The rain is still falling but Maglor knows it's worse than before. Wind as picked up, howls around his ears and makes it difficult to keep a sense of direction. When he finally finds the target he shot down he rules out that the change in the weather is a coincidence. A loud curse leaves his mouth but the storm swallows it immediately. Walking towards the winged beast Maglor quickly discovers that it's dead. One perfectly aimed arrow brought it down.
He'll have to thank Tyelko later for the arching lessons.
But it doesn't mean he has what he came for. Maglor curses again and kicks the dragon. Killing that thing is only half the pleasure.
For the rider is gone.
Maglor's eyes search the empty land. There's nothing to see but a dark empty sky. Yet he knows the enemy is out there, not far. Hiding probably, hoping that Maglor will go away and he can make his way back to Angband.
"I'll find you," Maglor shouts and this time the power in his voice drowns out the raging storm. "I swear to all the powers in the world that I'll find you. You can't escape."
He doesn't get an answer but Maglor knows that his message has been heard. Then he retreats and seeks cover, intend to get out of the rain for a while.
Maglor's eyes are white. Few notice the lack of colour because the whiteness reflects any kind of light, thus painting his eyes in the shade of his enviroment. At night his eyes are dark, near the sea they appear grey and around his brothers they are dyed red. But theorectically they are white. The fire in his mind burns everything away. The brightness of his soul shines through them but the most of the time Maglor knows how to avoid the gaze of others.
In Aman Laurelin and Telperion basked everything in their light and his eyes adjusted so no one noticed. In Beleriand the sun burns over their heads in a cruel, revealing manner and the Moriquendi only see Aman when they look at Maglor.
His eye color is seldomly an issue. Its an oddity, doesn't hurt him and is in truth just a side effect of the fire in his soul.
Sometimes Maglor curses his father with satisfiying ferocity. Who else but Fëanor is resonsible for the restlessness he feels? On occasion Maglor is torn between pitying and envying his litte brother. Curufin's hands are never idle, always creating, working with a skill that is Fëanor's own. But unlike their father's, Atarincë's mind is peaceful and quiet. It's driven by logic, numbers and the laws of nature.
No, Maglor hates Curufinwë. He wants to strangle him and scream at him because for all his reputation, he isn't father and doesn't understand why Maglor has been so irritating lately. Of course he's going to apologize, but only when it's its over. In that way Curufin is a good brother. He huffs and looks annoyed, yet in the end he leaves you alone.
Right now Maglor prepares a meal for them. Something rather complicated to keep his hands busy. His mind drifts when peeling potatoes doesn't clear his mind and songs start to float around in Maglor's head. Forms, shapes and colors. All fragmented of course but Maglor likes to put them together. Sometimes it's like a puzzle to figure out, today it's more like weaving, connecting the fragments through his touch.
"Cáno," Curufin calls him. Maglor blinks, trys to push the colors away. He can barely see the table in front of him.
"Yes?" He responses with a question when he looks up. His brothers appearance seems to be far away.
Thankfully Curufin is patient. Unlike him, who got energetic Tyelkormo as first little brother. Then Carnistir who wasn't any better.
So instead of answering, Curufin points at the dinner table. Maglor sees blooming flowers growing from it in beautiful tendrils while next to the half cooked meat sits the spirit of a rabbit, hobbling around in confusion.
"I apologize," Maglor says quietly and wonders if he has to kill the rabbit a second time.
"No songs of power at the dinner table, please," Curufin answers with a sigh and sounds like father.
But it's just his voice. The command is mother's since father would've let sing until the flowers became large trees with fruits they could eat. Working with father was fun and easy. Father understood how the limits of the physical languages, created by guttural sounds of the throat.
Still hungry? Maglor puts his suggestion close to Curufin's mind. While his little brother doesn't reach his level of mastery, he still catches the thoughts easily and responses with a hummed argeement. As much as Maglor enjoys the use of language sometimes, the easiness with which words and meaning can be bend, he prefers the use of oswanë in privacy.
It's far easier. More honest. Words are the manipulation of sound and air. Songs are the same, just intervoven with intention. In Aman they praised his golden voice despite his own troubles to understand why it was so special when it's just another way of asking someone to do something. But that was in his early youth. Here in Beleriand, in his adulthood with his father's lessons in his mind, he understands his own otherness. He doesn't use his voice to carve beauty, his songs are a tool, a means to an end.
Eru build the world with his voice. Songs aren't meant to be treated with reverence. They're laws. Laws on which the universe runs. Law of conversation with reality.
His brothers know that. Before, with father still alive to care, it was a childish notion. A way to annoy his sibling. After the darkness came Maglor insisted on educating his brothers. They had be able to tell differences between a pasttime and a weapon that could safe their lifes.
"We appreciate that you wish to keep us safe, Incáno," Curufin says with a smile, using a nickname Maglor earned a long time ago.
Yet to call him mindmaster is a reminder. He plots and picks schemes apart when his siblings cannot see them. With an affectionate growl, he hugs Curufin. Under much protest but Maglor is still taller than his little brother, even it's just a little and feels only content when he has Curufin safely in his arms.
Finally the little brother surrenders. He's practiced with Maglor's lack of dialog. His big brother seldomly talks. He sings or prods at your mind when he wishes to hold a conversation.
Curufin huffs when Maglor attempts to shuffle through his mind. The phyiscal contact brings their fëa closer and it almost melts when they touch. For a few moments they are one being, one bright mind born from the same fire.
Forcing himself to relax, Curufin allows the contact to continue. Meeting Maglor like this isn't easy. He doesn't comprehend boundaries and his mind is without end. In the dark hours of doubt and fear, Curufin believes this is what the void must feel like.
Big. Vast. Endless.
But he knows better. Curufin is aware that Canafinwë's mind isn't a door into darkness, matter how clumsy he always feels when stepping through the newly drawn door. Like always Maglor encourages him to come closer, taking him by his hand to draw him in.
Curufin groans. Makalaurë's mind is alien to him, like the workshop of a craft he has little knowledge off but his brother still forces him to look at a concept, study it, remember it until Curufin comprehends what it means.
It's not always easy. It's like the time when father put the Silmarils into his hands and asked How did I do it? No matter how much time passes or many theories he writes down the answers always stays the same.
It's always I don't know.
But Cánafinwë is aware of this. Curufin can see it in the white eyes when they study him.
And yet you love me , he wonders.
When Maglor finally draws away, returning to his attempt to make dinner, he leaves his little brother standing in the middle of the room. Dizzy from the swirling emotions dominating him, Curufin thinks of his own love for his brother. I don't speak your language. I don't comprehend the images you show me and yet I'm unable to doubt your love.
Returning to his previous task, Curufin muses how much of this certainty was actually his own.
In the corner of his eyes he sees Maglor's mouth twitch.
Eventually they settle down, each with their own projects to occupy themselves with but Curufin gets suspicious when the spirit of the rabbit doesn't vanish. It runs around the room as if its still alive no matter that it's glowing in blue transparent light. By the third time it hobbles past his feet Curufin glares at Maglor who appears to be studying a book. Appears to being the correct words because he hasn't turned a page in the last half hour.
"Makalaurë, can you tell me what's going on here?" Curufin asks and suppresses a sigh.
Getting a straight answer out of his older brother isn't an easy feat.
"Nothing." The bard shrugs and makes a show out of turning a page. Curufin wishes Maglor would stay out of his head. "Why?"
"I don't mind your antics but you can please put our dinner back where it came from," Curufin says and points at the rabbit that's trying to eat the plants.
"Not necessary." Maglor hums under his breath. He doesn't even have the curtsey of looking up. "It's going away sooner or later."
Curufin growls. When he goes to bed an hour later the spirit is still there, just like Makalaurë. In the next morning his brother is gone and his wife finds a living rabbit sitting under her desk.