Archive of Our Own

Caranthir’s first memory is of Maglor in the nursery, singing amid the light of late Laurelin.

It takes him a decade to understand that the gold of that afternoon was not his brother’s voice, but rather the light of the Trees.

…

By then, it’s too late.

…

Here’s another way to tell that story: Caranthir’s first memory is of his brother doing something unconsciously, and doing that task so well that the very light bends around him. Caranthir’s first memory is of his brother doing something unconsciously that Caranthir himself will never manage, not even with years of effort and grit and determination.

…

It isn’t anyone’s fault, of course, that his brothers are so talented: it’s Caranthir’s fault that he can’t reach their heights, not anyone else’s.

But there is a difference between knowing that in the quiet dark shadows of one’s soul and having that shoved in your face by your father in front of everyone. And Caranthir isn’t his father. He can’t be his father. The forges don’t sing to him; he has no love of the world of invention. 

So when Feanor commands Caranthir to join him in the forge…

Caranthir panics.

…

Keep in mind: there is no such thing as allergies for elves.

Dogs might have allergies, yes, but elves generally- don’t.

Caranthir, who goes to hide in the kennels and sees one of Celegorm’s hounds sneezing miserably into his paws, knows this. But he’s desperate. Really- fucking- desperate. And the dog is right there, and the dog hasn’t gone on a hunt for weeks because Yavanna is releasing some novel pollen that her maiar want to test and the point is that sometimes things are beyond someone’s abilities, and if it’s good for one of Orome’s hounds- well, it’s not like Caranthir’s so proud that he won’t use it.

He just won’t tell anyone.

It’ll be fine. Nobody will find out. He has a night to figure out a novel disease that no elf has ever suffered through. He has a night to make the story believable too.

It’ll be fine.

Caranthir’s good at keeping secrets.

…

First, he decides what he’s allergic to.

Iron’s too common for him to avoid; Caranthir already has gold earrings, so that won’t work either. Tin is annoyingly rare. Lead might be helpful, but Caranthir also completed a project last year tinting lead windows and very obviously did not have a runny nose or rashes then, so that’s out, too.

Which leaves silver.

Caranthir likes silver, though. He really does. One of his favorite gifts is a little silver box that Mahtan made for him for his third birthday. It’d be a shame to have to hide it away.

But.

Sacrifices must be made.

So, silver it is.

…

He steals a bunch of sandpaper, and then spends hours scraping at his own nose and face, carefully taking a layer of skin off so it looks angry and rashy, but not like he actively took sandpaper to the face. Caranthir’s at least always had the ability to cry on command- not that he’d ever considered it an asset before today- so crying, faking sneezes and sporting a furious rash seems like a reasonable set of symptoms.

…

It works.

…

Miracle of all miracles, it works. Caranthir spouts a story about spending the night in the forge- he had, only with sandpaper instead of silver- and falling asleep on a pile of silver- a bald-faced lie, he’d been far too keyed up- and waking up miserable- which is true, but for very different reasons to whatever his parents assume.

It also means that Caranthir has to apply sandpaper to his face every time he comes near someone with silver from that day onwards, which is frustratingly cumbersome and requires Caranthir to get very good very quickly at differentiating between different metals- pale gold looks like silver in the correct light, and then there’s platinum, and tarnished silver, too- and also necessitates that he pay more attention to the environment than ever before, lest someone approach him while wearing silver jewelry, but Feanor leaves him alone, which is such a blessing that Caranthir doesn’t look twice to continue the charade.

…

Nobody seems to care all that much, in truth. Caranthir’s face has always been blotchy. He’s always been bad-tempered about forging. He still applies himself to covering up any faults in the lie- his brothers get weirdly prescient at the strangest times- but there’s relief in knowing that nobody’s trying to ferret out the lie, that nobody so much as suspects him of a lie.

…

Or so Caranthir thinks.

Because Maglor is a performer: he knows what a performance looks like. But Maglor is also a performer: he doesn’t care all that much about Caranthir’s sudden obsession with studying himself in the mirror, or Caranthir’s sudden interest in others’ accessories, or even Caranthir’s sudden predilection for spending a suspiciously regimented amount of time in the bathroom at royal parties. He doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t even consciously think about it. But Maglor notices.

It still takes him years to understand.

In fact, it takes him walking in on Caranthir sanding his face off to put all the pieces together.

They’re in Formenos by then. Caranthir yelps, and Maglor shouts, and they end up bringing half their family down on their respective heads, and that results in-

Well.

Lots of screaming.

…

Later:

“You didn’t need to- do- that.”

“No?” asks Caranthir. “It kept me out of Atar’s forge for centuries.”

He’d scrubbed too hard when Maglor burst into the bathroom, and there’s a rough stripe of raw skin running across his cheekbone. He looks- not young, perhaps, but stupid, definitely, stupider than Caranthir’s looked in a very long time. Maglor hates him so much.

“I’m not saying that you didn’t have to lie,” says Maglor tiredly. “But if you’d told me, you wouldn’t have needed to rip off parts of your face for centuries. There are make-ups for it, you know? And I’m very good at them.”

Caranthir stares at him. Swallows. Not young, Maglor reminds himself fiercely. Just stupid.

“I hadn’t thought-”

“Then think, next time,” Maglor tells him, faintly relieved. “And talk to me. Before you immediately go to the stupidest possible answer.”

…

Maglor doesn’t often sing to his family. Everyone thinks he does, but that had been while he was still young and his song not strong enough to affect most. By now, everyone’s learned to tell him to fuck off before he sets up his music and instruments in their vicinity.

Except for Caranthir, who never seems to be affected.

Oh, certainly, physical things- like bending light, or making the room cold- annoy him like the others. But Caranthir isn’t ever bothered when Maglor tries to work emotion into his works. He doesn’t so much as twitch for an operatic song of two lovers that are sundered by the Great Journey, leaving Maglor himself a nervous wreck for the week leading up to the performance- only for two grand masters to spend the entire song weeping copiously.

It’s something to do with how he processes emotion, he tells Maglor impatiently, the one time he works up enough courage to ask. Emotion and feeling- well, for Maglor it’s very auditory, yes, but more than that it’s sensory, and for Caranthir it’s very much…

Not.

“It’s in my head,” he tells Maglor. “I- work myself up, sometimes, and get angry because of that. Or I don’t. But it’s in my head, not in my eyes, or my ears, or- whatever else.”

Not stupid, thinks Maglor faintly. Just- different.

All of which makes him a terrible audience.

All of which makes him a wonderful companion to share a study with.

…

When they were young, Maglor would spend hours with Caranthir in the nursery, singing to his heart’s content.

Later, in Beleriand, in his darkest moments, Maglor wonders: Did I make him different? Did I do this, ere I ever knew what I could do?

…

Caranthir, for all that he spits out whatever’s in his head when he gets truly furious, never says anything like that to Maglor. He never even comes close to blaming him. It’s the kindest gift that Maglor’s ever been given.

…

The world darkens, and their father lights it up with his own pyre. They all return to camp, ashen and worn and embittered, but Maglor only pauses for long enough to requisition a fresh horse before setting off again.

Caranthir sees him leave, and feels like cursing.

They’re barely holding it together as it is. They certainly can’t afford Maglor to go off on a- a suicidal charge. Another suicidal charge, some cold whisper inside of him says, and Caranthir snarls under his breath in response.

He stomps over to get another horse, already too-grumpy and over-sore, and spends a good three hours tracking Maglor down an eerily familiar path: the same path they’d retreated from. By the time he actually returns to the site of his father’s pyre, Caranthir’s got something between a stone and his actual living beating heart caught in his throat, flat-out terrified that Maglor’s gone to actually charge Morgoth-

Only to see him kneeling on the grass, hands white with fistfuls of ash.

“What the fuck,” says Caranthir loudly.

Maglor looks up at him very levelly. “I’m not letting his ashes lie here.”

“You could’ve said,” Caranthir tells him. “We would’ve followed you.”

“I’m not fit company right now. You’ve enough to deal with without dealing with my grief as well.”

Caranthir narrows his eyes. “Sing, then. We all know that your singing doesn’t affect me.”

“I’ve never used this much power before,” warns Maglor.

“Power,” says Caranthir, and smiles, grimly amused, “is not the particular problem here.”

…

So Maglor sings, and the trees shake and the grass trembles and the very wind itself sharpens to a blade, but Caranthir does not flinch. He just sits atop the horse, and watches for orcs or balrogs, and lets Maglor finish this particularly gruesome ritual patiently.

…

“You could’ve helped me, you know,” Maglor grumbles later.

Caranthir shudders theatrically. “I had no desire to touch his ashes. Be glad I came this far!”

“I am,” says Maglor quietly. His face is also streaked with ash, by now, and he looks so stunningly miserable that Caranthir reaches out to touch his bare wrist. “I am, Moryo, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” says Caranthir. “You know that I’ll follow you as far as necessary, don’t you?”

“It’s going to be a far distance. A long battle.”

“I wouldn’t want to do it alone.”

“There are five others,” says Maglor, and laughs bitterly. “We’re not alone.”

“Kano,” says Caranthir, and Maglor’s laughter trails off. He looks up, and Caranthir looks back at him, and whatever Maglor sees on his face makes him go very still. “I will follow you as far as necessary. Do you understand?”

Maglor’s pulse leaps higher, throbs in his wrist. Caranthir pulls away slowly.

“Yes,” whispers Maglor. “Yes. I understand.”

…

When Maedhros returns-

Caranthir stalks into Maglor’s tent. It is very dark, and very muffled, and Maglor is huddled in a corner, a knife in one hand, a hank of hair in the other.

Caranthir slaps him.

“Get up,” he says quietly.

Maglor stares up at him blankly.

“Get up,” says Caranthir again, calm as anything. He is not usually this calm, but Caranthir has gone beyond the usual rage, the red trembling heat of anger. There is only one thing that he must do, and that is crown his brother, and that is what he will do. “We do not have time for you to falter. Get up, and tell us what to do, or Valar help you, I will make whatever we did to the Teleri look merciful.”

“I shouldn’t be king.”

“I don’t care,” says Caranthir. “You think Curvo knows what we should do? Or Tyelko? You are our king. You have to be our king.”

“You saw him,” gibbers Maglor. “You saw- there is no way for us to-”

“-I know,” hisses Caranthir. “I know, don’t you think I know that? There’s no way for us to win now. Not when victory leaves us looking like that. But if you don’t act like our king then Nelyo will have to be king, and do you think he’s in any shape to do that?”

“I can’t!”

“Figure it out,” he advises mercilessly. “And stop feeling guilty you didn’t find him. It wasn’t song that saved our brother: it was the Valar. And you’ve never been very blessed by them.”

“You’re the one without the blessings,” Maglor tells him.

It’s a thoughtless remark. Maybe. They’ve all gotten very good at being cruel in Beleriand, so maybe not. But Caranthir is-

-on a mission.

“A harp and a prayer,” says Caranthir coldly. “Which do you think brought the eagles?”

“I’ve enchanted songbirds in my time,” says Maglor sullenly.

Caranthir laughs. “You and I have no blessings save for what we scrape out of our skin and bone. You think your voice was a gift? A blessing? You shattered every window of our home for months when you were an infant, and none of the Valar could explain it. You are an anomaly, Kano: just as I am an anomaly in the other direction. Be glad.”

“Glad? Glad?”

“Darling Finno needs the Valar’s aid to be exceptional,” says Caranthir impatiently. “We need nothing more than our hroa.”

“Oh,” says Maglor, and staggers to his feet.

Caranthir bares his teeth in what can only charitably be called a grin. “Yes,” he says. “Oh.”

…

They defeat Morgoth; they head off to separate lands.

…

Maglor visits Caranthir the most often of any of them. Proximity for one reason, perhaps, but also because it’s peaceful in Helevorn, cool and damp and serene. It still takes Maglor thirty years to understand that his little brother has set up a thriving trade network running through the continent, all beneath their brother’s- and Fingolfin’s- nose.

But more than that, Caranthir is- in love. Or so Maglor suspects. The telling signs of letter-writing: ink smudges on his hands, quickly concealed pieces of parchment, laughing eyes lowered to meet an old, fond memory.

Not different, then, he thinks, and kisses Caranthir farewell for another season. Just slow. Slow, to burn as bright. Brighter.

…

He doesn’t get the chance to ask Caranthir. Things fall apart; the Gap goes up in flames. Caranthir flees south to the twins.

When they meet up next, Maglor does work up the courage.

Caranthir pales, and shakes his head firmly, and that’s the last time they speak about that.

…

The Nirnaeth happens, and Caranthir loses all remnants of the family he’d built for himself in Beleriand amid the last stand of the Haladin. He does not scream. He is not allowed the luxury of screaming, not as Maedhros is: for everyone knows how well Maedhros loved and was loved by a certain king, but Caranthir has kept his loves secret.

And- yes, he is bitter, and yes, he is jealous, and yes, he is doing stupid things, but this is also the smart thing: because someone must get Maedhros to do more than mourn his lost love. Someone has to keep Maedhros from fading. And there is nobody in all of Beleriand more ruthless in this moment than Caranthir.

He still has all the information from Amon Ereb from before the Nirnaeth. It’s child’s play to edit them. To make it look like he kept back a larger force than he actually did. Like he had suspicions about the humans’ betrayal before he actually did. Like he disdained and hated Fingon far more than he actually did. 

Nobody else would realize it if Caranthir started to act differently- he’s already acting differently, in truth, half-mad with grief as he is, but Maglor hasn’t left Maedhros’ bedside enough to realize it- which means that all it takes to arouse Maglor’s suspicions is to spend the time in Maedhros’ rooms.

Maglor plays his part to perfection, even if he doesn’t realize what the part entails.

…

Maedhros nearly chokes Caranthir to death when he reads the paper trail that Maglor hands him.

…

Maglor doesn’t look at him the same way either, but that’s fine. Little matter if they all loathe him for some strange reason; Caranthir hates himself enough for all of them and some spare change. When Celegorm starts making noises about invading Doriath, Caranthir refuses on principle, only to realize too late that he’s all alone and the two people that might have listened to reason are the very two people who hate him the most right now.

It still surprises him when Maglor comes to his room. What depths of desperation must have driven him to reach for the brother that he thinks of as both craven and traitorous!

“We must,” he says simply. “You know we must.”

“I know no such thing.”

“Moryo,” says Maglor. Caranthir does not flinch, but he very much wants to. “It is our oath. That we swore as our father burned alive.”

“If we shall commit less evil in breaking such an oath, is it not our burden to do so?”

“No,” says Maglor. “For the evil was first done to us, and we are simply answering it.”

Caranthir does not sob, but he very much wants to. “If you want it, then you know how to ask.”

“Must I?” asks Maglor sadly.

“Yes,” says Caranthir, and does not turn from the fire. “You must.”

“Fine.” A hand rests on Caranthir’s shoulder, scant inches from the place where Maedhros’ hand has left bruises. “You once said to me that you would follow me as far as necessary. Will you follow me now, Caranthir?”

Caranthir gives in, but he very much does not want to.

…

There are no bodies to recover from Doriath. Celegorm buries the entire city, and with him dies Caranthir.

Maedhros cleans out Curufin’s rooms, and the twins clean out Celegorm’s rooms, which leaves Caranthir’s rooms to Maglor. Maglor avoids it for weeks, until his seneschal approaches him about mice in the chests, hesitant and wary, and Maglor can avoid it no longer.

He goes into the room. It is, as usual, impeccable; the bed must have been freshly-made the morning before they left for Doriath. The thought leaves something twisting in Maglor’s chest. He sets it aside to approach the books.

They’re important: even if everything else were to be lost to time, logistics is what keeps a castle operating, and Caranthir played a role in almost all of it, and he’d been always particularly pedantic about noting all of it down. Maglor rather appreciates it as he sits down to look at the accounts.

Only to frown, and double-check the number of Caranthir’s forces with his memory of the books he’d seen just months previous, showing how well Caranthir had hobbled them in the Nirnaeth-

But, no. No. No.

Caranthir had lied.

I would have caught small lies, he thinks, staring in sheer horror as the full scope of the lie unfolds before him. But this lie is so amazingly broad- Caranthir had claimed to have a full company more than he actually did- that Maglor never realized. Caranthir had gone into excruciating detail about it, too, giving names and dates and even family histories to the others; he’d estimated grain quantities, calculated horse numbers and everything down to water fucking usage, and he’d made it look like he had a thousand more people than he actually did.

And he’d worked double-time to ensure that neither Maglor nor Maedhros figured out the lie.