Chapter Text
It started when Elrond turned twelve.
He was a happy child before—or, if not truly happy, then as happy as a child could be given the loss of his parents and home and abduction and adoption by the abductors when his parents did not come for him. He played with Elros and listened to Maglor’s stories and followed Maedhros in the safety of their camps with his brother like twin shadows. He was as happy as a child could be with the constant threat of war and an oath driving toward the next dreadful deed.
It started with a dream.
When he awoke, his cries woke Elros. They ran to their fathers, Elrond because he was frightened of what he saw, and Elros because he did not want his brother to go alone if he was so scared. There, Maglor comforted the children and asked what Elrond dreamt of. ‘A horse,’ Elrond answered, ‘a horse and a rider. A snake bit the horse, and she reared and fell back, and crushed the rider.’ It was not a dream meant for a child, but not much was meant for a child these days.
Days later, one of Maedhros’ scouts died when his horse, frightened by a striking snake, fell upon and crushed him.
Elrond had many dreams after that, all of a similar ilk, though not always ending in death. Sometimes he recognized who he dreamt of. Other times, he did not. If he saw them, he found he could not resist telling them of his dreams, telling them the details of some coming calamity. He did not know why he did it, for nothing ever changed: telling them never helped them avoid death, or even lessened how much they suffered in the end. He had no power to resist the words spilling from his mouth.
Elros took to staying near his brother even more than before and would drag him away when he could not control himself.
When Elrond was sixteen, the visions of darkness no longer confined themselves to his dreams. Between one breath and the next, he would fall into another world to watch a horrid event unfold.
Here, too, Elros would rescue him when he could, shaking him from the nightmare. But often the vision would not release him until its end. Those times, Elros would hold onto his brother, keeping him from wandering into danger while his mind drifted and slipped away.
Elrond and Elros spoke of these things with their fathers, who seemed incredibly wise to them. Maglor experienced strange and unsettling dreams that left him gasping for breath and shaking. His oath and terrible deeds brought on his dreams, he said. Maedhros had strange moods and slips from reality. His imprisonment under Morgoth broke part of his mind, he said. The pair told the children there was nothing to be done, that the visions would always be a part of Elrond, just as their own torments would forever be part of them. Minds could only heal in Valinor, and the Valar did not want them back.
Maglor and Maedhros (and most of their host) were broken. They could be broken together.
They adapted. Elrond grew used to the terrors in his head. Elros held him when he felt like he would fall apart. The Fëanorians learned to walk away from the child if he said too much, lest they learn the grisly details of their doom. They got by.
That changed when Maedhros and Maglor handed the twins over to King Gil-galad.
Somehow, Elrond made it through that first, terrible day when the king took them from the barren field where their fathers left them. Somehow he managed to not tell the maiden who took them from the king’s tent to their own how he dreamed of her falling from a great cliff years ago. She will be pierced by a poisoned arrow in her side and tumble down the mountainside to finally meet her death in a shallow pool of rainwater, too battered to move her head and breathe. His throat itched as if he’d screamed himself hoarse, though he dared not so much as open his mouth to say his name when the king asked for it—Elros saved him then, as he always does.
He tumbled onto his cot, exhausted.
“Finally, “ Elros muttered, settling next to his brother and nudging his feet over to get more room. “I thought we’d never be alone.”
Admittedly, their last stop before their tent was to get bowls of hot stew and dense bread. The twins had full stomachs for the first time in many days. The warm feeling in his belly made his eyes heavy.
Elrond did not dare answer.
“We need to talk.” Elros laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“She fell,” he whispered. He thought he meant to say, 'I don't want to'. “She fell so far down the mountain, and the arrow tore her open, but she still knew when she was drow-”
“Not about that,” Elros interrupted loudly, long practice aiding his hands in holding his brother’s mouth shut until he got control of himself. After a minute, he asked, “All better?”
Elrond nodded and gasped in a breath once his mouth was free.
“We need to talk about what we’re gonna do,” Eros continued, unbothered.
“What do you mean?” Elrond asked, sitting up a little and scooting over to make room for his brother to get comfortable. A part of him hoped this conversation would be about how they could follow the remaining Fëanorians. Elros was always the one creating plans to share with his brother.
“This king isn’t anything like atya.”
Elrond nodded. The majestic Noldo looked like a warrior, but his face and hands bore no scars. Maglor said he was a good king, but he’d cursed the names of the last sons of Fëanor earlier that day, so the twins were not sure they could believe anyone on that point. It would not be the first time their fathers were wrong about such things. “He doesn’t like atya or atto very much.”
Elros bit his lip, worrying it between his teeth. “We have to serve him though.”
There went the tiny spark of hope that they’d be running away tonight.
“Atto and atya gave us to Gil-galad. We have to do good here or else he’ll send us away.”
“But there isn’t anywhere else to go!” Elrond exclaimed. His mind began to swim with images of them being cast off into the barren wastes surrounding the camp. There was hardly enough food growing in the abandoned fields to keep a handful of sparrows alive, let alone the two of them. He imagined how they would wander without hope, searching vainly for help until they died from hunger or froze in the growing winter. He had many terrible visions to draw from to build a hundred different fates in his head. The thoughts made his stomach twist. He gagged once, twice, but did not vomit.
“Don’t think about that,” Elros said, wrapping an arm around his brother’s shoulders and squeezing him close. “I’m not gonna let it happen.”
Elrond grabbed the woolen blanket folded at one end of the cot and held a corner to Elros so they could wrap it around themselves and hide from the world—they did that all the time when they were children. The maidan said the blankets came from an Edain camp and that if the peredhil needed more blankets or clothing better suited for the cold weather than what the elves had, the high king would arrange to bring what they needed from the Edain camp when they next crossed paths. Elrond hoped they would not need to ask for anything: he wasn’t sure he believed the promise.
“How?” He asked as they snuggled under the scratchy blanket.
“Well,” Elros said with great confidence. “We learned all about how armies work from atya—though maybe not as big as this one. I can copy messages and orders and take them around the camp like we did when atto was too busy. I just need to learn where the important tents are and who the important people are, then I can be as fast as any servant, faster even! And I can polish armor, sharpen swords, and fletch arrows. There must be a lot of stuff like that to do around here.”
Elrond perked up. “I can do that stuff too!”
He could write in Sindarin and Quenya, and his letters were always clear, even when he wrote fast. Maglor said it was impressive and often asked him to write things for him.
“No,” Elros said quickly.
“I have to help,” Elrond insisted. If he didn’t help, he wouldn’t get food or the king might send him into the wilds. The Noldor were strong, so they must not like weakness.
“You can. . . you can. . . Mend clothes! Or weave, or gather wood for fires, or—or stuff like that,” Elros said.
Elrond wrinkled his nose. “Getting firewood is for kids. Why can’t I do stuff with you? I’m better at writing messages anyway.”
“Because you’d have to be around people,” Elros stated.
“What’s wrong with—” Elrond trailed off, “oh.” Here, no one knew he talked about horrible things.
“Yeah,” Elros nodded. “Did you see anyone here who’s like atto or atya? Like you?”
“No,” he admitted. They’d followed first the king and then the maid through many parts of the camp that day. He hadn’t seen anyone with lots of scars, who screamed and stared at nothing, or who babbled without control.
“This king isn’t like atya and atto,” Elros repeated softly. “He won’t understand. He won’t want us around if he knows you’ve lost your mind.”
Elrond shrank against him, hiding even further in the shadow of the blanket and the warmth of his brother's body. “I’ll stay out of the way. I’ll be good,” he promised his brother.
Elros knew he would. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll look after you.”
He’d promised Maedhros as much before he sent them away with nothing more than a change of clothes and their cloaks.
“I’ll keep you safe.”
Elros’s plan worked well for almost three fortnights.
Gil-galad sat at his desk. He’d just come from a meeting with several of his strategists where they discussed the best routes to take through the mountains, likely ambush areas, and the best spots to camp. Now that they knew their course for the coming weeks, he needed to write several copies of his orders to send to his lieutenants. He’d sent a runner to fetch one of the peredhil boys, Elrond, when he left the meeting. He scratched out a rough draft of the order while he waited for the youth to arrive.
He’d been surprised to receive a letter from the remaining sons of Fëanor five months ago. Surprised, because he had no reason to expect a letter from his distant cousins, and filled with dread, because the sons of Fëanor sent letters for a single purpose. He did not have a silmaril, no matter what they thought, and a fourth kinslaying would do nothing but assure Morgoth victory over Middle-earth.
His fingers shook when he opened the letter.
After reading a few lines, he realized this would not spell their doom. Maglor wrote to him personally, not as the son of the first Noldor king in Middle-earth to the new King. He requested that Gil-galad come for the sons of Elwing. Gil-galad had set the paper down for a moment, grappling with the abrupt revelation that the princes of Sirion had not been murdered as they all assumed after the city fell nearly twenty years ago or left to the same fate as their uncles. When he gathered the strength to continue, he was surprised yet again by how Maglor sought to persuade him to take them, describing the ways in which the twins could be useful in an army—as though any honest elf needed to be convinced that retrieving kidnaped children from the Fëanorians was the right thing to do.
His advisors cautioned that the letter may only be intended to lure the king into a trap. All signs pointed to the princelings dying years ago. He argued that without a silmaril the Fëanorians had no reason to attack them. Even if they chose to kill their kin for some other reason, Maedhros never hid his intentions to wage war on an opponent. They argued about it for several weeks before he could send a reply (yes, yes, emphatically yes, he would come for the children), and it was still the source of some discontent as they diverted from their path. They argued about it until he mounted his horse to personally ride out to the agreed-upon spot.
He expected to meet Maglor, to exchange even a few words with him. All he found were two peredhil boys, thin and huddled under a cloak to ward off the drizzling rain and the chill that hardly bothered him. They watched him and the other armored riders with wary eyes as he introduced himself and invited them to his camp.
He'd brought two extra horses, doubting the Fëanorians would willingly part with any of their mounts even if they no longer wanted their hostages. The boys, though, climbed up onto the same horse. He considered telling one to move, not wanting to overburden the mare. He decided against it, supposing that without armor, the pair was light enough (the hollowness of their cheeks, too, made him suspect they weighed little compared to her normal riders). The beating of the hooves as they rode away served as enough of an excuse to not push them for conversation.
He waited on formalities until they had the chance to warm up in his tent. There, he learned which was Elros and which was Elrond. Elros spoke for both of them while Elrond watched their feet. Gil-galad did not push them for anything more than what they willingly offered, though he wondered at the second twin’s silence. He eventually dismissed them, letting Mileidh show them the most important parts of the camp before sending them to rest in their own tent.
He planned to speak with them more once they had a chance to recuperate.
In the following weeks, he saw Elros many times, but Elrond only once or twice, and then only from a distance. He could not tell if the boy was avoiding him (he was terribly busy himself and could hardly dash away from a meeting to speak with him if he did not want to come near). He came to know Elros slightly better as the days plodded on. He was resourceful, hardworking, and knew his way around weapons. All things Maglor included in his letter. After a few weeks with proper food, he looked healthier, too, more like an Edain with how his skin flushed in the cold than the starved peredhel retrieved from a barren field.
After more than a month passed, he began to wonder if he’d ever see Elrond again. Perhaps he’d been mistaken before and had only ever seen Elros. Perhaps Elrond ran away that first night. He’d looked nervous enough to try something like that, though Gil-galad had a tough time believing he could have made it out unnoticed by any of the guards. In all likelihood, Elrond was just keeping his distance.
In the letter, Maglor claimed the boy was an excellent scribe. Gil-galad figured summoning him to transcribe five copies of his orders was as good an excuse as any to finally talk to him.
A light rap sounded against the wooden post at the front of his tent.
“Enter,” He called, setting aside his quill, and looking up.
The tent flap opened, letting in a gust of cool air and a very windswept Elros.
Gil-galad frowned. “I called for Elrond.”
The boy looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “I am Elrond,” he said.
The king squinted at him. To the casual observer, the two boys were identical, but Gil-galad was never casual about anything he did. As the High King, he made a point of knowing who he was leading. By this point, the army had grown so much that he could not name every soldier, but he could name most and recognized nearly all by sight. On that first day, he’d noted that the angle of Elrond’s eyebrows was slightly steeper, slightly more elvan than his brother’s. There was no mistaking that the boy before him was Elros.
Elros shifted a little under his stare, digging the tip of one soft shoe into the rug beneath him. He continued staring at the half-elf until he knew that the boy knew that Gil-galad knew he was lying. Only then did he gesture to the empty scribe table in the corner and give him instructions.
He could not guess why they would disobey a clear and direct summons from their king. This could be seen as a serious offense, especially during a time of war, especially from those raised by Fëanorians. Then again, they live three-quarters of their short lives with Fëanorians. There was no telling what they did to survive that. Perhaps they often switched places when one did not wish to do something. Perhaps Elrond had some mortal illness and Elros took his place, fearing his brother would be in trouble if he could not work. The few scouts who managed to spy on the Fëanorian camps over the years indicated those people were steadily becoming more desperate. He would not jump to any hasty conclusions for why they disobeyed him, better to give them the benefit of the doubt.
Gil-galad resolved to visit them at their tent this evening when he could be sure to catch them together. He should have taken the time earlier to ensure they knew how things worked in his camp. The letter indicated they had not been kept as prisoners for years, but he should not have assumed that meant they were treated normally.
Or maybe he would go tomorrow evening. He had much to do today.
Several days later, Gil-galad found himself nearing the tent assigned to the twins. He’d been busy (he was always busy), and just now had the chance to do what he promised. The wind nipped at his face, colder every day as they ascended through the mountains. He hoped Elros and Elrond were staying warm enough. He was not sure how cold-sensitive they would be, considering their heritage.
Just outside the tent, he saw a basket filled with fabric. Curious, he stopped to inspect it. Picking up a folded square of fabric, he realized it was one of his soldier’s tunics. The left side of the garment had an old bloodstain in it and evidence of recent mending. Carefully, he folded it and set it back on the top of the basket.
Was this what Elrond did to keep out of sight, mend clothes? Certainly, there was no reason for the child not to help with that never-ending task, the stitching he’d seen appeared skillful enough to justify it. He was surprised all the same that such a menial chore could keep the boy so occupied. If Elros was anything to go off of, Elrond should be far too bright and inquisitive to enjoy sewing day after day.
Gil-galad turned to the closed entry flap with determination. He would at last have answers for his questions.
“Good evening,” he called. The tent was too small for him to wrap his knuckles against a tentpole to alert them to his presence. “May I enter?”
He waited.
The seconds slid by without answer.
He frowned. He’d assumed the hour was late enough (and the weather cold enough) that he would find the boys in the tent, but perhaps they’d found some evening chores to assist with. Maglor said they would make themselves useful if given the chance, and he saw Elros running about before the sun rose that morning. Gil-galad did not like the idea of the twins working at all hours; they were only children, after all. While their mannish blood made them look older than they should, they were still so young, too young to be expected to work so hard, even in a war.
He turned his back on the tent, determined to search the camp until he found them. He’d be sure to take a few moments to speak with whoever put them to a task so late and remind them that the peredhil were still children, even if they did not look it. He disliked the possibility that any of his people might be taking advantage of their willingness to work and be useful. Necessity may have driven them to do so in the Fëanorian camp, but they would be treated better here.
A sound stopped him.
A tiny, muffled sound came from inside the tent. It sounded like a breathless cry smothered under a pillow. Gil-galad turned quickly and threw open the tent flap.
“What’s going on?” He demanded as he entered.
The twins were on the ground between their cots. One of them writhed on his back, bare feet scrambling for purchase across the dirt, arms pinned beneath him. The other, Elros, he was sure, lay on top of his brother, holding him down as he pressed a sloppily folded blanket over his face.
Elros looked up with wide eyes and a pale face.
“Get off of him,” Gil-galad ordered. He did not wait to see if he would obey, taking a fistful of his tunic and pulling him off of the smaller boy.
Elros twisted in his hold, grabbing the wrist restraining him as though he would try to break the king’s grip. He stopped himself, finally recognizing the intruder for who he was. On the ground, Elrond continued to writhe as though tormented by an unseen blade. The blanket still covered his face.
“He’s fine,” the boy said, looking up at Gil-galad, eyes filled with desperation. “Nothing’s wrong with him. He’ll be fine.”
Yet another blatant lie.
“Sit,” he said, shoving Elros down onto the edge of a cot. “Stay.”
The boy did, though Gil-galad would not willingly bet on the endurance of his obedience.
He crouched next to Elrond and placed a hand on the boy’s chest to help still his twisting. The uncoordinated movement of his limbs was already slowing. With his other hand, he lifted the blanket from his face so he could breathe easier. Feeling half-smothered could not help with whatever fit the boy was experiencing.
He jerked back, nearly pulling away entirely when he saw the child’s face.
Elrond’s eye leaked light. Open yet unseeing, shafts of starlight forced their way out from behind his eyelids. Tears danced with specks of light as they escaped down the sides of his face. When he opened his mouth to gasp for air, that, too, glowed like the night sky.
Lungs finally filled with breath, he screamed. Gil-galad winced and Elros covered his ears, his own terrified whimper lost somewhere in his throat. Elrond sat up, colliding with the king while he was yet distracted by the ringing in his ears.
Gil-galad sat back on his heels, rubbing the sore spot over his left eye. Elrond seemed unfazed by the impact, blinking rapidly as the light receded and his body quivered. He opened his mouth as if to speak but no words came out.
Elros’ obedience ran out then. He jumped up from the cot and knelt at his brother’s other side. He wrapped him in his arms, and Elrond buried his face in his shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he whispered before shifting to look up at the king, chewing his bottom lip.
“What is wrong with him?” Gil-galad asked, gentler now that it was clear Elros had not been trying to hurt his brother.
“Nothing,” the boy answered forcefully, as if strength of will alone would make it so.
“Do not lie.” He was growing tired of his lies.
Elros changed tactics, though what he was trying to accomplish with it, Gil-galad could not guess. “I’ll work twice as hard, for both of us. I can do anything, anything you want. You never have to see him; he’ll stay in our tent and walk at the back of the formation—or with the animals! You’ll never know he’s here.”
Gil-galad shook his head, opening his mouth to explain just how ridiculous those suggestions were. What Elrond needed certainly was not to be hidden away.
Elros interrupted him. “You can’t send him away, there’s nowhere to go!”
He gaped at the boy. He would never abandon anyone in this wasted land. To do that to the twin nephews of Eluréd and Elurín was unthinkable. Whatever put that idea in his young head? Had Maedhros threatened to do such a thing? A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.
“I would never do that,” he said gently.
Elros did not look like he believed him. Elrond murmured something into his shoulder. He soothed him, one hand moving up to rest on the back of his head. “I can work,” he repeated quietly.
“You do not need to earn a place for your brother here with your labor,” Gil-galad said. “I promised to look after you. There is little safety left under Morgoth’s shadow, but I will never compel either of you to leave from what protection I can give you. I do not know what I can do for Elrond now, to ease whatever troubles him, but I will see if I can convince Eönwë to see him when we meet again.”
Elros leaned away when Gil-galad mentioned the Maia, pulling his pliant brother closer. Gil-galad supposed that Fëanorians would not have many good words to say about anything from the Valar, so he should not be surprised if the twins were scared of anyone that came from them, despite their own lineage. He wondered then if they even knew they were descendants of Melian, the last of her line in all of Middle-earth. Perhaps not. It raised a pressing question.
Calmly, he asked, “Why do you think Elrond is like this?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him,” the boy insisted.
“Elros,” came his gentle chastisement, “you must be honest with me.”
He looked down and Gil-galad was sure the boy was fighting with himself to decide if he should answer truthfully and risk whatever punishment he feared if anyone were to learn of Elrond’s condition or continue to lie and risk upsetting the person who could decide whether or not they would live. Finally, he said, “His mind’s broken.”
The king’s heart hurt to hear such hopeless words from the boy. He did not know how long the twins lived under the shadow of that assumption, but any length of time was too long to be so mistaken.
“No,” he said. “He is not broken. He—”
“He dreams of people dying, and then they do!” Elros interrupted. “He knows how people here will die. He’s mad.”
Gil-galad stopped. Elrond had foresight? Even if his foresight was limited to death, that was amazing. If his abilities were not limited to people he knew, which he suspected from Elros’ words it was not, he could surely work out a way to put it to good use. Though, looking at the boy shaking in his brother’s hold and still seemingly oblivious to the conversation, he realized that the visions must be far from pleasant for him.
“He is not mad,” Gil-galad reiterates firmly. “Your great-great-grandmother is a Maia. It is her power that allowed your mother to escape the sons of Fëanor in Sirion, and your great-grandmother to best Morgoth and all his servants. I do not know why Elrond is plagued by these dreams, but it is not a sign that anything is wrong with him, whatever Maedhros or Maglor said.” He would like to have words with Maglor more now than he did when he found these children.
“But Ma—”
Gil-galad hushed him. “This is not an argument to be won, Elros. I say Elrond is not broken and that you may both stay with me for as long as you desire. I will speak with Eönwë about this. There is nothing more to say on the matter now. Your king has spoken.”
Elros closed his mouth and nodded mutely.
Gil-galad rose to his feet, brushing the dirt from his legging. “You do not need to work yourself to the bone to earn a spot among my people,” he said. “I’ve already given it to you. I appreciate what you’ve done so far, but I want you to take time to look after yourself: you are still quite young. When Elrond has recovered, tell him there is no need for him to hide away any longer and that he may lend his hands to any task that suits him, not just those that keep him out of sight.”
The boy murmured a soft ‘okay,’ his eyes round.
"However," He added as he stepped back toward the tent flaps which vibrated slightly in the growing wind, "next time I summon Elrond, I expect him to come."
He walked out into the night.