Author's Notes:

Warning: Disturbing imagery/ideas, especially in the end of the chapter.

I am being helped by WendWriter, but so far we have not moved past Chapter 1, and I think it is not wise to let the readers wait for too long. The others are not available at the moment as well… so please bear with me. Also, I got a great suggestion for Maedhros' fortress from Chisscientist. While I am deeply intrigued with that, working the suggestion into the layout of the building now is kind of hard… mostly because of my nearly nonexistent time. So I will get to it eventually, but not now, and we simply have to content ourselves with my old description of the Fortress of Himring.

Enjoy the read!

The morning after the arrival of the company at Himring, Erestor woke up in a state of disorientation. He blinked once, twice, thrise, yet reality still seemed to elude him. Where was he? The bed was warm and comfortable, although less elaborate than the one he was used to, and it had no drapes to conceal him from direct view of an outsider. It was smaller, and come to think of it again, the room itself was smaller and less adorned than his own in Hithlum. (Hmm. How easily now he claimed on Turgon's old flat… He just hoped it would not make him pompous in the long run.) He was in Himring, yes; he had been asleep in the couch somewhere in the second level of the fortress above ground, it seemed so; but where was this room located? Beside the sitting-room he had last visited yesterday night? The notion did not bring him much comfort, as he remembered that the two sitting-rooms he had been in yesterday had been quite similar one to another. It only sparked another question: Which sitting-room was adjacent to this bedroom?

"Bother," he grumbled after five minutes of confused thinking. He eased himself into a sitting position, looked at his clothing, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He had been so tired yesterday that he had not thought of cleaning his body, or at least changing into a fresh set of clothing, before sleeping. He had never been this filthy and stinking since his – punishment – sojourn with the herd of sheep right after training. Back then Glorfindel had gotten an earful of tirade from Finera for sending her son home nearly sleeping while standing and smelling like an orc, but now…

Smiling wanly, the Gondolindrim shook his head. It was not the time for homesickness. He must limit his thoughts of his home, family and friends to just a small amount, as cruel as it felt to his lonely soul. He needed to concentrate on the here-and-now in Himring more than ever, he supposed. He had a suspicion that the creative threats of retaliation Fingon's people had hissed at him was on par with – or even less menacing than – the brutal but subtle violence Maedhros' might react with. And now where were the High King and the Dispossessed? He was alone there—

No, not alone. His blind, wandering hand bumped on something warm, something which moved in a regular but tiny up-and-down motion. He traced the body slowly, carefully with the tips of his fingers, and chuckled a little. Ereinion. Of course, Fingon would have put them in the same bed. They had slept like that ever since his unexpected introduction to the child two months ago, after all. The Elfling was likewise in his travelling attire, and it suddenly gave him an idea. Now Erestor's mind was occupied with things more practical than where his host was; namely: where was the bathroom and their belongings?

Five minutes later, he still had not found any of their belongings. Ten minutes later, he was beginning to grumble under his breath. Fifteen minutes, and he was out the bedroom door, shutting it with a firm thud behind his back, wincing afterwards and hoping that the sound had not woken up Ereinion. Now he was indeed standing in the sitting-room he remembered from yesterday's events… and the door opposite the bedroom he and Ereinion had occupied overnight…

No, it was Maglor's.

Oops. Was Maglor still in this flat? He would hate to think that he was staying in a very close proxy from any of Fëanor's sons, especially that he had been asleep and was now weaponless.

Weaponless… Oh no. He still had his belt around his waist, and his favourite hunting knives were surprisingly still attached to it. `I wonder… why I was not aware of it before?` So, hands on the pommel of the knives, he inched closer to the opposite door, intending to peep inside.

An impromptu activity which was spoiled rather 'spectacularly'.

"Young one, I spent yéni with two of the worst brothers one could ever grumble on having, so just come in and do not linger there. And please do not do it again. Some people hate to be spied on, and my older brother Maitimo has become one of them."

Maglor, talking calmly with a trace of amusement, in accented Quenya – Ñoldorin Quenya, as taught by Turgon and Idril, as oppose to the Vanyarin dialect Glorfindel occasionally showed him.

Caught on act, Erestor blushed and rethought his decision to enter the bedroom. Was it safe to do so? He had not considered the action from that angle beforehand. It could have been fatal at another time… But what could Maglor do? Fëanor's second son was a poet and a musicion by heart, and the fact, as much as it displeased Elu Thingol, was frankly attested by the ruler of Doriath. (Well, and Daeron's griping about the "worthless kinslayer on harp" – whatever that meant – was rather hard to forget about, with all his imagined grose actions done by Maglor in Alqualondë, such as writing notation bars with the blood of the Teleri, and—)

Better not thinking about gloomy things when the chance of proving the facts was at hand.

As the young Sinda cautiously entered the room, what in his mind was: `Where and when can I have breakfast? It has been two days without meal… I would avoid Erin in his insufferable mode if I could, and he is always whining when he is starving or too uncomfortable.` And in the next second, his mind blanked out. `Wha?`

Maglor grinned at him as if the scene he beheld in the Ñoldo's bed was common. But perhaps it was so for the brunet, since rumors and stories told Erestor in various occasions that Fingon had been closest to Fëanor's sons among all Finwë's grandchildren from his second marriage. To have the current High King lying sprawled on the foot of the bed, rumpled and overall undignified, literally under the feet of the two brothers (one in the same state as said Elf), however…

"W-what happened?" Erestor found himself half-squeaking, to his horror. No wonder Maglor looked to be reining in his mirth with all his might. The Gondolindrim was aware that his own face must look funny, and he did not like it one bit. There was no way for him to retaliate, though. And why would he want to? It would have been suicidal of him, especially if the retaliation should have been enacted here, in the brothers' formidable fortress.

Maglor beckoned him to a chair beside the bed, and Erestor took on the offer with surprising quickness. The openness in the Ñoldo's whole visage might have something to do with it, all the same, if he bothered to look further into himself, reflecting on his experience the day before. Maglor had been almost as cold as Maedhros yesterday, and Erestor had had no reason to even suspect him of having any trace of humor, unlike Maedhros. The difference made him slightly dizzy. (But of course, the fact that he was short of fresh nutrition and being overloaded with many other thoughts must also be counted on that regard.)

"They drunk too much last night, young one. I found them sprawled in the sitting-room some hours ago, and thought to bring them here. Is your little tagalong awake yet?" Maglor said after a moment's pause. Erestor scowled.

"Ereinion is not a tagalong." It was a lie, but he was not about to let anyone taunt his little brother in-all-but-blood, especially if the person was one of Fëanor's sons.

Unluckily for him, Maglor caught on his train of thoughts. He loosed a long-suffering sigh and glared half-heartedly at the fidgeting youngling sitting by his side. "Do you not remember that I have been in your place some time ago, Erestor? You only have one, but I had five, and they were all louder than Ereinion." That surprised a laugh out of Erestor's lips and melted his heart a bit. Grudgingly, he acknowledged to himself that he had been adopting a biased point of view towards Maedhros and Maglor so far. It must be remedied soon. Was the second purpose of this trip not that he could learn for himself what sort of people Fëanor had led to madness?

He stole a glance at Maglor, then at Maedhros who leant heavily against his younger brother. The red-haired never stirred from his alcohol-induced sleep, a slightly-dazed look on his beautiful complexion – apt to his namesake. Maglor, on the other hand, was gazing at the young ellon with uncharacteristic shrewdness. Catching his stare, Erestor looked back down at his hands, abashed.

"Please forgive me," he mumbled. He felt awkward and surreal, now that he met the infamous kinslayers – two of them – in person, and even had a chance to see them in their relaxed, familial poses. It was hard to connect them with the horrible deeds they had done, even with the severed right hand of Maedhros displayed on his lap for all to see. And it was harder to ask them, to confirm the dark rumors circulating in the communities the youngling had ever been in.

`How if I asked him to—`

The melodies of a harp fell gently like a light rain in spring time in Gondolin. It fell steadily for the next minute, then began to rise just as slowly, before sliding down again in a smooth manner. The music was peaceful and warm, like a night around the fire with friends in easy camaraderie. It lulled Erestor into a sense of security and calmness, one that he had never achieved even in Hithlum. All thoughts fled his mind.

Unconsciously, he leant back against the padded back of his chair and closed his eyes in contentment, tilting his head ever so slightly to the source of the sweet sound.

His side.

Maglor.

He opened his eyes a crack and gave the Ñoldo a smile, sincere and natural. It was reciprocated. But the notes never wavered on the strings of the small hand harp on the brown-haired's lap. The motions of the long fingers was nimble and flawless, like a group of dancers on a stage.

"Sing for me?" Erestor asked, but what left his lips was the voice of a child caught in sleepy fantacy, one that even his mother had not heard for more than fifty years (and which she blamed on Glorfindel's trainings). There was no mockery in the soft tilt of Maglor's lips as he obliged.

The song was that of Aman and the joys of young Elves there. It told about the wide expanse of grassland under the rays of Laurellin, perfect for horse-racing, free from any fears save that of falling onto the soft, springy living green blades. It told about trickling fountains during the reign of Tolperion, gleaming with a silver light and singing songs about peace and slumber. It bragged about the dances, the festivals, the camaraderie of youthful souls, the bountiful harvests, the laughters…

Then it came to a stop, at last, and Erestor opened his eyes fully.

"I shall not sing the second half of it," Maglor warned when their eyes met.

"Why?" Erestor's curiosity peaked. The dreaminess was leaving his voice, but not the childlike innocence. Maglor gave no answer, but this time the younger ellon was content with the silence, the refusal – which would have offended him otherwise. It helped that he fell asleep just some seconds later, leaning on Maglor's shoulder over the arm of the chair he sat in.

He woke up in Maglor's bed, alone, with the weak sunlight streaming down on his chest. There was no sign of either Maglor, Maedhros or Fingon anywhere in the room.

Ereinion?

The Gondolindrim bolted out of the bed and dashed outside, not slowing down or flinching even when the door bounced against the wall with a loud crack. The door on the opposite side of the sitting-room was open, but he heard nothing coming out of it.

"Erin?" he called while half-jogging to the door. He arrived just as a reply floated to his ears. But it was not one who he had sought. "He is with Makalaurë, Erestor. Come in." Fingon.

Erestor froze. The wince he had held back now jolted him some centimetres from the carpeted wooden floor. His paranoia was now laid naked before the King. What would Fingon think and say about it? His fears had so far been safely hidden, seldom leaking. His momentary peace, induced by Maglor's music and singing, seemed an age ago already.

He retreated to the middle of the sitting-room when Fingon came out a moment after, apparently sensing that he was not about to return to his bedroom. Their eyes met for half a second, but Erestor quickly hide his by looking down to the rich woven rug he was standing on. What would Fingon do to him? The King's gaze was unreadable. How if—

"Erestor?" The arms around his shoulder was comforting. The body flushed against him was warm and familiar. As hard as he tried to find any bit of anger or disapproval in Fingon's posture and voice, he could not find any. So, reluctantly, he looked up and stared back into the King's eyes, indicating that he was listening. His tongue was strangely heavy, rendering him unable to speak.

Fingon did not seem to mind, anyhow. He smiled at his alleged ward and murmured, "You can trust Maitimo and Makalaurë, Erestor. They will not betray us. But indeed you should be wary of their followers. Just do not tell anyone that I tell you this." He winked, flashed him an impish grin (which ruined his image as a king), then released Erestor from his embrace. "You missed breakfast. Come dine with me, then you could go anywhere you would – as long as it is still within the boundaries of this fortress. I shall only tell you where Ereinion is after you have sufficiently eaten."

Erestor caught himself from pouting only in the last moment. Trying to look nonchalant, he nodded and followed Fingon outside the flat. He would ask the King – as inoptusely as possible – about his belongings and the chance of cleaning himself up from the filths of the road some time during the meal, he decided, and avert his thoughts from Ereinion meanwhile.

The last was easier said than done. At the time he emerged from the small dining room – used by family members and no other, Fingon had explained –, the young ellon was fairly agitated with thoughts about what Ereinion could have been experiencing in the span of time they were separated from each other. He could not even take joy in finding his belongings (in Fingon's bedroom, which he shared with Maedhros, which was usually Celegorn's and Curufin's), or in the subsequent long, thorough bath he had. He nearly bolted down the halls and stairs when he was finally finished with the required ablutions.

As promised by Fingon, he found Ereinion sitting in Maglor's lap, listening intently to the older ellon's coaching him on playing harp. The child, to his great relief, was enjoying the lesson, and appeared to be catching on the instructions quickly – as quickly as when Erestor had taught him about the history of Arda, or how to write in both Tenguar and Daeron runes. They were in the first level of the fortress, in what looked like last night's sitting-room Erestor and Ereinion had visited, complete with the burning hearth. Erestor had arrived there by counting the doors from the stairs to the destination, as advised by Fingon – who had been there at least once… and perhaps lost too at first.

When the Elfling spotted his surrogate older brother, all the same, his intent expression broke into a wide, goofy grin. "Eros!" he proclaimed happily. Maglor only had time to pull the harp – the same harp he had used to lul Erestor into slumber – out of the way, before Ereinion launched himself like rock from a catapult to the waiting arms of the resigned-looking ellon standing near the ajar door.

"Erin, you almost ruined Master Maglor's harp," Erestor scolded him softly. Ereinion, dangling from his neck like a baby ape, pretended not to notice.

"Erin."

The child uttered a protesting little squeal. Erestor had the tip of his left ear in a gentle pinch.

"Apologise, now."

"Yes! Yes!" the child whined. He slid down Erestor's front and turned around, his mouth open for the required apology.

Maglor, oppositely, was chuckling in obvious fondness and indulgence. That rather lessened Ereinion's sense of worth in asking for pardon. But still, on Erestor's nudge to the nape of his neck, he obliged and grumbled, "I am sorry, Master Maglor."

"For?" Erestor drilled.

"For… for nearly knocking the harp." The child scrunched up his nose at the harp sitting by Maglor's side, as if it was its fault that it had not leapt out of his way in time.

Maglor's quiet chuckles turned into peals of laughter. Shaking his head in mirth, he beckoned the two younger Ellyn to him, and in a moment they were wrapped in his embrace while sitting beside him (Erestor) or in his lap (Ereinion).

"You reminded me so much of my little brothers," he confessed when he had gotten his laughter under control. A shadow of sorrow and pain crossed his countenance, but it dicipated just as quickly. "Yes, Ereinion, that was rather rash of you – but I forgive you for that. That was not my first time dealing with little imps like you, however, so I knew what I had to do." He grimaced slightly. "My first harp was ruined by Carnister when he saw our mother and rushed to her without warning. I have learnt since then… in the hard way."

Unfortunately for the visiting young Ellyn, their time afterwards was not so friendly, or even laughable.

Ereinion insisted that they visit the training area. He vexed his guardian so much that Erestor finally capitulated. After retrieving his fighting daggers from their lodging and asking the lounging Fingon where the training grounds were, the duo trotted down the fortress and outside of it, down the hill half-way to the barracks of the warriors, servants, and their families. It was also where the contingent brought by Fingon were lodged.

The view of the barracks' yards was rather daunting to Erestor. People from various age groups trained with many kinds of weapons in a seemingly unceasing manner. Worse, they seemed quite capable with those weapons – except for some younglings in the age of their majority or below. In hindsight, it might have not been a good idea to oblige to Ereinion's wish after all. The child might not realise what the show of power meant; he was gawking at the training people with obvious excitement and interest! Disaster in the making, professed the Gondolindrim glumly to himself as he was dragging the Elfling towards the dagger-fighting trainees, all the while admonishing said Elfling against showing too much feelings or emotions or even speaking.

Ereinion did behave, but the disaster was still unavoidable.

"Who are you, stranger?" someone barked from amidst the tangles of limbs and deadly blades. Ereinion flinched slightly on the harsh, hostile tone, but Erestor only sighed.

"We are guests of Lords Maedhros and Maglor," the young ellon proclaimed firmly, putting forth all his remaining courage in that short sentence. Showing weakness would only do him worse; the speaker sounded like a bully, and bullies, from what he had experienced himself, loved their victims the weaker they were. (There had been many in Gondolin, since he had not been a popular child… and there were still who liked to target him now despite their age growth.)

And bullies were also underhanded.

Erestor pivoted on the spot. The ringing noise of metal against metal resounded across the suddenly-silent field. The Gondolindrim did not have time to do anything more than glaring at his sneaky assailant, however, as much as he wanted to do otherwise, because right then another person was lunging for Ereinion with claw-like hands. Being worked up into a fury by now, he cried out and kicked the other ellon right on the chest, causing the attacker to fly several meters back, unconscious before he hit the cold dirt.

The stupor caused by his action only lasted for a moment. Soon the Fëanorians shook off their dumb surprise and, with a blood-curdling battle cry, charged towards him.

The threat was answered by Fingon's contingent.

The yards would have become a battleground had Maedhros and Fingon not come in time. But still, they had to separate several Ellyn who were already fighting. (The sight of the two lords standing side by side and equally furious in their own ways was impressive enough to automatically stop most from continuing their fights.) All the while, Ereinion cowered behind Erestor, pressed close to the trunk of a tree, clutching his guardian's robes in a death grip and using said garments to stifle his frightened sobs.

Fingon, after calming down his people as best as he could, made a beeline to his son and unofficial ward. His face was still a mask of fury, but his arms around the two younglings were gentle and comforting. They only half-listened to Maedhros roaring about the crudeness and underhandedness of attacking guests to kill, not to incapasitate, and how his people had forsaken their senses by charging blindly into a battle not of their making. Hypocrit, thought Erestor, but he kept that judgement to himself.

On hindsight, he was relieved that he had been his silent and unassuming self so far, even when he had been ruffled that many times – which would usually have made him grouchy and thus 'talkative' in a way. Maedhros transvered half of his fury by training Erestor there and then on dagger and sword fightings, inadvertently providing his people a good, valid chance to deride the young guest. Life was ironic, the Gondolindrim had heard many times, and now he was experiencing the irony himself, without a doubt of its nature. He just wished it would not have been so morbid—

And tiring, too. He dragged himself into his lodging half-asleep in the end of the impromptu sword training, battered and exhausted. Worse of all, it continued for the rest of their visit in Himring, and Maedhros stuffed various weaponery skills – almost literally – into Erestor's mind and body mercilessly. Sessions of arts and musical lessons provided by Maglor were the only respite he had.

On hindsight, again, he was thankful for the nerve-numbing overall exhaustion he was left in the end of their stay. In that way, he only watched the beheading of his sneaky assailant from earlier in the week, executed by Maedhros himself, with blank eyes. That was a parting gift, the eldest in Fëanor's brood seemed to insinuate when Fingon, having just shielded Ereinion from the horrid spectacle in the last moment, squawked about unnecessary bloodshed when they were free from potential eavesdroppers.

A parting gift, indeed.