The curse of being loved
This ficlet is my peace offering to @sortumavaara.
I have not forsaken your blorbo. I swear... I'm just not good at writing him lol
@elanna-elrondiel you wanted to be tagged. @cilil this is your fault for enabling and encouraging me!
Characters: Elrond, Elros, Elwing, Maglor, Maedhros
Words: 1,5k
Warnings: Sadness, Eldritch powers, kids are creepy, self-realisation, murder, canonical slaughter, canonical kidnapping
The first language Elrond had ever heard was the breathless cries of amazement and captivation at perceiving him, and he’d understood it at once even though he didn’t yet comprehend the power inherent to that instinctive reaction of bone-deep awe.
As was expected and natural, he was loved and cherished by his parents, and, if he noticed that their level of watchfulness went beyond that of others, he did not think anything of it.
Why would he have? He’d never known any other way of being treated.
Likewise, he’d never really questioned the strange appeal he and Elros seemed to hold for almost any other adult in the dismal camp of refugees. They were twins, a two-pronged beacon of life and hope, and it made sense that those who’d previously suffered such pains and deprivation would feel inexorably drawn to the soft, open faces of young children.
Elrond was aware that—in a world full of lurking danger and dark doom—he was vulnerable and precious to the adults in his life, not least because of the importance and wisdom of his genitors who were still utterly besotted with his charming smiles and pleading glances.
As time went by, though, he soon learned how to capitalise on that undeniable weakness in that self-forgotten, profoundly selfish way that was typical for toddlers.
Thus, he observed the reactions of those surrounding him with dispassionate curiosity, adjusting his mannerisms and voice in a myriad of discreet, nigh-imperceptible ways to consciously exacerbate the strange, alluring, corrupting effect he had on people.
In time, and almost despite himself, he started to tilt his head in a way that made his eyes gleam and his skin appear fragile and translucent like the finest porcelain, having ascertained through trial and error that this made it patently impossible for anyone looking at him to avert their eyes or deny him even the most outlandish request.
Barely out of infancy, he was continually perched on someone’s arm like a wondrous bird wrought of unconfessed wishes and stardust—back then, he was blessedly ignorant of his own lineage and the terrible might it conferred to him, and he shamelessly basked in the attention and admiration with which he was unceasingly showered.
Slowly but obdurately, all his motions grew thoughtful and elegant long before other children his age had outgrown the phase of rambunctious chaos, and yet, neither he nor his brother was ever truly ostracised or mocked by their peers for their peculiar charm that invariably turned rational sages and ferocious warriors into blabbering fools.
They were loved by all they met, and they hadn’t yet made any experience that would push them to worry about something as self-evident and wholesome as the simple fact that people seemingly never grew tired of watching them play or listening to them talk, no matter the subject and its relative importance.
Growing older and fairer with every passing day, Elrond before long was overcome with the unshakable sensation that the people around him drew an unfathomable, indescribable sense of soothing and even healing from their every interaction with him, and so he pushed aside his nascent qualms at having praise and gifts bestowed upon him without measure or restraint.
Still, he felt adored, respected, and valued in his community, and he began to feel responsible for those who had taken such generous care of him in return. When he grew to his full strength, he vowed, he’d prove himself worthy of all the affection that had been heaped upon him for as long as he could remember.
One fateful day, though, their mother—in their father’s absence—threw herself into the arms of the sea, desperate tears channelling her bright gaze into a deadly beam of cutting devastation that would sunder her from her sons forever.
Elrond was too stunned to even cry out—he didn’t understand. How could a woman whose very purpose in life had been to coddle and adulate her sons do something so cruel and reckless?
Of course, he did not get the time to further muse about these confusing, contradictory truths in peace, though, as a stranger approached him, his long-fingered hands extended as if to promise with his whole body that he meant him and his brother no harm.
Was it instinct or habit, Elrond would never be able to determine later on, but, abandoned by his father and bereft of his mother, he shamelessly angled his face upwards to catch the flickering light of his childhood being put to the torch in his wide, wet eyes.
Robbed of all his anchor points, he fell back on the hitherto unquestioned, flawlessly reliable magic that coursed through his veins—pushing Elros behind him, he moulded himself into the most appealing version of himself to cow the ominous, looming threat by innate enchantment alone.
The stranger chuckled softly. “I used to do that,” he confessed in a soft, melodious voice that seemed to chime like a thousand golden strings. “Nelyo was always the pretty one, but I was ever able to coax and coerce people by a mere glance or a whispered word.”
Elrond flinched back as if struck. Why did this atrocious confession echo through his whole being, sending nauseating waves of shame and guilt crashing into his soul?
There was something so callously, insultingly veracious in that careless quip that Elrond felt his mask of puerile purity slip, revealing the deep-felt shock and sudden fear lurking underneath to the merciless stare of the murderous intruder.
“You truly are of Melian’s blood.”
Frowning, Elrond shook his head in a vain attempt to dispel the gossamer threads of dark and dangerous magic the man’s voice wove around his frantic mind, choking all sense of self-preservation and caution out of it mercilessly.
“Who are you?” he asked, feeling Elros’s cold hand press against the small of his back as if to encourage him or hold him back.
The fearsome foe hesitated for a heartbeat. “Maglor,” he then sighed. “Call me Maglor.”
At once, Elrond pounced on that minuscule mellowing. Stepping forward fearlessly, he put out his slender, tiny hand and conjured up his most enthralling, hypnotizing smile. “I’m Elrond, and this is my brother Elros. You wouldn’t harm us, would you?”
Wearily, Maglor—who was drenched in blood and covered in mud and miserable memories—let go of his blade and wiped his pale, empty palm across his sweat-sheened brow. “No,” he finally grunted. “I know not whence the spell you’ve put upon me has issued, and I like it not to find such power in one so young, but I admit that all bloodlust has drained from my heart. Come away, there is nought here for you but death and starvation.”
“You hexed him,” Elros whispered as they were led out of the camp. “There comes another one, can you do it again?”
In truth, Elrond was shaken to his core. After a bountiful childhood at the bosom of his parents’ people, he now came to understand that he wielded a fearsome and potentially perilous power.
He yearned to seek out his mother’s wisdom or his father’s stalwart support, but he knew not where they were, and he doubted that he’d ever be reunited with them.
Too many epiphanies—much too weighty and woeful for a mere child to fully fathom—hit him at once, and he longed to curl up in the warm, protective arms of those who’d gathered around his bassinet and his naïve games to cheer and comfort him at every turn.
From the foul fumes of burning wood and smouldering stone emerged a figure—tall and stiff as a moving tree—and Elrond closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall every single instance in which he’d tricked someone into giving him an undeserved treat or forgiving a careless trespass upon their peace and property.
“Káno, what do you think you’re doing?” the newcomer rasped impatiently.
“Speak to the child,” their new minder, already half won over, replied in a clipped voice that turned his words into a hailstorm of icy shards. “You’ll see that I had no choice in the matter.”
With a scoff, the red-haired demon turned and stalked away.
“He’s afraid of your talents,” Elros cheered under his breath, and Elrond let him believe that the battle he was about to fight without even knowing his weapons was already won.
He’d have but little time to become consciously aware of his skills and hone them sufficiently to save their lives, but he’d not burden Elros with the devastating knowledge that they’d be on their own and at the mercy of their parents’ enemies henceforth.
When Maglor turned to lift his orphaned captives into his unyielding arms, Elrond leaned his soft cheek against the worn, dirty fur collar of his cloak in a gesture reminiscent of a defenceless kitten, seeking shelter and warmth.
“Leave it to me,” he whispered. He’d not only make these murderers spare their lives—he’d make them love him.
Again, this was an attempt at breaking me out of my writer's block, so there is no event, no Masterlist, no context...
Lots of love from me!
