This is another entry in my series of oneshots and short stories, The Care and Feeding of Partly-Human Children.

I own nothing.

It was still raining. That was the thought in Elros's irritated mind. It was still raining, quite steadily, without any signs of abating. For how much longer could it rain? Would the world be filled with water before it stopped? It certainly seemed as though Amon Ereb might be. Whenever Elros had to go outside to get to a different part of the fortress, his shoes and the ends of his leggings would end up quite soaked.

Elrond had long ago tired of standing under the eaves and waiting for the fall of silver sheets of rain, hoping in vain that it would stop. There was not even any longer lightning and thunder to punctuate the steady rhythm. Elrond had gone inside to see if he could read any of the books on the shelf in the "library" (Elros had seen the great library in the Havens of Sirion, and the one in Amon Ereb was pitiable by comparison), now that they could read and write a bit. Elros wished him luck, but somehow he doubted that Elrond would have much of it.

Elros could not profess to be having much fun with the reading and writing lessons. For one, he would have much rather learned Sindarin first and not Quenya, and for another, the constant rains were sapping him of all inspiration—it was difficult to stay awake, even, during the lessons. And, quite frankly, Maglor was not exactly a natural when it came to teaching, at least not with this. Mayhap it had been so long since he learned to write and read himself that he no longer remembered how difficult it was to learn.

The rains had been falling for what seemed like forever. Elros was sure, just sure, that if they stopped, and he could just play outside for a while, he'd be able to concentrate on his lessons. If he could play outside, he would stop having nightmares. They'd stopped for a while, once he came to Amon Ereb, but now they were back in full swing. Dreams filled with blood and screams. Dreams in which he was alone, calling for Elrond or their mother, until he remembered what Elrond said Maglor had told him, that Mama was gone. Elros didn't know, but he suspected that Elrond was getting them too.

He just wanted to see the Sun come out, and feel warm again…

Beneath the eaves, Elros heard footsteps, someone running in the rain. He dove, almost instinctively, into a nearby alcove, as someone came running up from the courtyard, seeking shelter under the eaves. Elros's eyes widened in surprise. It was Maedhros.

He must have been out in the courtyard for some time, perhaps going to visit the barracks—the soldiers did not have drills in such weather (the slick stones tended to lend themselves to training accidents), but he could just as easily been carrying out an inspection. His clothes were sopping wet, and Maedhros's usually rather wild hair clung to his cheeks and neck, straightened out by the rain, looking brown rather than copper red.

Maedhros stood there, shoulders slightly hunched, head slightly bowed. He was running his fingers over the stump of his right arm as he sometimes did, back and forth, back and forth—Elros wasn't sure he even realized he was doing it. He was staring past the grim gray stones to some point Elros could not see, smoke-colored eyes glazed. The frown lines about Maedhros's mouth and the worry lines on his forehead (the twin of Maglor's but so much more deeply etched) looked like nothing less than scars, cruel lines engraved in his skin.

Elros opened his mouth to say something, though he wasn't sure what, and alert Maedhros to his presence. He had sought him out before, curious about the eldest son of Fëanor, who kept himself so remote from his younger brother's charges. But this rainy day, Elros stopped himself, and kept his silence.

No longer did Elros believe that he or his brother had anything to fear from Maedhros. They were in no danger from him. Not since the first day they met, in the blood and ruin of Sirion, had Maedhros showed himself even remotely inclined towards violence against them. If his manner was short and somewhat brusque, it was also completely non-threatening towards the sons of Elwing. There was no threat of physical violence in Maedhros's behavior. He would not hurt them.

But Elros still had a clear image of Maedhros in his head as someone who was not to be crossed. He'd occasionally heard him in the barracks, shouting at someone, though whom and to what end Elros did not know. Maedhros had a way of silencing a room with his mere presence that Maglor lacked; when he walked into the great hall, an instant hush fell over the hall. Elros did not know him well; he was not sure how quick he was to anger, but Elros had heard stories enough of Maedhros's terrible prowess in battle, and did not wish to provoke his anger. The courage that had once possessed him, when first he was brought here, was all but gone, or, more accurately, it came and it went. He did not fear violence, but neither did he wish to incite wrath.

Still silent, still very much thinking himself alone, Maedhros sighed heavily. His left hand flew to the upper left side of his face, his breathing ragged as he smoothed wet strands of hair out of his eyes. He looked so tired, so gray and wan, that Elros could easily believe that he would collapse. Elros held his breath, staring at him, wondering what he would do, if he would scream, or wail, or indeed collapse to the ground. The way he looked like now couldn't have been any more different from the calmly competent face he projected in front of witnesses.

Then, Maedhros straightened his shoulders, banished the worn, weary look from his face, and strode back inside as though that spell had never come over him.

A few moments later, Elros crept down from his hiding place, and followed.