relieved," he remarked, almost mischievously. "It's almost as if you were... worried" - he dragged the word out with a gloating drawl - "about him."

Maedhros rolled his eyes. "Worried about you, more like," he retorted. "I was beginning to think that I was locking the wrong elfling in his room every night." A slight pause, and then he added, muttering irritably, "Not that that was making much difference, apparently."

At the table, Elros squirmed, deliberately staring at anything but the flame-haired elf shooting daggers in his direction.

Maglor's eyes continued to gleam, but even so he said nothing, content for the moment to let his older brother cling to whatever shred of nonchalant dignity that he believed he still possessed. "Well," he said at last, smiling brightly in the direction of the newly-healed elfling, "perhaps now that you are better, Elrond, things can finally get back to normal around here."

And then, like a curse sent from the Valar themselves, destined to eternally haunt Maedhros and Maglor for their many (many) misdeeds, Elros released a tiny, pathetic sneeze.

"Achoo!"

Maglor jumped, Elrond giggled, and Maedhros groaned loudly before turning around and - with all the pent up frustration of one who has been through far too much - smashing his head against the wood of the table.

-end-

AN: It started out small, and then it grew. And then it kept growing.

For every piece of feedback I get, I'll start to feel better about procrastinating all the shit I've got to do, so take that piece of information and do with it as you will.

Hope everyone enjoyed!