Chapter Text
It was the early eve hours, gold and rosé colours flooding the sky as the path of Arien’s journey prepared to cross, for that short breath’s moment of half light, Tilion’s own wayward course.
Far below the faithful dance of the Sun and the Moon, what yet remained of the war ravaged lands of Beleriand spread out - the chorus of suffering laid upon them by the Enemy, for once, soothed. The war was over. Ancalagon was slain; Morgoth was bound by Angainor and would face the justice of the Valar.
Near the war camps of the host from Valinor and the King Gil-Galad, four shadows on horseback drew closer.
For now, they had gone silent, as the heavy weight of their impending separation had descended upon them all. But it had not been thus for most of their journey, which Elrond had spent listening to his brother plead and beg for their fathers to not send them away. Elros was as proud and fierce as any of the House of Fëanor, and begging did not come to him easily. And yet he had done little else ever since they had discovered where Maedhros and Maglor were taking them.
His grief was loud and indignant, driven by a restless energy that had never sat well with Elrond. Too fast did his brother throw himself into the deep pits of whatever emotions grew within him.
He had seen the same unease in his fathers’ fëar - the memory of raised swords and words too passionate still deeply, irrevocably engraved within their minds.
Elros was not bound as their fathers were - had never even tried to take the Oath, unlike Elrond. And yet Elrond felt as though his brother, too, was far away from him. Straying away, off to a fate Elrond could not share. He was not aware of what was to be Elros’ fate in more certain terms, nor the time of their parting. Still, Elrond knew it would soon come to pass. But Elros could not tell, did not know he was leaving too, if for a longer road than Maedhros and Maglor. To him, even the plans of their fathers had come as a surprise.
Elros was not yet ready to bid farewell to their parents. For days he had attempted to convince them to turn around and return to Amon Ereb. He had begged and pleaded and prodded and cried, to no avail. For all that this was difficult for their fathers, as well, Maedhros and Maglor had remained firm in their intentions.
Elrond himself had not raised a word in protest, even as Elros’ gaze landed on him in quiet betrayal.
This was inevitable, such had been clear to Elrond for a while now. The war was over; a horror had vanished from the world they knew. The poison that had accompanied them their whole lives had faded away with the unbearable heat that had stifled the air for the last months of this war. With the cold winds from the North, the shadows had lifted. Everywhere, joy had started to return to the land, to the people.
But not to their fathers.
For Maedhros and Maglor, the war was not over. It could never truly be over - the very Silmaril that had brought Elrond and Elros to them rose high in the sky at night, forever beyond the reach of the House of Fëanor.
But two Silmarillí yet remained.
The rightful inheritance of Fëanáro's surviving sons.
The host come from Valinor had no right to claim them as spoils of war. They had never been Moringotto’s possession, just as Eärendil’s light had never truly belonged to Thingol, or Dior, or Elwing and Eärendil. Just as it did not belong to the Valar, was not theirs to decide to send into the sky, out of reach of its rightful heirs.
But the Valar had not honoured the rightful inheritance of the House of Fëanor then, why would they do so now?
And still, Maedhros and Maglor had sent a letter first. They always sent a letter.
Elrond knew of the ache in their fëar. His fathers were weary of bloodshed. Maglor had grown so tired that he had spoken of returning to Valinor to face the judgement of the Valar. Elrond had not been meant to overhear them discuss such matters, but he was not above the occasional bout of eavesdropping. Even as he had wished for this to come to pass, ears straining to pick up on hushed voices, Elrond had known it could never be this easy. For Maglor might speak of biding their time, of obeying the Valar’s command and fulfilling the Oath when the right time arrived, but what of the judgement that would be laid upon them? The Valar would never allow for a situation in which the Fëanorians could regain the Silmarillí.
Now, the accursed gems were within reach, perhaps for the very last time. This was the one chance their fathers had left. The chains that bound their fëar held tight - the Oath had to be fulfilled or Maedhros and Maglor would never know peace. The war would carry on, the battlefield now raging within their fëar alone. They were doomed, no matter which decision they made, but to follow the call of the Oath now meant one last chance to fulfill part of it.
Gain two, at least, of three.
It would not save them from the Everlasting Darkness, but perhaps it would keep their doom at bay for a while longer. Maedhros argued for this path, and Maedhros was the more persuasive brother. He was the leader among his brothers, as Elros was the leader of the twins. It was only natural, then, that Maglor did not turn himself into the custody of Eönwë, either. They had grown tired of war, of bloodshed, but they would raise their swords one last time against those that stood between them and their rightful property.
Elrond knew, as certain as he knew that Elros would soon leave him, that Maedhros and Maglor would not return from this last battle. Whether they were to fall to the swords of those in their way, as their brothers had - but only the Fëanorians and their followers were named kinslayers, as though five of them had fallen to invisible enemies - or came out of this conflict alive with their Silmarils, their fates were sealed. This was the last time they would see each other, that was the one thing Elrond knew. He could not see further into their destinies. Their paths would close to Elrond after this night.
For many nights, he had cried himself to sleep with this knowledge. During daytime, he had watched as their fëar withered away in agony under the weight of ancient words they could not abandon, for one whose name had been called to witness was beyond their pleas and prayers. With each gaze at the hollow shells their fathers had become, plagued by the futile resistance against the pull towards the Silmarillí, Elrond understood he would have to let them go.
He could barely bear the thought of losing his foster parents, who had shown Elros and him what it meant to have parents that loved them above all else. Parents that did not long to find ways across the Sea to the lands of the West, that did not willingly choose a gem over their own sons. If this was a matter of choice, Maedhros and Maglor would not act as Elwing had. They had taken Elros and Elrond only for the sake of the Silmaril their mother possessed, yet when Eärendil’s star had risen in the sky, they had not sent the children away.
But Maedhros and Maglor had reached the limit of what their fëar could bear. It broke Elrond's heart, though all else would be a terrible cruelty to cast upon their beloved fathers.
In front of them, Maedhros brought his horse to a halt, sharp eyes mustering the distance to the war camps critically. He exchanged a glance with Maglor, a silent conversation passing between them that Elrond could not follow. Then both dismounted, Maglor motioning for the twins to stop.
Elros got off his horse swiftly, glaring rebelliously at the conflicted gazes their fathers sent their way.
Atto leant over to whisper hushed words into Atya’s ear.
Elrond could practically taste the anger in his brother's tense form. It was the sharp bite of an injured animal, Elros' anger. His narrowed eyes lacked the weight of true fury - he was already grieving their fathers’ absence, and that grief was prepared to lash out to hurt as Elros was hurting. There was little comfort Elrond could offer, not when their fathers' minds were already set on this path. Still, he laid a gentle hand on his twin’s shoulder. As expected, Elros shrugged it off rather quickly.
“I will go and investigate the area. Someone should ensure there are none around who might have wandered off from the camps”, Elros excused himself in a rather cold tone, his fists clenched tightly, before stomping off.
Another silent exchange between Maedhros and Maglor followed. Maedhros’ gaze turned carefully blank. He tilted his head, tangled red strands that were ill taken care of these days falling into his face. Maglor jerked his head slightly. Maedhros nodded and turned to leave off into the same direction as Elros had.
Maglor and Elrond were left with the unbearable silence hanging between them.
It was the first time in a long time that Elrond felt uncertain of how to express himself around his father. There had been a time, right after Sirion, when he would not have dared show how upset he was around Maedhros and Maglor. In those first years they spent with the Fëanorians, Elrond had been so terrified. More so for Elros' life than his own - his brother was more impulsive, more prone to getting right to the point, no matter the consequences. Elrond was not like that. He had been quiet and meek around their captors, letting Elros take the lead.
As time passed and the Fëanorians had remained nothing but caring towards them, Elrond had slowly gotten more comfortable. But he hadn't truly begun speaking his mind freely until Gil-Estel had risen in the West one fair evening. Until it had become clear to him that Maedhros and Maglor genuinely cared about them, and not merely about their usefulness.
Now, after all this time, Elrond was about to lose the only people in his life who had truly behaved like parents. Elwing had always paid more attention to the Silmaril than her own children, and Elrond barely even remembered Eärendil’s face. Maedhros and Maglor had comforted them, protected them, taught them all they knew.
Elrond did not want to leave them any more than Elros did, in truth. But how could he demand their care for any longer, when they were barely holding on to their sanity? When the Oath was tormenting them every second, especially with two of the Silmarils in such close proximity?
“Ai, yonya…”
Elrond hadn't noticed he was crying until Maglor’s gentle hands were wiping his tears away. His father had gotten closer to him, and his presence right in front of him lent some warmth in the cool evening breeze. Maglor did not run as hot as Maedhros, but both of their fëar had always exuded a comforting warmth that should not have been possible. It was more than simple body heat, it was warming both physically and emotionally.
“I'm so sorry, yonya.”
There were tears in Maglor's eyes, too.
“Don't”, Elrond choked out, “don't apologise. Both of you have already done so much for us.”
“I wish we didn't have to send you away. But even if we submitted to Eönwë’s request…”
Even so, they would be brought back to Valinor to stand trial. No matter which choice they made, Elrond and Elros would always be left behind.
It's not your fault, Elrond wanted to say. What instead came out was…
“I don't want you to go.”
Elrond barely recognised his own voice. It was filled with grief and despair. It was the voice of a child losing the one comfort left in a cold, cruel world.
Within seconds, he found himself wrapped within a tight, desperate hug.
“I don't want to go either. Please, believe me - you and your brother mean more to me than anything, the Silmarils, these Valar forsaken lands…if anyone could release us, I would stay with you in a heartbeat, and so would Nelyo.”
Maglor pushed back slightly, so that he could look Elrond into the eyes. Both of them were crying now.
“But you will be safe at Gil-Galad’s court. And, with time, hopefully you will find space for yourself, people that love and support you, and you will be happy. It is my greatest regret that I will not be there to watch you grow into the life that awaits you. But there is one thing that I want you to always remember, both you and your brother.”
He glanced to the side, and Elrond followed his gaze. Maedhros was approaching, Elros following close behind. His brother’s anger had faded from his face, leaving only deep sadness.
“The two of you may not be our sons by blood, and we may have found you under terrible circumstances entirely our own fault. But even as you are not formed of either of our hröar, you are the sons of our fëar. We have chosen you, and if we could, if we had a choice, we would always choose you. And you will always have our love, no matter where your lives take you.”
Next to them, Maedhros nodded and laid his hand on Elrond's shoulder. The stump of his missing hand was awkwardly wrapped around Elros' shoulders.
“The sons of our fëar…”, Maedhros repeated his brother's words. “Indeed, you will always be our sons.”
Elrond sobbed, and then Elros leant into his side. Maglor pulled them back into his arms, before Maedhros’ fierce warmth enveloped all three of them.
They would never again see each other like this, not before the Breaking of the World and the Second Music, Elrond knew this. They all would leave him behind, and he would have to pick up the pieces of a broken family in a broken world. He would take care of the ruins of the First Age. But for now, at this moment, he had his family wrapped around him to comfort him. And, by some measure, they would always remain close to Elrond. He would always carry this moment with him.
And above the heads of the twins, Maedhros and Maglor exchanged solemn glances. It was more than likely a grim fate that awaited them, but Elrond and Elros would not have to share their fate. Their hands would remain free of the blood which tainted their fathers’ hands. And they would not have to witness Maedhros and Maglor fall to pieces if no mercy could be found for them in all of Arda.
As they had promised the twins, silently, when they had adopted them all those decades ago - their safety and their happiness would always come first so that they may lead a better life than them.
No kinslaying or fire, no accursed gems, no children taken away from their home.
Maedhros and Maglor loved the twins unconditionally, and would love them even if they committed deeds worse than all the House of Fëanor combined. But it was not a fate they wished for their sons.
No, Elrond and Elros would be kept safe at Gil-Galad's court, with the Enemy gone and their fathers out of their lives.
They would be better.
—-----------
Elrond was sitting on a bench in the garden, when Fëanáro found him. It was still too dark to enjoy the view of the towers outside, but his sons had hung enough lamps from the trees to illuminate the garden itself. It had been Tyelko’s idea to put a few of the lamps up here, so that Elrond could get some fresh air after having spent all those months in that stuffy little chamber. And Elrond did look better. Less pale.
As Fëanáro approached, Elrond glanced up from his hands. His face lit up for a brief moment, before it fell, barely perceptible. Most people who knew Elrond would not have been able to tell, but Fëanáro knew him well enough to look past the blank mask.
A part of Fëanáro felt unbearably terrible upon putting such an expression on Elrond's face. He just wanted to throw himself into his father's arms and cry. Yet, after all that he had been told…he was unsure of whether he'd be welcome.
Elrond had made it seem like he was the failure, but the story he'd told said otherwise.
Fëanáro sat down next to him, leaving some room in between them. He did not want to accidentally bother Elrond, not after all he, all of them, had done.
Elrond remained silent, looking back at his hands. This close, Fëanáro could see that he was holding a ring in his hands. A ring that Fëanáro had never seen before. Elrond had never been particularly fond of jewelry or most other finery.
In hindsight, it made a lot of sense.
It seemed Elrond had caught him staring at the ring, since he held it out for Fëanáro to inspect. Fëanáro hesitantly took the ring. It was a simple gold piece featuring a large sapphire, understated, but expertly crafted. In fact, the closer Fëanáro looked, the more it seemed like his own work. It came extremely close, at the very least. None among the Aulendur had ever produced anything this similar to Fëanáro’s own preferred style. Fëanáro could also detect traces of great power, albeit almost entirely faded from the vessel. This ring had once held great might, although Fëanáro could not tell its purpose. The remnants of its abilities were too long gone.
“This is Vilya”, Fëanáro startled as Elrond quietly began to speak. He had been so occupied with the ring, he'd almost forgotten about Elrond's presence.
“I asked Makalaurë to get it from my house, because it might support some of what I have told you. Of course, after everything, I can hardly blame you if you are not ready to believe me yet, but I thought even so this could be of interest to you.”
Elrond swallowed visibly.
“This ring was one of three made by Celebrimbor, also known as Curufinwë Telperinquar. Your grandson.”
Fëanáro nodded. That explained the similarity to his own work. While it was odd to hear of his grandchildren when his sons weren't yet old enough to have children of their own, he figured he did, in a way, have one of said grandchildren sitting right next to him - even if the thought of his father as his grandson still appeared strange to him. And Fëanáro was glad that at least one of his grandchildren had followed into his footsteps as a smith. Preferably, of course, more of them would, but Fëanáro also knew he would support all his children and grandchildren no matter their craft. He just hoped that he had ended up with many grandchildren. Given the troublesome account from Elrond, there had probably been less of them than Fëanáro would have hoped - seven for each child seemed most appropriate - so he would settle for twenty grandchildren, perhaps. It still seemed like a good number.
“The Enemy had been defeated by then, but Mairon still remained behind in Endorë - although we knew him as Þauron.”
That caught Fëanáro’s attention. He was still upset at the Maia who had helped the Enemy mislead his friend and…his friend’s family, and who had kept Fëanáro from gifting the Silmarillí to their intended recipient.
He bristled.
“That vermin did not fall alongside his Master?”
“Unfortunately, he did not. He disguised himself for quite some time and caused…quite a bit of trouble. To protect the last elven realms across the Sea from both Þauron’s influence and the passing of time outside of the Blessed Realm, Celebrimbor forged these three rings, given to the leaders we had left at the time. One of them entrusted me with his ring, and when- when he fell, it officially passed on to me. I used it to establish the last elven realm before the ages of the Secondborn began. For a long time, that ring served well to protect my home and made it possible to build Imladris as a refuge to any of the free people of Middle Earth seeking shelter.”
Elrond stared far into the distance, as he spoke. There was a wistful expression grazing his gaze. Fëanáro wondered what he saw out there in the darkness. Was it his home he thought of? Was it Celebrimbor? Or perhaps the elf from which he inherited his ring?
“Of course, eventually Þauron was defeated. But with his defeat, due to…certain circumstances, the rings lost their power. That was when we knew it was time for us to sail to Valinor and leave the shores we called home to the Secondborn.”
“And when you sailed, that was when you-”
Elrond nodded.
“I know it may be difficult to believe. As I have already said, I understand if you do not. Either way, I hope you might at least find the ring interesting.”
“I do believe you!”
The words were hasty, but entirely truthful. If he had any remaining doubts, Vilya could only have been forged by someone who had been taught his jewelsmithing by Fëanáro. Once again, Elrond's story genuinely made sense. In comparison, the stories of his youth seemed so obviously flimsy that Fëanáro could barely believe he had never caught on before.
“I do”, he assured Elrond again. “And the ring is fascinating.”
Fëanáro wondered if the abilities that Vilya had once held could be reactivated. Or perhaps it could be equipped with new functions.
“You may keep it if you wish.”
“Are you sure?”, Fëanáro asked, caught off guard.
“I no longer have any use for it”, Elrond answered. “And some of the memories it holds…I should not like to look at it too often, these days.”
Fëanáro remained quiet, uncertain of what to say. It suddenly felt wrong to thank him for it - whatever shadows it awakened for Elrond, Fëanáro did not find himself curious to examine them closer. He merely closed his hand around the ring, and they sat in silence for a long time. Around them, the darkness persisted, casting a heavy weight onto their previous conversation.
“There is one thing I still don't understand”, Fëanáro broke the silence eventually.
Elrond turned to him, face attentive.
“Why do all of it? Why- why would you care about us, about me? If everything you have told me is true…”
Fëanáro stared down at the ring his apparent future grandson had made - had been forced to make, because Fëanáro had already gotten himself killed, gotten his sons killed. The sight of Vilya turned blurry. It was only then that Fëanáro registered the tears in his eyes. Even when it was his own fault he couldn't help pitying himself.
Despicable.
“If everything you have told me is true”, Fëanáro forced himself to continue, “then I have caused you so much suffering. My sons did, directly, but they only did so because of what I put them through. Even if you still wanted to save them, after all the injustices they committed against you and your family, why did you take me? Why were you so kind to me, when I behaved no better than the Enemy in the first life you have lived?”
“Do not say that, yonya!”
Elrond's hands gripped his shoulders, holding on to him so tightly it hurt. His normally solemn grey eyes had gone wide, within them a wild and ferocious gaze he'd only seen once before. That night, when Elrond had put himself between Fëanáro and those soldiers and threatened them on his behalf.
“That version of you, he grew up in a terrible situation and never received the help he desperately needed. Instead, he had to deal with a father who both put him on a pedestal in front of his siblings, effectively isolating him, and made him believe he had to be perfect or he would be replaced. Then, the Enemy manipulated him, because that is what Melkor does - he sows discord with his lies, as he sowed discord with his false theme, and he does it wherever he senses an opportunity. Finwë provided that opportunity, twice. Finwë was also the one who had his eldest son so utterly convinced of the need to please him that Fëanor ended up using far too much of his own fëa - using all that had made him the kind and brilliant person from my fathers' stories, or so I suspect. And the Fëanor who made that oath, whose sons decided to follow him not out of fear but love, that Fëanor was a product of all those external influences. All that pain, all that misery.”
Elrond was silent for a moment. He cupped Fëanáro's cheek, gently wiping away a tear.
“You are nothing like the Fëanor who committed such deeds. But that Fëanor was not a bad person, either. He was just hurt beyond reason.”
Fëanáro was pulled forward then, into his father's warm arms. He burrowed deep into Elrond's neck. It had been so long since they had last hugged like this.
“I chose you as my son, not simply because I wanted to rescue my family - it was part of the reason, but not the whole truth. From all their stories, even their Fëanor was still a wonderful elf and father who deserved better than his fate. I wished for you to have that better life. That is why I took you, why I raised you with love and kindness.”
Elrond pulled back slightly. His eyes were calm now, but still serious.
“And whatever you decide from this point on, whether you wish for me to remain your father or not, there is one important thing, crucial even, that I need you to remember.”
He leant his forehead against Fëanáro’s own, his face so incredibly gentle it hurt Fëanáro’s heart a little.
“Even though you are not my son born of my hröa, even though the circumstances under which we became family were founded upon less than pleasant actions on my part - you are the son of my fëa. I have chosen you as my son, and no matter what you say or do, I will always love you as such.”
This time it was Fëanáro who took the initiative, throwing himself back into his father's arms. Simultaneously, he focused on the bond tying him to Elrond. It had lain dormant ever since Fëanáro had discovered the truth in Elrond's eyes that fateful night. Now, Fëanáro mentally reached out to his father, awakening the bond between parent and child that had lent warmth and comfort to him for as long as he could remember.
Atya, his mind rejoiced, clinging to the immediate affection that enveloped his fëa.
Yonya, Atya held him close in both fëa and hröa. My lovely child.
They sat out there in the darkness for a long time, holding each other and relishing in the bond that was reforged between father and son. Not all was fixed of the years of lies that lay heavily upon them, there was much yet to be said between them and much grief to be shared about events both recent and past, but they would face the future together as a family.