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“Hush.”
“You hush!”
Maglor sends a pointed look from over his lyre, the strings still thrumming in song. Besides the twins’ bickering, it is the only sound. He brings his hand back to the crossbar to rest until the remaining tune is depleted. It is as melodic as it always is, but his voice is absent from the air–waxing poetic words, words that leapt from string to string as the music shrills. It's something that both Elros and Elrond dare not say they miss in truth.
It has been this way going on two days now. Life there consisted now of only three voices, and to the twins it was beginning to grow frustrating. It is a pity to be sure, Maglor sung them to sleep and sung them awake–he orchestrated the music of their brand new life, and in that way made it seem a little less dark than it was. Had it been Elrond’s way he would have forced the elf to sing again, and quickly, but he lacked such courage. Elros, it seems, did not.
Before Elrond can grasp at his hand, Elros steps forward and around the edge of the table, stopping only to poke Maglor with a tentative finger. Elrond thinks he sees a shake in his brother’s hand, and would not fault him for it.
Again, Maglor merely sends a look, this time accompanied by a lifted brow. A question.
“Will you not sing?” Elros asks. Maglor’s lip burgeons into a smile. Alas, to Elros’ grief, he shakes his head in one smooth motion, midnight black hair falling from his broken braid.
Elros humphs. Considerably childish for one so close to their second stage. A breath falls from Maglor that is just close enough to a laugh and he jumps at the sound. “Ha!” Elros exclaims.
“We ought to leave him be–”
“Why won’t you speak?” Maglor toggles with the tuning bulge, tightening the strings as he goes. “Pleaseeeee,” Elros begs for an answer. Again, Maglor only shakes his head. At once, his music fills the room again–nimble fingers plucking at the strings.
Furrowing his brow, Elrond can see a shenanigan lying in wait behind Elros’ eyes. He is quick, then, to bridge the space between them and pull his brother from Maglor’s side. “Leave him be!” Elrond scolds, but his words lack any real conviction and Elros’ laughter only lengthens. He catches a brief look at Maglor before they leave the room–he who sits tall and silent, hands constructing a poem that does not need any lyrics, a song so perfect it makes its own meaning. Still, Maglor smiles.
—
“I’ve an idea,” Elros says once they leave. Elrond pulls him further down the hall until he is sure Maglor cannot hear.
“Why do we not just let him be? What if something is wrong–perhaps he only needs a moment’s breath.”
“It's been two days! What if he never sings again?”
Elrond pushes him along until the hall leads out into the garden. A small one, tinier than they had growing up, but it graces them with apple trees blooming at harvest and roots popping from the soil like stalks. They walk until they reach the outer portion, where the tree looms and the ground is slick and red with fallen fruit. “You are very dramatic.” Elrond says, but cannot help the way the thought pulls at him. If Maglor never did sing again? How Elrond loved his songs…
“If he will not speak,” Elros pauses, soaking in the worried look on Elrond's face. He pulls an apple from a limb. “Then we will scare the words from his lips.”
Elrond sighs. “And if Maedhros has something to say on the matter?”
“Calm, brother. He will laugh, I am sure.”
“Or send us to battle trolls along the Himlad. Maybe to the Gate itself should we bother Maglor so much.”
Elros smiles, sure. “He will laugh.”
—
And so the plan began. A faulty one at best–inspiration taken from the very garden they had stood in.
“Apple throwing? That will scare the second son of Feanor into speaking?” Elrond plops another apple into the basket in Elros’ hands. It had been filled earlier, but a snack for all their hard work had emptied it once again. Gorged on apples to the point of nausea, it was easier to fill the second time around.
“It is either this or jumping down from the rafters. He still carries a blade if you aren't aware?”
“Indeed,” Elrond says, something solemn comes to mind and he is quick to shake such a thought. “That is enough, yes?” He points to the basket, so full Elros sags with it. He does not need his brother’s answer to know it is more than.
It is less easy to climb with the basket, but they make it upon the stairs and into the upper levels. Quiet as mice they tip-toe along the floor until they stand above Maglor. He sketches along a parchment, ink swirling to create new melodies.
Elros lowers his head from the banister and whispers, “steer clear of the instruments.”
“And his head, if you will.”
Elros stifles his laughter, two apples ready in each palm. “I will try.”
The toss is lazy, but an apple lands upon the floor with a whopping thump. The other soon following behind. “He didn’t even move,” Elros mumbles.
“Throw another,” Elrond grasps his own apple within his hand, far too scared to give it a go. Another apple flies from Elros’ hand, landing this time near a harp against the wall.
“Careful, children.” Maedhros calls, entering the room.
Elrond freezes–-unlike his brother who leaps from his crouch and down the stairs with ease. “Go!”
When Maglor peers up all he sees is wide half-hidden eyes and the end of Elros’ trailing robes.
Maedhros laughs, loud enough to scare the remaining twin away—Elrond runs, padding down the stairs behind his brother’s footsteps.
“May I ask how did you invite such behavior?” He turns to his brother, who didn’t even pick his head from his desk.
Maglor shrugs.
“Ah yes,” Maedhros picks up the parchment on the table. Half music sheet, half notes. “Vocal rest. I had forgotten. How much longer do you think? The children grow restless it seems.”
Maglor smiles again, lifting his hand to signal.
“Two days? My, that is a lot of apples…”
—
“Well that didn’t work.”
Elrond huffs his breath out in half-coughs, he brings his hands to his knees and rests for a moment before shooting up. “I knew it! I told you it would go wrong!”
“You aided me regardless! And Maedhros did not punish us–
“Yet–”
“He laughed! I heard it even in the corridor, loud like thunder. He found it funny.”
“Perhaps we should be lucky it is considered unjust to slay the jester,” Elrond grumbles. “Alas, Maglor didn’t speak.”
“Nay,” Elros furrows his brow. “We’ll need something far more scary.”
Elrond shook his head, so fast his neck hurt in the end. “Nonsense. I will not aid you any longer.”
“And if Maglor refuses to ever sing–”
“I will wait! He cannot help himself but to sing, he’ll make a song for any event. He is in there creating the lyrical tale of the Apple Throwing Twins. I will wait for such.”
Elros leans forward to take Elrond’s hand. “Brother. Awful title. But we cannot just leave it to fate!”
“Why not?”
“It is not in our blood to do so–”
“Children.”
Elros and Elrond squeak, the pitch so high another apple drops from the tree. Maedhros looms behind them, though he is armor-less he stood as a soldier–back straight, face stern. Beneath this fiery exterior, his eyes dance with mirth. “Children,” Maedhros says again. “Apples do nothing to scare my brother.”
The twins stand as if stoned like a troll. Maedhros suppresses a smile. “You’ll need something more to frighten him.” He turns and begins his walk back into the halls, stopping only to throw a look over his shoulder. “Come along.”
Surprisingly, it is Elrond who takes the first few steps after him. Elros soon after. They must run to keep in step with him as he makes his way through the corridor. Once he stops outside a marble doorway, they both nearly run into his legs.
“Your chambers?” Elros asks, looking from around Maedhros. The door just as daunting. “We aren’t allowed in…”
“Correct.” Maedhros affirms. “Stay here.”
“Hmph.” Elros looks to Elrond when the elf steps in and the doors close behind him. “I had hope.” Elrond nods in sympathy. They wait a while, enough time to think they had been forgotten, when Maedhros returns. In his arms he carries two linen sheets of ivory, each bearing a pair of eye holes.
“Maglor has a…deep seated fear of ghouls. This may work.”
Elros barks a laugh and takes one of the sheets. As he dresses, Elrond dares to ask. “You are good at these jests. Have you done this before?”
Maedhros’ smile falls for the briefest second, something shadowing his vision. “It was a long time ago.” He says. “Maglor has not forgotten how to laugh at such things I hope.” They both turn to look at Elros, the ivory sheet hanging from him like a bundle of ribbons. His eyes peer out from the dagger-cut holes with an unmistakable mischievous mirth.
“Let us go,” Maedhros laughs, and Elrond has only a moment to blink before the sheet drops onto his own head.
—
The first thing Maglor hears, just as night falls and the final reverberated tune from his lyre ends, is a soft hoot.
An owl, no doubt, as all he thinks. But they come again, in quick procession, soon losing any resemblance of any owl. Maglor places his lyre on the table, he traces the banisters above him but his gaze does not find anything out of place.
“Hoo, hoo!” The sound comes again. He squints out into the hall, darkened now that the sun has set and he has yet to light any lanterns. Maglor’s steps are careful as he makes it out of the music room. Even he recognizes the new quiet in these halls, despite being the voice to fill them most of the time.
“Hoo, hoo, hoo!”
He knows for certain it is the voice of a child, an elfling–two, in fact–that he knows very well. Maglor smiles, finding it harder than he thought to choke back a laugh or mocking call. Quickly, he lights a candle and enters the hall, the firelight leaving everything but a few feet in front of him darkened.
The sound comes again, and he only has to turn a corner to see the maker. Expecting the twins he is quick to jolt back at the sight of two pale figures. The dark obscures them, his candlelight barely a flicker against their ivory skin. “Hoo, hoo!” They say in unison before bolting towards him.
If asked later, Maglor would say he faced these ghouls with ferocity and courage, the very kind known to lace the blood of the sons of Feanor. If one asked Elrond, he would say Maglor cowered as if the ghouls had been a part of Morgoth’s host.
“Ai! Mercy!” Maglor catches one of them against his chest.
The ghouls break into laughter, strong and wild as a child’s. “He spoke! He spoke! We did it!”
Maglor faces them in disbelief, taking his hand off his dagger before the twins’ could see he held it there. The sheets are whipped from their heads and out comes the ruffled heads of Elrond and Elros, faces burning with joy, eyes closed in laughter. He looks around, spotting a crimson braid at the edge of his candle light. “Nelyo…?” Maglor breathes out. “Are you behind this?”
Over the twin’s celebration he hears Maedhros’ laughter boom along the dark halls before his own lantern light fills the gap. “Indeed.”
He throws him an exasperated look before his attention is pulled. “Maglor?” He peers down to see Elrond grasping at his robe. “Will you sing now? It is time for sleep…”
Maglor sighs but cannot hide his smile. “One song,” he compromises–knowing he will sing the whole night if asked.