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remix_reduxTitle: Elf of the Cave, Elf of the Spray (Goodbyes Are Long Remix)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stephantom
Summary: Elrond Half-Elven receives an important message from his brother...
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion
Characters: Elrond, Elros, Maglor, Maedhros, Gil-Galad, Vardamir, Elwing
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: This fic is based on characters and events from The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien. No copyright infringement intended - I'm just a fan, doing this for fun!
Original story: Guilt byparanoidangel42
Elf of the Cave, Elf of the Spray
The house of Eärendil and Elwing, at the Mouth of Sirion, once lit by soft streams of sunlight entering through its many arching windows, once filled with the echoing of elven voices in song, lay in ruin. The rooms were darkened by smoke and ash drifting through the air, and the only voices that could be heard were shouts or screams: sounds of confusion, of fear, of battle.
Two young elflings sat huddled together in the corner of their shared room, behind the large chair their mother sometimes sat in, reading or singing to them as they fell asleep. But she was gone now. For one fleeting moment, she had held them both close against her breast, weaving her fingers through their dark hair; then she had risen and told them to find a place to hide. The two had stared up at her, identical brows furrowing in confusion at the tears staining her cheeks. “Go now,” she had insisted. She had put on the brilliant and captivating jewel that they had been instructed never to come near: the Silmaril.
“Elrond,” whispered one of the twins. “Should we go find Nana now?”
Elrond stared back at his brother, a lost look on his face. Then suddenly his eyes widened and he grabbed his brother’s hand. “Somebody’s coming,” he hissed.
A tall elf in warrior garb burst into the room and looked about himself wildly. His hands balled into fists and he tore at his unkempt, auburn hair, shouting in wordless frustration. He dragged his arm across the shelves on the walls, sending glass ornaments flying toward the floor to shatter. A second elf, similar in appearance, entered behind him, just as the first seized the chair by the bed with both arms and flung it across the room.
The twins flinched and ducked their heads, clinging to each other, now without any barrier between them and the two rebel elves.
“Maedhros!” shouted the second elf, but the first continued tearing the room apart.
“It’s gone!” he was screaming, blind with fury. “We were so close! I could see it! And now it’s gone!”
“Daro, Maedhros!” cried the second, grasping his companion’s shoulders and looking pointedly at the corner of the room.
The elf named Maedhros stopped and followed the other’s gaze to the two elflings cowering on the floor. He breathed heavily, seeming to calm himself, but said nothing.
“These must be the sons of Eärendil,” the other continued. “How young they are,” he murmured, seeming to speak to himself. He paused, looking at his companion for a moment, his face a stony mask. “Maedhros,” he said slowly, “we have orphaned them.”
At this, Maedhros scowled and turned away, heading across the room slowly, broken glass crunching under his boots.
“What shall we do with them, brother?”
Maedhros paused in the doorway for a long moment, his jaw clenched. “Do what you think best,” he said finally, exiting the room.
The other elf stared after him for a moment, and then turned back to the twins, who watched his every move, blue-gray eyes wide with fear. He gazed at them for a moment, his expression infinitely sad, before crouching down before them. “I’m not going to hurt you, peredhil,” he assured them. “My name is Maglor. My brother and I will take care of you now.” He looked from one to the other, imploringly. “Do you understand?”
The twins glanced at each other in silent communication, then back at their captor. There was something in Maglor’s dark, weary eyes and soft, earnest voice that seemed to promise something safe and sure, after all the terror and chaos of that day. One of the twins reached out a small hand to touch the elf’s mournful face.
“I’m Elros.”
“Elros,” Maglor repeated, smiling slightly. He held on open hand out to Elrond. “And what is your name, mellon-nin?”
The young elf hesitated a moment before brushing his hand over the warrior’s larger, calloused hand.
“Elrond,” he said.
* * *
Slowly, Elrond traced the intricate stone carvings beneath his hands, his gaze far away. He looked out over the country of Lindon, from a balcony in the home of Gil-galad, High King of the Elves, where he had lived now for several hundred years. In that time, he had grown into a tall, stately elf, skilled both in battle and in medicine. His pale face was stern and thoughtful now, as he stood, solitary, the wind lightly moving through his long, black hair.
“Lieutenant,” called a voice from behind him; it was rich, and deep, though its tone was light.
Elrond pivoted and bowed his head slightly in deference as the king approached. “My lord,” he answered.
Gil-galad smiled and joined him, resting his hands on the banister as he took in the sight of his kingdom: the slight fog encircling the Blue Mountains, the forest’s tops all tinged in rust and amber. Beside him, Elrond closed his eyes, inhaling the crisp, autumn air.
The king observed him for a moment, then asked, “What troubles you, Elrond?”
Elrond opened his eyes but made no reply for at first. He turned his head slightly toward Gil-galad, his gaze continuing to sweep over the gardens, the buildings, the rivers.
“My brother wrote me,” he said at last, quietly.
He had the letter tucked into his robes, against his breast, but he didn’t need to take it out to read it now; the words were imprinted on his mind.
Gil-galad was watching him intently, blue eyes gentle and encouraging, but Elrond did not look at him. He knew that for all the hard years and struggles the king had endured, this trouble was not one he could understand.
Elrond took a deep breath and said on the exhale, “He is dying.”
* * *
Sparks flew into the night air as Maglor let fall a fresh pile of logs over the campfire. Twin pairs of gray eyes, wet and glossy, met his across the flames and he stood staring back at them for moment, before silently moving to sit down beside them. He handed them each a piece of lembas bread, which they accepted wordlessly. For several minutes, the three sat together watching the fire’s dancing and crackling.
Eventually, one of the twins spoke up, his voice muffled against the blanket wrapped around his small body.
“Where is Nana?” he asked.
“Did you kill her?” asked the other.
“No,” Maglor answered, shaking his head vehemently. “No, young one, she lives.”
“Where is she?” Elrond persisted.
Maglor hesitated, picking a twig up off the ground to worry between his fingers.
“Maedhros and I,” he began. “We watched her climb up onto a windowsill, clutching the Silmaril to her breast. She told us to stay away. We stopped. We were afraid she might throw it out into the ocean. But then, she... She jumped.” He paused and looked at both of them very seriously. “Before our eyes, she took the form of a bird, wings white and silver-gray, and flew away across the sea, until she, with the bright Silmaril still around her neck, appeared as a star over the horizon.”
“Oh,” Elros breathed.
Joy, wonder, and sadness warred on their young faces as they took in this news. After a moment, Elrond looked up at Maglor.
“You wanted Nana’s jewel,” he said, a hollowness in his voice. “That’s why you attacked our city. To take it from her.”
“It does not belong to her.” The twins glanced across the fire at the sound of Maedhros’ stern voice speaking for the first time in over an hour. “The Silmarils were made by our father, Feanor. They were stolen from us.”
“We swore an oath,” said Maglor, his head bowed wearily, his eyes squeezed shut. “Our father, and all of our brothers. We swore we would retrieve all of the Silmarils, that we would follow them, and fight for them, no matter who or what crossed our path, until the world’s end.” He opened his eyes and looked at the twins. “We two are all that is now left of our family on Arda.”
The boys gazed back at him, not fully understanding, but recognizing clearly his pain.
“So are we,” Elrond whispered into the fire.
“So are we,” echoed Elros.
Maglor looked between both elflings’ for a moment, his own eyes damp now, and then he lowered his face once more.
A long silence followed.
Then Elros spoke, his voice very quiet. “Where do you think Nana went?”
Elrond bit his lip. “To the Undying Lands. She will find Adar on the sea and join him.”
“And they will be counted among the Eldar,” Elros said, the phrase tasting at once familiar and mysterious on his tongue.
Elrond nodded, his gaze fixed on the campfire.
“You two are Peredhil,” Maglor mused. “Half-elven, half-men. You must someday choose for yourselves whether to follow your parents to the Valinor, or to accept the fate of the Edain.”
“Do you know what happens to the Edain when they die?” asked Elros.
“No one knows for sure,” said Maglor, shaking his head. “Eru has a special plan for them.”
Maedhros spoke up then, for the second time since they had made camp, quietly now. “They are granted peace,” he said simply.
After that, silence descended upon the group once more. The boys’ eyes began to droop and after several minutes had passed, they slowly lay down in the blankets laid out by the campfire. They both closed their eyes, listening to the sounds of the forest, and Maglor’s clear and soothing voice singing sadly into the cool night air.
“I didn’t know you could sing, Maglor,” Elros murmured.
Elrond poked a small hand out from beneath his blanket, reaching over to Elros and clasping his hand in his own. Elros squeezed his hand briefly in return, and the two lay like that for a time, before sleep overtook them both at last.
* * *
Númenor was truly something to behold; in only four hundred years, it had become a flourishing city, with bustling harbors, winding streets, and tall, white buildings that echoed the architecture of Eärendil’s house in Sirion. Elrond rode through it in a kind of daze, trying to take all of it in, memorizing it. Elros seemed to be present in every stone, every ship, every citizen. In four hundred years, Elrond realized, Elros had created a nation, a people: a human people.
It had been a long and lonely journey to this place. Gil-galad had offered to join him, or to send others along with him, but Elrond, unsure of his reason but sure of his conviction, had insisted on traveling unaccompanied: this was his burden alone.
When he at last came to the house of the king, of Tar-Minyatur, as his people called him, Elrond halted for a long moment at its gates. Absently, he ran a hand over the gray fur of his horse’s neck, staring up at the stone walls and windows, wondering in which room his brother stayed, trying to picture his life here. It had been so many years since he had seen Elros, since the twins had spoken or heard word from one another. He wondered what Elros would look like now.
Elrond raised his hand to his breast, where the letter from Elros was tucked into his tunic. His brother had urged him to come to him, so that he could die at last. He had said he was waiting for Elrond; he did not want to die before seeing his twin one last time.
Elrond scanned the building once more, squinting against the sunlight, before turning his horse and leaving. He would wait. He couldn’t face Elros, not yet, couldn’t face the reality of his death. Elros was too young, had lived too short and fleeting a life. If Elrond waited to go to him, Elros would go on waiting for him to come. He would live for a while yet.
* * *
Elrond and Elros trudged through the brush, several paces behind Maedhros, whose long legs carried him swiftly over the brambles. Maglor brought up the rear, making some effort to cover their tracks. The two elflings took heavy breaths and watched their feet stepping over dirt and branches with weary concentration. For several days, the group had risen at sunrise and spent the day walking until past nightfall; the sons of Feanor claimed that they had to put distance between themselves and Sorion. They would need to find somewhere safe to regroup and plan their next move, for two Silmarils yet remained in Middle-Earth.
Suddenly, Elros stumbled slightly, and Elrond, behind, bumped into him, sending both of them to the ground in a tangled heap. They glared at each other in annoyance for a moment, then inspected themselves for injuries. Elrond rubbed at his quickly bruising knees and Elros grimaced at his scraped elbow, then both looked up to find Maglor towering over them with a frown.
“Are you alright, little ones?”
They nodded and Maglor helped them to their feet. “You’re not accustomed to so much walking,” he said with a sigh. He glanced ahead of him, searching through the forest trees. “Maedhros!” he called.
Maglor turned his attention back to the twins. “We’ll carry you for a bit,” he said, placing his hands beneath Elros’ armpits and lifting him high up in the air. Elros grabbed onto his shoulders and wrapped his legs around his waist.
Elrond remained sitting on the ground, and Maglor and Elros looked down at him, their faces seeming to be very far above him.
“I’ll send Maedhros back for you,” Maglor said. “Wait here.”
He walked off, Elros in his arms. Elrond waited.
* * *
Moonlight streamed in through the window in Elrond’s room, casting it in an eerie, pale light. Elrond shifted restlessly, closing his eyes and trying in vain to shut it out. He wondered how many hours had he spent lying there, awake.
“Why will you not go to him?” he whispered aloud to the room.
They were the words Vardamir, Elros’ eldest son, had spoken. He had discovered Elrond’s presence in the city and followed him back to the inn. Elrond had let him into his room, startled at the sight of him. He looked so very much like Elros, and like Elrond himself, his face long and angular, and his eyes pale and gray. But he was frail and slightly bent, his long hair thin and nearly white, his face drawn and lined. Vardamir could not be many years from death himself, thought Elrond. How must Elros look?
“Uncle,” said Vardamir, solemn pleading in his deep, gravelly voice. “He calls for you. Why will you not go to him?”
Elrond could almost hear him again now, could almost see him in the dark bedroom, as he drifted between wakefulness and sleep. But he had sent Vardamir away, had told him to go to his father’s side and leave him be. Vardamir's brow had creased in pained confusion for a long moment, before resignation filled his eyes, and he left without a word. Elrond sighed and shifted in his bed. When sleep finally came, it greeted him with relentless, agitated dreams, in which he begged and pleaded with the Valar and anyone who might listen, that his brother’s life might be spared.
* * *
The sons of Feanor and the sons of Eärendil crouched together in a hollow in a rock ledge, hidden behind a small waterfall. The ground was cold and slippery beneath their feet.
“You will be safe here for now,” Maglor was saying, his voice echoing slightly in the small chamber. “Bereliand is not far from here and Gil-galad’s people patrol these borders. They will be looking for you." He placed a hand on each elfling's shoulder. "It will be better for you to go with them. They will take care of you.”
The twins looked up at him with apprehension.
“You said you would take care of us,” said Elrond.
Maglor looked pained, but Maedhros answered for him. “We did. We brought you this far safely. But we cannot take you any farther. It is not safe for either of us. By the time they find you, Maglor and I must be far from this place.”
They left through the edge of the cave, slinking out between the rock wall and the cascading water. Maglor paused to give them one last regretful look, offered an encouraging smile, and disappeared.
Elrond and Elros stared after them for a moment, then turned to look at each other.
“What now?” asked Elrond.
Elros looked at the waterfall as it fell in front of them, creating a shimmering curtain between the cave and the forest outside.
“I don’t know,” he said.
* * *
Elrond awoke with a start. He breathed heavily and looked about himself, momentarily confused by his surroundings. All of it came back to him in a rush and he clasped a hand to his face, trying to steady his breaths. Outside, the sky was the pale, glowing hue that came just before dawn.
Elrond rose from the bed, a sudden resolve filling him. He had to see Elros as soon as possible. It had been foolishness and cowardice to put it off, he thought to himself. Elros would not live merely because his brother was too afraid to see him die. He had made his choice long ago and nothing Elrond could do would change that. All that was left for Elrond now was the chance to see his brother one last time, to look him in the eyes, clasp his hands in his, and say goodbye.
He prayed to Eru that he was not too late.
He rode swiftly through the dark, deserted streets, tension coiling and swelling in his chest with every breath. He couldn’t help thinking that every step forward was just a moment too slow, that he was racing the inevitable now. At the royal household’s home at last, Elrond dismounted and rushed to the door, knocking with as much composure as he could manage.
After a few moments, the door was opened and a servant woman beckoned him in. He thanked her and lowered his hood, stepping into the foyer. Her eyes widened as she studied his features, and she bowed. “My lord Elrond,” she said, amazement in her voice.
Elrond nodded distractedly. “Please, take me to my brother,” he said, his words coming out in a rush.
Her face froze, and Elrond stared at her imploringly. “Please,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, her voice also falling to match his in a whisper. “King Tar-Minyatur is dead.”
* * *
The roaring sound of falling water echoed in the small chamber where Elrond sat, hugging his knees to his chest. The cave was cool and damp, but not unpleasant. Elrond was glad to finally be able to rest, to sit down and close his eyes; the hard stone wall of the cave behind his back felt safe and reassuring. The sons of Feanor had left them some food, wrapped in a blanket, but neither of the twins were hungry yet.
Elros stood a few paces away, his arms reaching toward the spray of water as it bounced off of the rocky ground at the edge of the cave. He stuck an arm through the water and laughed as it parted for him, lifting like a curtain, giving him a glimpse of the world outside.
He pulled his arm back and spun around to face Elrond, grinning. Elrond smiled. He picked up a pebble lying on the ground next to him and tossed it through the waterfall, listening for the gentle plop as it fell into the pool on the other side.
The sun peaked through, glinting and reflecting off the water in a faint haze of colors. Elros held out his arms to feel the spray against his skin, his fingers outstretched. He tilted his face upward toward the mist and let his eyes fall shut.
Author:
stephantom Summary: Elrond Half-Elven receives an important message from his brother...
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion
Characters: Elrond, Elros, Maglor, Maedhros, Gil-Galad, Vardamir, Elwing
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: This fic is based on characters and events from The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien. No copyright infringement intended - I'm just a fan, doing this for fun!
Original story: Guilt by
paranoidangel42The house of Eärendil and Elwing, at the Mouth of Sirion, once lit by soft streams of sunlight entering through its many arching windows, once filled with the echoing of elven voices in song, lay in ruin. The rooms were darkened by smoke and ash drifting through the air, and the only voices that could be heard were shouts or screams: sounds of confusion, of fear, of battle.
Two young elflings sat huddled together in the corner of their shared room, behind the large chair their mother sometimes sat in, reading or singing to them as they fell asleep. But she was gone now. For one fleeting moment, she had held them both close against her breast, weaving her fingers through their dark hair; then she had risen and told them to find a place to hide. The two had stared up at her, identical brows furrowing in confusion at the tears staining her cheeks. “Go now,” she had insisted. She had put on the brilliant and captivating jewel that they had been instructed never to come near: the Silmaril.
“Elrond,” whispered one of the twins. “Should we go find Nana now?”
Elrond stared back at his brother, a lost look on his face. Then suddenly his eyes widened and he grabbed his brother’s hand. “Somebody’s coming,” he hissed.
A tall elf in warrior garb burst into the room and looked about himself wildly. His hands balled into fists and he tore at his unkempt, auburn hair, shouting in wordless frustration. He dragged his arm across the shelves on the walls, sending glass ornaments flying toward the floor to shatter. A second elf, similar in appearance, entered behind him, just as the first seized the chair by the bed with both arms and flung it across the room.
The twins flinched and ducked their heads, clinging to each other, now without any barrier between them and the two rebel elves.
“Maedhros!” shouted the second elf, but the first continued tearing the room apart.
“It’s gone!” he was screaming, blind with fury. “We were so close! I could see it! And now it’s gone!”
“Daro, Maedhros!” cried the second, grasping his companion’s shoulders and looking pointedly at the corner of the room.
The elf named Maedhros stopped and followed the other’s gaze to the two elflings cowering on the floor. He breathed heavily, seeming to calm himself, but said nothing.
“These must be the sons of Eärendil,” the other continued. “How young they are,” he murmured, seeming to speak to himself. He paused, looking at his companion for a moment, his face a stony mask. “Maedhros,” he said slowly, “we have orphaned them.”
At this, Maedhros scowled and turned away, heading across the room slowly, broken glass crunching under his boots.
“What shall we do with them, brother?”
Maedhros paused in the doorway for a long moment, his jaw clenched. “Do what you think best,” he said finally, exiting the room.
The other elf stared after him for a moment, and then turned back to the twins, who watched his every move, blue-gray eyes wide with fear. He gazed at them for a moment, his expression infinitely sad, before crouching down before them. “I’m not going to hurt you, peredhil,” he assured them. “My name is Maglor. My brother and I will take care of you now.” He looked from one to the other, imploringly. “Do you understand?”
The twins glanced at each other in silent communication, then back at their captor. There was something in Maglor’s dark, weary eyes and soft, earnest voice that seemed to promise something safe and sure, after all the terror and chaos of that day. One of the twins reached out a small hand to touch the elf’s mournful face.
“I’m Elros.”
“Elros,” Maglor repeated, smiling slightly. He held on open hand out to Elrond. “And what is your name, mellon-nin?”
The young elf hesitated a moment before brushing his hand over the warrior’s larger, calloused hand.
“Elrond,” he said.
Slowly, Elrond traced the intricate stone carvings beneath his hands, his gaze far away. He looked out over the country of Lindon, from a balcony in the home of Gil-galad, High King of the Elves, where he had lived now for several hundred years. In that time, he had grown into a tall, stately elf, skilled both in battle and in medicine. His pale face was stern and thoughtful now, as he stood, solitary, the wind lightly moving through his long, black hair.
“Lieutenant,” called a voice from behind him; it was rich, and deep, though its tone was light.
Elrond pivoted and bowed his head slightly in deference as the king approached. “My lord,” he answered.
Gil-galad smiled and joined him, resting his hands on the banister as he took in the sight of his kingdom: the slight fog encircling the Blue Mountains, the forest’s tops all tinged in rust and amber. Beside him, Elrond closed his eyes, inhaling the crisp, autumn air.
The king observed him for a moment, then asked, “What troubles you, Elrond?”
Elrond opened his eyes but made no reply for at first. He turned his head slightly toward Gil-galad, his gaze continuing to sweep over the gardens, the buildings, the rivers.
“My brother wrote me,” he said at last, quietly.
He had the letter tucked into his robes, against his breast, but he didn’t need to take it out to read it now; the words were imprinted on his mind.
Gil-galad was watching him intently, blue eyes gentle and encouraging, but Elrond did not look at him. He knew that for all the hard years and struggles the king had endured, this trouble was not one he could understand.
Elrond took a deep breath and said on the exhale, “He is dying.”
Sparks flew into the night air as Maglor let fall a fresh pile of logs over the campfire. Twin pairs of gray eyes, wet and glossy, met his across the flames and he stood staring back at them for moment, before silently moving to sit down beside them. He handed them each a piece of lembas bread, which they accepted wordlessly. For several minutes, the three sat together watching the fire’s dancing and crackling.
Eventually, one of the twins spoke up, his voice muffled against the blanket wrapped around his small body.
“Where is Nana?” he asked.
“Did you kill her?” asked the other.
“No,” Maglor answered, shaking his head vehemently. “No, young one, she lives.”
“Where is she?” Elrond persisted.
Maglor hesitated, picking a twig up off the ground to worry between his fingers.
“Maedhros and I,” he began. “We watched her climb up onto a windowsill, clutching the Silmaril to her breast. She told us to stay away. We stopped. We were afraid she might throw it out into the ocean. But then, she... She jumped.” He paused and looked at both of them very seriously. “Before our eyes, she took the form of a bird, wings white and silver-gray, and flew away across the sea, until she, with the bright Silmaril still around her neck, appeared as a star over the horizon.”
“Oh,” Elros breathed.
Joy, wonder, and sadness warred on their young faces as they took in this news. After a moment, Elrond looked up at Maglor.
“You wanted Nana’s jewel,” he said, a hollowness in his voice. “That’s why you attacked our city. To take it from her.”
“It does not belong to her.” The twins glanced across the fire at the sound of Maedhros’ stern voice speaking for the first time in over an hour. “The Silmarils were made by our father, Feanor. They were stolen from us.”
“We swore an oath,” said Maglor, his head bowed wearily, his eyes squeezed shut. “Our father, and all of our brothers. We swore we would retrieve all of the Silmarils, that we would follow them, and fight for them, no matter who or what crossed our path, until the world’s end.” He opened his eyes and looked at the twins. “We two are all that is now left of our family on Arda.”
The boys gazed back at him, not fully understanding, but recognizing clearly his pain.
“So are we,” Elrond whispered into the fire.
“So are we,” echoed Elros.
Maglor looked between both elflings’ for a moment, his own eyes damp now, and then he lowered his face once more.
A long silence followed.
Then Elros spoke, his voice very quiet. “Where do you think Nana went?”
Elrond bit his lip. “To the Undying Lands. She will find Adar on the sea and join him.”
“And they will be counted among the Eldar,” Elros said, the phrase tasting at once familiar and mysterious on his tongue.
Elrond nodded, his gaze fixed on the campfire.
“You two are Peredhil,” Maglor mused. “Half-elven, half-men. You must someday choose for yourselves whether to follow your parents to the Valinor, or to accept the fate of the Edain.”
“Do you know what happens to the Edain when they die?” asked Elros.
“No one knows for sure,” said Maglor, shaking his head. “Eru has a special plan for them.”
Maedhros spoke up then, for the second time since they had made camp, quietly now. “They are granted peace,” he said simply.
After that, silence descended upon the group once more. The boys’ eyes began to droop and after several minutes had passed, they slowly lay down in the blankets laid out by the campfire. They both closed their eyes, listening to the sounds of the forest, and Maglor’s clear and soothing voice singing sadly into the cool night air.
“I didn’t know you could sing, Maglor,” Elros murmured.
Elrond poked a small hand out from beneath his blanket, reaching over to Elros and clasping his hand in his own. Elros squeezed his hand briefly in return, and the two lay like that for a time, before sleep overtook them both at last.
* * *
Númenor was truly something to behold; in only four hundred years, it had become a flourishing city, with bustling harbors, winding streets, and tall, white buildings that echoed the architecture of Eärendil’s house in Sirion. Elrond rode through it in a kind of daze, trying to take all of it in, memorizing it. Elros seemed to be present in every stone, every ship, every citizen. In four hundred years, Elrond realized, Elros had created a nation, a people: a human people.
It had been a long and lonely journey to this place. Gil-galad had offered to join him, or to send others along with him, but Elrond, unsure of his reason but sure of his conviction, had insisted on traveling unaccompanied: this was his burden alone.
When he at last came to the house of the king, of Tar-Minyatur, as his people called him, Elrond halted for a long moment at its gates. Absently, he ran a hand over the gray fur of his horse’s neck, staring up at the stone walls and windows, wondering in which room his brother stayed, trying to picture his life here. It had been so many years since he had seen Elros, since the twins had spoken or heard word from one another. He wondered what Elros would look like now.
Elrond raised his hand to his breast, where the letter from Elros was tucked into his tunic. His brother had urged him to come to him, so that he could die at last. He had said he was waiting for Elrond; he did not want to die before seeing his twin one last time.
Elrond scanned the building once more, squinting against the sunlight, before turning his horse and leaving. He would wait. He couldn’t face Elros, not yet, couldn’t face the reality of his death. Elros was too young, had lived too short and fleeting a life. If Elrond waited to go to him, Elros would go on waiting for him to come. He would live for a while yet.
* * *
Elrond and Elros trudged through the brush, several paces behind Maedhros, whose long legs carried him swiftly over the brambles. Maglor brought up the rear, making some effort to cover their tracks. The two elflings took heavy breaths and watched their feet stepping over dirt and branches with weary concentration. For several days, the group had risen at sunrise and spent the day walking until past nightfall; the sons of Feanor claimed that they had to put distance between themselves and Sorion. They would need to find somewhere safe to regroup and plan their next move, for two Silmarils yet remained in Middle-Earth.
Suddenly, Elros stumbled slightly, and Elrond, behind, bumped into him, sending both of them to the ground in a tangled heap. They glared at each other in annoyance for a moment, then inspected themselves for injuries. Elrond rubbed at his quickly bruising knees and Elros grimaced at his scraped elbow, then both looked up to find Maglor towering over them with a frown.
“Are you alright, little ones?”
They nodded and Maglor helped them to their feet. “You’re not accustomed to so much walking,” he said with a sigh. He glanced ahead of him, searching through the forest trees. “Maedhros!” he called.
Maglor turned his attention back to the twins. “We’ll carry you for a bit,” he said, placing his hands beneath Elros’ armpits and lifting him high up in the air. Elros grabbed onto his shoulders and wrapped his legs around his waist.
Elrond remained sitting on the ground, and Maglor and Elros looked down at him, their faces seeming to be very far above him.
“I’ll send Maedhros back for you,” Maglor said. “Wait here.”
He walked off, Elros in his arms. Elrond waited.
* * *
Moonlight streamed in through the window in Elrond’s room, casting it in an eerie, pale light. Elrond shifted restlessly, closing his eyes and trying in vain to shut it out. He wondered how many hours had he spent lying there, awake.
“Why will you not go to him?” he whispered aloud to the room.
They were the words Vardamir, Elros’ eldest son, had spoken. He had discovered Elrond’s presence in the city and followed him back to the inn. Elrond had let him into his room, startled at the sight of him. He looked so very much like Elros, and like Elrond himself, his face long and angular, and his eyes pale and gray. But he was frail and slightly bent, his long hair thin and nearly white, his face drawn and lined. Vardamir could not be many years from death himself, thought Elrond. How must Elros look?
“Uncle,” said Vardamir, solemn pleading in his deep, gravelly voice. “He calls for you. Why will you not go to him?”
Elrond could almost hear him again now, could almost see him in the dark bedroom, as he drifted between wakefulness and sleep. But he had sent Vardamir away, had told him to go to his father’s side and leave him be. Vardamir's brow had creased in pained confusion for a long moment, before resignation filled his eyes, and he left without a word. Elrond sighed and shifted in his bed. When sleep finally came, it greeted him with relentless, agitated dreams, in which he begged and pleaded with the Valar and anyone who might listen, that his brother’s life might be spared.
* * *
The sons of Feanor and the sons of Eärendil crouched together in a hollow in a rock ledge, hidden behind a small waterfall. The ground was cold and slippery beneath their feet.
“You will be safe here for now,” Maglor was saying, his voice echoing slightly in the small chamber. “Bereliand is not far from here and Gil-galad’s people patrol these borders. They will be looking for you." He placed a hand on each elfling's shoulder. "It will be better for you to go with them. They will take care of you.”
The twins looked up at him with apprehension.
“You said you would take care of us,” said Elrond.
Maglor looked pained, but Maedhros answered for him. “We did. We brought you this far safely. But we cannot take you any farther. It is not safe for either of us. By the time they find you, Maglor and I must be far from this place.”
They left through the edge of the cave, slinking out between the rock wall and the cascading water. Maglor paused to give them one last regretful look, offered an encouraging smile, and disappeared.
Elrond and Elros stared after them for a moment, then turned to look at each other.
“What now?” asked Elrond.
Elros looked at the waterfall as it fell in front of them, creating a shimmering curtain between the cave and the forest outside.
“I don’t know,” he said.
* * *
Elrond awoke with a start. He breathed heavily and looked about himself, momentarily confused by his surroundings. All of it came back to him in a rush and he clasped a hand to his face, trying to steady his breaths. Outside, the sky was the pale, glowing hue that came just before dawn.
Elrond rose from the bed, a sudden resolve filling him. He had to see Elros as soon as possible. It had been foolishness and cowardice to put it off, he thought to himself. Elros would not live merely because his brother was too afraid to see him die. He had made his choice long ago and nothing Elrond could do would change that. All that was left for Elrond now was the chance to see his brother one last time, to look him in the eyes, clasp his hands in his, and say goodbye.
He prayed to Eru that he was not too late.
He rode swiftly through the dark, deserted streets, tension coiling and swelling in his chest with every breath. He couldn’t help thinking that every step forward was just a moment too slow, that he was racing the inevitable now. At the royal household’s home at last, Elrond dismounted and rushed to the door, knocking with as much composure as he could manage.
After a few moments, the door was opened and a servant woman beckoned him in. He thanked her and lowered his hood, stepping into the foyer. Her eyes widened as she studied his features, and she bowed. “My lord Elrond,” she said, amazement in her voice.
Elrond nodded distractedly. “Please, take me to my brother,” he said, his words coming out in a rush.
Her face froze, and Elrond stared at her imploringly. “Please,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, her voice also falling to match his in a whisper. “King Tar-Minyatur is dead.”
* * *
The roaring sound of falling water echoed in the small chamber where Elrond sat, hugging his knees to his chest. The cave was cool and damp, but not unpleasant. Elrond was glad to finally be able to rest, to sit down and close his eyes; the hard stone wall of the cave behind his back felt safe and reassuring. The sons of Feanor had left them some food, wrapped in a blanket, but neither of the twins were hungry yet.
Elros stood a few paces away, his arms reaching toward the spray of water as it bounced off of the rocky ground at the edge of the cave. He stuck an arm through the water and laughed as it parted for him, lifting like a curtain, giving him a glimpse of the world outside.
He pulled his arm back and spun around to face Elrond, grinning. Elrond smiled. He picked up a pebble lying on the ground next to him and tossed it through the waterfall, listening for the gentle plop as it fell into the pool on the other side.
The sun peaked through, glinting and reflecting off the water in a faint haze of colors. Elros held out his arms to feel the spray against his skin, his fingers outstretched. He tilted his face upward toward the mist and let his eyes fall shut.
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