And They Looked Up and Saw a Star by grey_gazania

Maedhros knelt beside Amrod's body, his clothes and face streaked with dirt and blood - some Amrod's and some his own, but most belonging to the dead, both Sindar and Noldor, whose bodies lay where they had fallen on the trampled earth of the Havens.

He heard footfalls behind him — Maglor, judging by the gait — but he did not turn. "Where is Amras?" he asked, closing his younger brother's empty eyes with gentle fingers.

"Dead," Maglor said, resting his hand on Maedhros' shoulder. "But there is something you need to see. Come with me."

"We should bury them," Maedhros answered, as though that were an answer to Maglor's request. But he stood and followed his brother — his only brother, now — back toward the handful of their people who remained. Their path was slow, as they had to pick their way around corpse after corpse, too many of them with familiar faces. We should bury them all, he thought.

Amras' right hand, Galwen, stood a few yards away from their group of soldiers, keeping watch over two dark-haired boys. The children huddled close to one another, watching the men and women around them in silent fear.

"They're Elwing's sons; she left them behind," Maglor explained, switching to their native Quenya. "What should we do with them?"

"She left them behind?" Part of Maedhros wanted to judge her — how could she abandon her own children in favor of a treasure to which she had no right? — but he was too tired to summon up the necessary outrage. "We cannot kill them," he said. "I suppose—"

He was silenced when one of the elves assigned to stand lookout came running down the slope. "Ships," he called out, "heading toward us. A fleet of them."

"Gil-Galad," Maglor said, "or Círdan."

"Or both," Maedhros suggested. Maglor swore.

"We need to move out," Maedhros commanded, as though they hadn't already been preparing to do so. He hesitated for only a fraction of a moment before saying, "Leave the dead."

"The children, brother?" Maglor persisted.

Maedhros looked down at the twins. One looked away, turning his face into his brother's shoulder; the other stubbornly met his eyes, despite clearly not understanding a word that his captors had said. "We'll take them with us," he said. "Perhaps we can force Elwing's people to exchange the Silmaril for their princes' safe return."

Galwen hoisted the more stubborn of the two children into the air, thwarting his struggles with a pinch and a click of her tongue, and passed him up to one of the riders. Maedhros took the other, waiting for Maglor to mount his horse before depositing the boy in his arms.

"Let us take to the river, and make haste," he said, hauling himself into his own saddle. Maglor nodded, and the remaining Sons of Fëanor and their ragged band of followers fled from the site of their crime.

***********

After four straight days and nights of travel they finally risked making camp, for their horses and people both needed rest. The group hadn't risked a fire, in case their trail had been picked up, but the twins were now asleep in one of the tents — but only after a veritable flood of tears, two attempts to run away, and a lullaby from Maglor. Maedhros and Maglor were seated on the ground outside the tent; someone needed to guard against further escape attempts, and neither brother was likely to sleep that night.

"What are we doing, Nelyo?" Maglor asked softly.

"I don't know," Maedhros admitted, his voice barely audible. It wouldn't do for anyone — their own followers or Elwing's sons — to hear how uncertain their leader was. Maedhros couldn't deny that he had been shaken by how many of the Noldor had turned against him at the Havens, fighting instead to defend Elwing's people. "I honestly do not know. All I know is that Elwing is likely dead, and that if Círdan or Gil-galad find the Silmaril, they are more likely to be willing to trade it. Círdan has shown himself to be a practical man, and I cannot believe that any child of Fingon would be foolish enough to try to withhold the jewel from us. But if the Silmaril is truly lost…" He trailed off, glancing back at the tent with unease. "I don't know what we will do with the children — only that I will not see them harmed like their uncles. But they're terrified of us, and I cannot fault them for it."

"Once they see we don't mean to hurt them, maybe they'll feel more at ease." Maglor hesitated a moment before saying, "We'll manage; we have — we had — little brothers."

"And we did a wonderful job with them, didn't we?" Maedhros' voice was bitter, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "Leading them all to into death — that's exactly what an older brother should do."

"We'll manage," Maglor repeated, squeezing his brother's shoulder. "We have to."

***********

"What are they talking about?" Elros breathed, curled against his twin. "I can't hear."

Elrond shook his head. "I can't understand; it's that other language."

Elros moved a little closer. "I want Nana. Do you think they killed her?"

"They killed everyone else," Elrond pointed out, with the same stubborn set to his face as earlier. "And they won't let us leave."

"I'm afraid," Elros said, turning his face into his brother's shoulder.

Elrond said nothing. What was there to say, except that he, too, was afraid? Twice they had tried to flee, but both times the silent, scarred woman who had first found them had tracked them down and dragged them back, depositing them at the feet of the bright-eyed Sons of Fëanor. The men weren't monstrous or orc-like, as his mother had made them seem in her stories, but there was little kindness in their faces. Though the copper-haired man had assured them that they would not be harmed, Elrond did not believe him, and he had begun to fear what might happen if he and Elros continued to disobey.

He wrapped his arms around his brother and resolved to stay awake, lest the Sons of Fëanor change their minds and choose to slay them in their sleep. But the night was cold, and their blankets were warm, and he was tired. All too soon, and entirely against his will, he drifted into slumber.

The Sons of Fëanor did not kill them that night, nor the next, nor the night after that. Instead they continued traveling, moving with more speed and less secrecy as the Havens grew further and further away. Elrond and Elros made no more attempts to flee; even if they did manage to escape the watchful eyes of the Fëanorian followers, they would have no idea where to go.

With escape barred to them, they chose instead to rebel with silence, refusing to answer any questions posed to them and speaking to each other only in the faintest of whispers in the dead of night. This lasted for three days, until Fëanor's dark-haired son put his foot down.

"Enough of this nonsense," he said one morning as they broke their fast in the peace of the deep forest. "You are in our care whether you like it or not. Let's make this easier for everyone by behaving like civilized people, shall we?"

You're not civilized, Elrond wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He had no desire to anger these violent men.

"I'll start," the man said. "I am Maglor, son of Fëanor. This is Maedhros, my elder brother. This," he continued, motioning to the scarred woman, "is Galwan. Next to her is Doronel. Beside him is Taraharn…" He went around their circle of followers, naming each of them for the boys. There were only two dozen or so men and women, Elrond saw now. They had seemed more numerous before, in the chaos of their flight.

Elros spoke then, ignoring Elrond's disapproving glare. "I'm Elros," he said. "My brother is Elrond."

"Better," Maglor said with a nod.

Maedhros, his voice rougher and softer than his brother's but no less commanding, said, "No one here will hurt you, Elros and Elrond. Maglor and I are kin to you, through your father's line. We will keep you safe, educate you, provide for your needs… You need not fear us."

"Our needs? What we need is to go home," Elrond burst out.

"I'm afraid that is not possible," Maedhros said. "Your mother's people have something of ours. Until they surrender it, you will stay with us."

"So we're your prisoners."

Maedhros nodded, but Maglor said, "It might be more accurate to think of yourselves as our wards."

Maedhros shot Maglor an inscrutable glance, and something unspoken passed between the two men. "I suppose Maglor isn't entirely wrong," Maedhros said. "Your mother abandoned you in favor of the Silmaril, to which she has no right, and with your father away, that leaves you with no guardians. We can fill that role as well as any."

Elros frowned. "You're lying," he said. "You killed Nana."

"Elwing cast herself into the sea," Maedhros said. "That was her own choice. We laid no hand on her."

Something about that seemed wrong, but Elrond couldn't quite articulate what. Surely their mother would not have left them behind on purpose? But she was gone, and the Silmaril was gone, and they were still here... He shook his head a little, trying to clear his thoughts, but he still couldn't put his finger on what was bothering him about Maedhros' statement.

Elros, too, was frowning, but he changed the subject, asking, "Where are you taking us?"

"To our fortress at Amon Ereb," Maglor said. "We will spend the winter there. I realize travel can be tedious, but once we reach Amon Ereb, you will have other children to keep you company."

The man called Taraharn nodded as Maglor spoke. "I have a grandson about your age," he said to the boys. "I think you could be friends."

"We have friends back home," Elrond said. "We don't need new ones."

"Unless your mother's people surrender the Silmaril, you will not be going home," Maedhros said, a ringing note of finality in his voice. "I suggest you make peace with that fact."

***********

"My brother doesn't mean to be harsh," Maglor said later in the day. They were riding once more, Elrond with Maglor this time and Elros with Taraharn. Maedhros, Doronel, and Galwen were acting as scouts and were out of earshot. "He simply prefers what he thinks of as the unvarnished truth. But he is right that you very likely will not be returning to the Havens of Sirion. You should think of us as your family now, and Amon Ereb as your home."

Elrond stayed quiet, studying the cracks in the leather of Maglor's saddle, but Elros tipped his head up to look at Taraharn and said, "Do you really have a grandson there?"

"My daughter's son," Taraharn confirmed. "His name is Arthoron, and he is ten."

"But you said he was our age. We're only six," Elros pointed out.

"Ah, but you are only half-elven, are you not?" Taraharn said. "You grow more quickly than we Elves do."

"How do you know that?" Elrond asked indignantly. "We never said that!"

"We had heard that your grandmother, our cousin Idril, wed a mortal," Maglor said. "And there are few who do not know the tale of Beren and Lúthien. Your lineage is no secret, Elrond."

Elrond considered that in silence. He'd known that he and his brothers were princes, of course, but he had never imagined that the dreaded Sons of Fëanor would know so much about his family. He had never imagined the Sons of Fëanor as anything more than monsters. But they seemed so normalnow that he had met them in person. Maglor's voice was not like the warning rumble of thunder, nor was Maedhros' hair red like the blood of those he had slaughtered. The tales he had heard seemed suddenly false. It troubled him.

A bird-call echoed twice somewhere ahead of them, and Maglor responded to it with a whistle of his own.

"Why are you answering the birds?" Elros asked.

Taraharn laughed. "That's no bird," he said before Maglor could speak. "That was Galwen, telling us that our path is clear of danger. We often use whistles. You'll learn what they mean in time, I'm sure."

I don't want to learn what your whistles mean, Elrond thought. But he held his tongue. Though Elros continued to question Maglor and Taraharn, Elrond spent the remainder of the day in silence.

***********

By the time the Sons of Fëanor reached Amon Ereb, Elrond and Elros were cranky, saddle-sore, and deeply homesick. They were turned over to woman with gentle hands and tired eyes, who fed them and bathed them and tucked them into bed.

"I want Nana," Elros mumbled.

The woman brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. "Of course you do. That's only natural," she said. "But your mother has left, and you are here with us now. Sleep, little one. Things won't seem so bad in the morning."

He made a sound of wordless discontent, but he was too tired to continue protesting. The woman stroked his hair and began to hum softly. Soon both he and his brother had been lulled to sleep.

Melloth closed the door softly behind her as she left the room, and then went to find Maedhros.

He was in his office in the heart of the keep, bent over the map that he had laid out on the desk before riding out to attack Elwing's people.He'd shed his armor but hadn't yet bathed or changed from his traveling clothes. He looked up when he heard her steps on the stone floor and waved her into the room.

"I expected more of you to come back," she bluntly. The eldest sister of Maglor's long-dead wife, Melloth was one of Fëanor's staunchest followers, and she had long ago earned the right to speak freely around his sons.

"So did I," Maedhros said heavily. "It was a complete disaster, Melloth. Elwing threw herself from a window into the sea with the Silmaril. I don't think she can possibly have survived the fall, but the jewel is lost, and Amras and Amrod are dead, and-- People turned on us, Melloth. We had to fight against our own soldiers."

"And the children?"

"Elwing's sons," he said. "She left them behind."

"So you took them with you as ransom, in case the jewel is found?"

"Yes." There was no shame in his face, but Melloth hadn't expected any. She couldn't judge him; they had all left shame behind a long time ago.

"So what do we do now?" she asked.

"Now I check to make sure Maglor isn't trying to drown himself in the bath. After that? We wait. That's all we can do."

***********

Maedhros found Maglor sitting naked on the edge of the tub in their shared bathroom, staring vacantly at the wall as water dripped from his hair and ran down his back. He didn't react when Maedhros said his name, so Maedhros repeated himself a little more loudly.

"Maglor."

Maglor blinked, seeming to come back to himself, and turned to face his brother. "Nelyo," he said. "Oh. You need to bathe." He stood, wrapping a towel around his waist, and said. "I'll help with your hair if you'd like."

"I'd appreciate that," Maedhros said after a moment. In the past he hadn't always accepted his brother's offers of assistance, but tonight he needed Maglor to be near, and his hair was as good an excuse as any.

While Maedhros stripped, Maglor filled the tub once more. The smell of sulfur soon permeated the air; the tap was attached to a clever system of pipes that Curufin had designed to carry water throughout the keep from the hot spring that passed beneath it.

Maedhros sank into the water with a sigh and a feeling of great relief; he hadn't realized until now how much he ached from their long flight from the Havens of Sirion. He scrubbed at the dirt and sweat caking his skin. Maglor was filling a small pail with more water. He poured it over his brother's head and began to work shampoo through his hair. Closing his eyes, Maedhros leaned back to let Maglor massage his scalp. For a long time, the gentle swish of the water in the tub was the only sound in the room.

Then Maglor spoke. "We didn't bury them," he said softly. "We were able to burn the others, at least, but we couldn't bury the twins. I don't know how I feel about that decision, Nelyo."

"They would have done the same, had it been you and I who were slain," Maedhros said quietly. "We cannot fulfill the Oath if we are dead or captured."

Maglor paused to fill the bucket once more and rinsed away the shampoo. "I just— I worry that Círdan and Gil-galad will leave our brothers to rot," he said, taking up a bone comb and working it carefully through the tangles in Maedhros' hair.

"I do not think they will, if only for Celebrimbor's sake. By all accounts he and Gil-galad are on good terms," Maedhros said.

Maglor's next stroke with the comb was harder than the others, and Maedhros let out a hiss as it snagged on a knot and pulled several hairs from his scalp. Maglor did not apologize. Instead he said angrily, "Do you feel nothing, Nelyo? Our brothers are dead."

"Don't," Maedhros said, pulling away and turning to face him. "I was naive at Doriath, I admit it. We all survived the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. I thought we would all survive then as well. I thought we would reclaim the Silmaril. But since then…" He trailed off, and his voice was very soft when he said, "I knew any of us might die this time. I knew we might fail. But that knowledge makes what happened no easier to bear. No, I do not feel nothing. But I cannot bring them back to life, nor can you."

Silently, Maglor placed a hand on Maedhros' scarred shoulder, turning him so that he could once more reach his hair. The next stroke of the comb was gentle. "I'm sorry," he said. "That wasn't fair. You loved them as much as I did."

"We have another set of twins to worry about now," Maedhros said. "Melloth is a healer, not a nanny. Someone else needs to care for Elwing's sons."

"I will," Maglor said, his voice quiet but firm. He had ceased combing and was now working his brother's hair into a loose braid. "I have thought long about this. We drove their mother to her death; we are responsible for their care. But you are our leader, and you have enough responsibilities. I will care for Elrond and Elros."

"So be it," Maedhros said. He waited for Maglor to finish and then stood, reaching for a towel of his own. "I will help you as much as I can, but you are now their primary caregiver." On impulse, he leaned over to press a kiss to the top of Maglor's head. "I know," he said, "that you'll do your best."

When Elros woke the next morning, he found himself alone in the unfamiliar bed he’d been tucked into the night before. Instantly he was engulfed by a wave of panic. Where was Elrond? Had Fëanor’s sons stolen him away and murdered him in the night? The men had said they wouldn’t harm Elros or his brother, but they were Kinslayers. Their words couldn’t be trusted.

Still dressed in the hand-me-down tunic he’d been given last night, Elros stumbled out into the hall. “Elrond?” he called. “Elrond?”

No one answered, so he gathered his strength and shoved at the door closest to him. It was heavy, and he was red-faced by the time it creaked open. It led to a short corridor which soon opened into a wide hall that held a fireplace and a long table with two benches. The hall was almost empty, save for two figures. The man called Doronel sat darning a sock by the light of the fire, and a woman stood with her back turned to Elros by the near end of the table.

After a moment’s hesitation, Elros chose to approach the woman. He immediately regretted it, for when she turned he saw that it was Galwen, the silent soldier who had thwarted his brother’s struggles with bruising pinches and tracked the two of them through the forest when they’d tried to flee. He nearly turned tail and ran, for he found her as imposing as Maedhros and Maglor themselves.

He swallowed nervously and then, in a wavering voice, said, “My brother is missing. Have you seen him?”
 

She raised her eyebrows, but didn’t answer.

“She can’t speak aloud, lad,” Doronel said, glancing up from his work.

Galwen waved a hand at the ragged scars that covered her throat, the corners of her mouth tilting into a slightly mocking smile. Is that not obvious?, her face seemed to say.

Elros took that as permission to stare openly. “What happened?” he asked, momentarily distracted from his fear.

She bared her teeth and bent the fingers of her right hand into claws.

“Orcs,” Doronel translated for the boy. Galwen gestured again and he said, “A long time ago.”
 

Elros shivered. He’d never seen an orc, but he’d heard his father’s soldiers tell of them, how wave upon wave of the wicked creatures had overwhelmed the hidden city of Gondolin, led by great monsters of fire who wielded burning whips.

Doronel noticed. “You don’t have to worry about orcs here,” he said. “We take great care to keep them away from Amon Ereb. You’re in no danger.”

No danger? Elros though disbelievingly. Of course he was in danger. He was in the hands of the Sons of Fëanor, and Elrond was missing--

Elros gathered up his nerve and demanded, “Where is Elrond?”
 

“Your brother woke earlier than you did,” Doronel said. “Melloth took him to see Lord Maglor. She’ll be back for you.” He paused, setting the sock down upon his knee, and said, “No one here will harm him, or you. My lords have sworn it, and they never go back on their word.” He beckoned Elros closer and said, “Come along. I’ll take you to kitchens while we wait for them. You could use a hot meal.”

Elros made his way hesitantly towards the man. What other choice did he have?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Galwen’s hands move through the air again. Doronel laughed, but he offered Elros no translation as he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and guided him through another door. Once they were away from Galwen he said, “You’ll pick her language up soon enough. But she has some bite behind her bark, that one. I’d advise you not to pester her overmuch.”

***********

Maedhros was in his study again, bent over yet another map as he considered routes for this year’s winter patrols, when someone knocked softly on the door frame.

He looked up and saw that it was Galwen, and he beckoned her inside, wondering why she had come. He never turned any of his people away when they wished to speak to him, but Galwen had always been uncomfortable within stone walls, and she rarely ventured into the fortress proper.

She was one of the few followers of the Sons of Fëanor who had no Noldorin blood at all, instead being of mixed Avarin and Nandorin ancestry. While out hunting many yéni ago, she and her brothers had been set upon by a band of marauding orcs. Morgoth’s servants had killed her family before turning on her, shredding her throat with their teeth and claws.

But Amras and his men had been tracking those same orcs, and they arrived in time to slay the foul creatures before any could strike a killing blow. After the healers had tended to her, she had renamed herself Galwen, ‘fortunate woman’, and sworn loyalty to Amras in gratitude. She was fiercely devoted to him, for they were much alike in spirit, and she had fought beside him during the Dagor Bragollach and again in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. By the time the Sons of Fëanor had descended upon Doriath, she was Amras’ right hand.

With Amras dead, she no longer owed the Sons of Fëanor any loyalty, and Maedhros couldn’t help but wonder whether she had come to him now to ask to be released from their service.

She entered the room hesitantly, as though she were a bird in danger of being caged, and stood silently before him, her hands still.

“Speak, Galwen,” Maedhros urged.

My lord Amras is dead, she signed, tears welling up in her dark eyes. Elwing’s men slew him, and I could not stop them. He saved my life, but when the time came, I could not save his.

Dropping her hands to her sides, she bowed her head and knelt down on one knee, remaining there in silence for a long moment. When she finally looked up to meet Maedhros’ gaze, her grief was still written plainly on her features, but it had been joined by determination.

I will follow you now, as I followed him, she said. My loyalty is yours, Lord Maedhros. Whatever you ask of me, know that I will do it.

Maedhros bent down and took her by the arm, gently easing her upright. “I accept your service,” he said quietly, “if this is what you truly want. But my brother’s death is not on your hands, and I would bear you no ill will if you chose to return to your people.”

Any chance I had of rejoining my people died at Doriath, she signed. They will never forgive me for what I did there, nor for what I have now done at the Havens of Sirion. Besides, my brothers are dead. There is nothing left for me among the Green-Elves. Doomed or not, your people are my family now.

“You honor us with your loyalty,” Maedhros said. Looking at her grieved face and the tension in her body, and remembering how Amras had always dealt with his own pain, he said, “I ask that you lead our next patrol of the southern woods.”
 

Yes, my lord, she signed, and Maedhros could see gratitude in her eyes. Having a task out in the forest would do more to ease her suffering than all the time in the world spent at rest.
 

***********

Down in the kitchens, Doronel had returned to his darning, and a woman named Cúroneth had set a steaming bowl of porridge in front of Elros.
 

“So which twin are you?” she asked, pressing a spoon into his hand.
 

“Elros,” he said around a mouthful of porridge, forgetting his manners. The meal was bland, not accompanied by honey or milk the way it had been at home, but it was hot and he was hungry.

Whatever Cúroneth said in answer was lost in the gust of chill wind that howled into the kitchen as the outer door opened.

“Elros!”

At his brother’s voice, a wave of relief flooded through Elros, and he hurriedly turned away from his porridge. Elrond was fully dressed and wrapped in a cloak, and he scurried to Elros’ side as Maglor and Melloth walked through the door behind him.
 

“You’re awake,” Maglor said, sounding pleased. “Good. I’ve spoken to your brother; now I must speak to you.”

Elrond’s face was turned away, visible only to Elros, and Elros didn’t miss the look of displeasure that crossed his brother’s features. He wondered why Maglor wanted to speak to them separately.

“Finish your porridge,” Maglor was saying, seemingly oblivious to Elrond’s feelings. “Then we’ll take you to get some proper clothes, and you and I will talk.”

Elros was soon dressed in clothes which, although clearly hand-me-downs, were clean, comfortable, and warm. Maglor had taken him by the hand and was leading him around the fortress, showing him the places he would need to be able to find.

"My youngest brothers were twins, you know," he said, his deep voice tinged with sadness. "If I needed to speak to them about something that had them upset and I tried to do it while they were together, neither of them would listen to a word I said. Maybe you and Elrond are not like that, but then, maybe you are. What I have to tell you now is important, and I don't want to risk either of you ignoring it."
 

He came to a halt under the eaves of the storehouse they were passing, putting himself and Elros out of the wind. "You are safe here," he said. "I don't expect you to believe me now, but I will say it as many times as you need to hear it. My brother and I and our people will not let any harm befall you."

Elros frowned, looking up, up, up at Maglor's bright eyes. "You say that, but when we tried to run away and Galwen caught us, she pinched Elrond so hard he still has bruises," he said. His voice was quiet and shaking, but he made himself keep speaking. "She hurt him because she was angry. And you killed Nana because she wouldn't give you what you wanted."

Maglor's face darkened, and Elros’ remaining determination was swept away by a wave of fear. He flinched, certain that he was about to be struck – or worse – but when Maglor spoke, he realized that Maglor's anger wasn't directed at him.

"Galwen won't do that again," Maglor said firmly. "I'll make sure of it. And you'll not see much of her in general. She spends more time on patrol than she does here at the fortress."

Slowly, the man knelt down, and Elros was finally able to meet his gaze without craning his neck.

"I'm going to take care of you and Elrond," Maglor said. "And I promise, you will not be harmed. You may bring anything that you need to me, and I will see to it. The only thing I ask is that you not trouble Maedhros – not because he would ever hurt you, but because he has many responsibilities and is very busy."
 

I don’t believe you, Elros wanted to say. But he had exhausted the last dregs of his courage and he was alone, unable to borrow strength from his brother. All he could do was nod and hope that that would be good enough.
 

When Maglor stood and took him by the hand once more, he followed his captor without protest.

***********

Maglor declared that Elrond and Elros needed time to adjust before starting their schooling, so that afternoon they were turned over to yet another new face, an adolescent girl called Ólloth who sat spinning as she watched two young boys at play.

“Nelmir,” she said, once Maglor had left the room. “Arthoron.” The boys looked up from their painted blocks, and Ólloth gestured to Elrond and Elros. “Lord Maglor has brought you two new friends. This is Elrond and his brother Elros. They’ll be living here at Amon Ereb with us now.”
 

Her voice was calm and her expression placid; it was impossible for Elros to discern how much she knew about the circumstances of his and his brother’s arrival. Nelmir and Arthoron seemed to take her words at face value, and they both smiled shyly at the newcomers.
 

“Hi,” Arthoron said, pushing a few of the blocks towards Elrond in a silent invitation.

He was Taraharn’s grandson, Elros remembered, and part of him wanted to turn away, to shun the descendent of a Kinslayer. But Arthoron didn’t look any different from Elros’ friends back home, and his smile was genuine.
 

Elros exchanged a silent look with Elrond and saw his own feelings mirrored in his brother’s eyes. Slowly, together, they inched nearer to the boys and joined in their game. Neither spoke much, but Arthoron and Nelmir didn’t seem to mind; in fact, Nelmir talked enough for all four of them, chattering away about anything that crossed his mind. He seemed content with only the occasional nod or shrug from his new friends, and Elros couldn’t help being relieved. He didn’t want to answer any questions about why he was here. He didn’t want to think about why he was here, not if he didn’t have to.

Eventually Ólloth brought her charges down to the hall for a supper of unfamiliar stew, made with a meat that Elros didn’t think he’d ever eaten before. It was warm and filling, but he found himself missing his mother’s fried sea trout with a pang.
 

Against his will, he started to cry.

Maglor set his own spoon down before pushing his chair back from the table and rising. “Bedtime, I think,” he said, gently scooping Elros up in his arms. Elros couldn’t find the energy to struggle, and he closed his wet eyes and rested his head on Maglor’s shoulder, allowing himself to pretend for a moment that it was his long-absent father who held him and not one of the men who had murdered his family.

Soon he and Elrond were tucked together into bed. Elros was still crying silently, and Elrond nestled closer to him and glared up at Maglor.
 

“Go away,” he demanded.

Maglor hesitated, but ultimately decided to comply, and Elros relaxed a little against his brother as they were left alone.

Slowly, both boys drifted off to sleep.

***********

Maedhros couldn’t sleep.

That wasn’t unusual. In truth, he spent more nights awake than he did in slumber, for he was often plagued by bitter memories and harrowing dreams. The people of Amon Ereb were well accustomed to their lord pacing the darkened keep at night, his restlessness driving him from corridor to corridor on silent, unshod feet.
 

Tonight, his wandering took him past Elrond and Elros’ room. The door was ajar, spilling the dim light of a candle into the hall, and he paused to peek inside. The children were huddled together in their sleep, shivering beneath their woolen blanket, and it suddenly occurred to him that being part mortal likely made them more susceptible to the cold.

He couldn’t bring their mother back. He couldn’t undo what he and his people had done at the Havens of Sirion. He couldn’t restore his own brothers to life, nor could he fulfill his thrice-damned Oath. But the cold, at least, was something he could fix.
 

There were extra blankets stored in a cupboard near the kitchens, but they were plain things. Better to give the boys something with some color to it. Perhaps that would help them feel less like the prisoners that they truly were.

He returned to his rooms and knelt before the weathered cedar chest that stood at the end of his bed. Folded away at the bottom was a quilt, a many-textured whirlwind of reds, golds, and browns. Parmacundë had made it for Caranthir, her husband, when he had followed Fëanor to Formenos. It had been the only possession that Caranthir had spared room for when he had his people had fled from Thargelion during the Dagor Bragollach, for he had treasured it more than any gem – perhaps even more than the Silmarils themselves.

It did no one any good hidden away, and it was warm and beautiful. Maedhros gathered it up in his arms and walked down the hall to the twins’ bedroom.

Elrond stirred as Maedhros draped the quilt across him and Elros, his breath hitching and his grey eyes widening with fear when he saw Fëanor’s eldest son towering beside the bed.

“Go back to sleep,” Maedhros whispered, bending over to tuck the quilt under the end of the mattress. “It’s a long time till morning.”

He left the room without waiting to see if Elrond listened. Surely the boy would sleep more easily without one of his captors nearby.

Golden light spilled through the window of the boys’ room, the sun’s rays taking the place of the candle that had guttered out hours ago. The red patches on the quilt glowed like rubies, and the morning light glinted off the brass bells that adorned each corner.

Beneath the quilt, Elrond and Elros were deep in slumber, silent and motionless except for the steady rise and fall of their chests. Maglor watched them from the doorway, his heart aching in his breast. Maedhros must have brought the quilt out in the night. Neither of them had looked at it in years, not since they had packed it away after Caranthir’s death.

He missed Caranthir. He missed all of his brothers. Losing Amrod and Amras seemed to have torn off the scab covering the wound that the deaths of his middle brothers had made, and now the pain felt just as fresh as it had when he had stood beside their funeral pyres.

Maedhros was all he had left. Maedhros, and two tiny, terrified, immeasurably valuable children.

Stepping fully into the room, he approached the bed and spoke the boys’ names.

"Elrond. Elros."

They were slow to wake, both blinking blearily and turning their faces away from the light. When they finally roused themselves, they sat staring at Maglor with identical expressions of wariness in their large grey eyes.

“It’s time for a bath,” Maglor said, nodding towards the pile of clean clothes he held. “After that we’ll head down to breakfast. Come along.”

The boys exchanged an inscrutable look that reminded him painfully of his youngest brothers, and then, reluctantly, they climbed from the bed and began to follow him down the hall. He led them to the bathroom he shared with Maedhros, set the clothing off to the side, and turned on the tap.

At the smell of sulfur, the twins both wrinkled their noses, and Elrond crept cautiously towards the tub. His eyes widened when he saw the water flowing from the pipe, and he turned to stare up at Maglor.

“How does it work?” he demanded.

“It’s called plumbing,” Maglor said, unable to hold back a smile. “My brother Curufin perfected it. There’s a hot spring that runs under the keep. Pipes carry the water from the spring up to this room, and the kitchen, and a few other places. It saves us the trouble of mucking about with kettles when we need a lot of hot water.”

“It smells,” Elros said, with the blunt honesty of childhood. “It smells like bad eggs.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Maglor said. “Come, now. You didn’t bathe yesterday. It’s time to wash.”

Elrond stuck one finger gingerly into the water, and then turned to Elros. “It’s nice,” he admitted, though it was plain that he didn’t want to. “Come on, Elros.”

With Maglor’s help, they wriggled out of their nightshirts and clambered into the tub. Maglor could see the bruises Elros had mentioned, ugly yellow-green pinch marks that dotted the insides of Elrond’s arms, and he felt a surge of anger. But he forced himself to contain it, lest he frighten the boys further. The way Elros had flinched away from him yesterday had not gone unnoticed.

“I have a balm for those,” he said instead, his voice even. He passed them each half a bar of soap and sat back as the boys set to work. Elrond began washing beneath his arms, and Elros scrubbed at a grubby spot on his knee. “If anyone does anything like that again -- to either of you -- you must tell me immediately, all right?”

“Why?” Elrond demanded, the soap squeaking from his grasp and falling into the water as he clenched his fingers. “You don’t care.”

“I do care,” Maglor said, still trying to present the illusion of calm. “I care very much. I will not see either of you harmed. Maedhros and I have commanded it, and we expect our commands to be obeyed. None of our people are to cause you any pain.”

“Tell that to Galwen,” Elrond muttered.

“I intend to.”

Elrond didn’t answer, but simply sat staring at Maglor with a look of great mistrust, until Elros fished the dropped soap from the water and handed it to him. Then he returned to his task, now scrubbing behind his ears.

Maglor watched in silence, his placid mask still in place, until the boys had finished. Then, one at a time, he washed and combed their hair, taking care not to get shampoo in their eyes. Elros squirmed a little, but Elrond sat as still and silent as a stone.

Soon they were dried and dressed, with their damp hair pulled into neat braids and balm smeared on Elrond’s bruises. Maglor would not let it be said that he neglected his charges, not only because he needed them unharmed, but also because they were children. They deserved to be properly cared for, even if they were hostages.

Taking them each by the hand, he led them down to the warmth of the kitchen. Cúroneth was already gone, for it was late in the morning, but she had left the pot of porridge to warm on top of the stove. Ólloth and her brother were there, breaking their own fast, and Nelmir waved to Elrond and Elros.

“Hi!” he said brightly once he’d swallowed his mouthful of porridge. Patting the bench beside him, he added, “You can sit by me.”

The twins exchanged another silent look before crossing the room to join Nelmir at the table, and Maglor smiled to himself as he turned to the stove to dish up the boys’ breakfast. They were making friends. That was good; Nelmir and Arthoron were the only young children among Maedhros’ and Maglor’s followers, and Maglor could well imagine how much more difficult things would be if Elwing’s sons had decided to shun them.

“Ólloth, would you watch Elrond and Elros again this morning, please?” he asked, setting a bowl down in front of each of the boys.

“Of course, Lord Maglor,” she said. “Nelmir enjoyed their company yesterday.” She tousled her brother’s hair and, fondly, added, “Didn’t you, Nelmir?”

Nelmir nodded vigorously. “We built a tower,” he said. “And we played tumbling timbers. Elrond was really good at it.”

Beside him, Elrond didn’t quite manage to keep an expression of surprised pleasure off his face.

“Elrond must have steady hands,” Maglor said, smiling. “You boys enjoy your breakfast. Ólloth will look after you until I get back.”

He went in search of his brother, eventually finding Maedhros down in the storerooms with Cúroneth, the pair of them adjusting their estimates of how much food they would need for the winter now that they had lost so many of their people at Sirion.

“Where is Galwen?” he asked.

“She took the southern patrol out at dawn,” Maedhros said absently. Most of his attention was fixed on the abacus cradled in his arm, and his fingers speedily flicked a few of the beads. “Three and five-eighths pounds each day,” he declared. Cúroneth scribbled the number down on the slate she held.

Maglor jumped in before they could begin another calculation. “Malnas leads the southern patrol,” he said. “Not Galwen. She has the eastern patrol.”

“Malnas’ arm is still healing. The wound that Egalmoth gave him was deep.”

Maglor didn’t wince, though he wanted to. The attack on Sirion had been a disaster for many reasons, the failure to regain the Silmaril and the loss of so many of their people being foremost among them. But what had been most painful for Maglor had been the number of familiar faces among those he was fighting. There had been altogether too many people from Gondolin in the fray -- people he’d known in Valinor, people he had even considered friends once, but people he had slain all the same.

People like Egalmoth.

It didn’t bear thinking about. If he dwelled on it too long, it would paralyze him.

He took a deep breath and forced the thought away, shutting in the box where he locked the blood and the screams and the death. He’d become good at that, over the years, good at not letting himself ruminate on the memories of the things he had done.

“Come find me when you’re finished here,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

***********

Maedhros tracked Maglor down a little over an hour later, finding Maglor in his study, poring over a stack of the old primers that Ólloth had used when she’d first been taught to read and write.

There had always been few children among the followers of the Sons of Fëanor, for many of the Eldar refrained from having children in times of war, and Beleriand had been in a state of near-constant war ever since the Dagor Bragollach. The number had dwindled even further after the attack on Doriath, for some of their people had departed their lands then, unwilling to engage in warfare against their own kind any further. Heledir and Faeldis, Galwen’s foster parents, had been among those who had turned away, though Galwen had stayed, being devoted to Amras to the bitter end.

Such loyalty was to be valued.

Now, though, Ólloth, Nelmir, and Arthoron were the only children left, and Maedhros worried sometimes what the future would hold for them. They weren’t Kinslayers, but they were the daughter and sons of Kinslayers, and would surely be unwelcome in any of the remaining havens of the elves. But that was a problem for another day.

“Well, we have enough food to make it through the winter,” Maedhros said, dropping into a chair. He didn’t say that the food would stretch far enough specifically because they had lost so many at the Havens of Sirion, but then, he didn’t need to say it. Maglor knew.

“That’s good,” Maglor said, a little absently. But then he pulled his attention away from the book in front of him and turned to face his brother. “That wasn’t what I wanted to talk about, though,” he said. “It’s Galwen. She’s been hurting the boys – pinching them. Hard enough to bruise, too. You should see Elrond’s arms. It’s unacceptable.”

“I’ll talk to her when she returns,” Maedhros said. “She listens to me more easily than she listens to you. But we should probably start teaching the boys our sign language as soon as possible. If she can talk to them directly, she’ll probably be less inclined to try to make her point in more physical ways.”

“That’s reasonable,” Maglor conceded. “I was just starting to think about their education. I know they’re young, but…well, I’m not sure how quickly they’ll grow. I mean, half-elven children… Neither of us have any experience with that. I think I ought to start as soon as possible. If the Silmaril is found, and we do exchange the boys for it, I won’t have it said that we neglected them in any way.”

Maedhros nodded. “By all means,” he said. “If there’s anything you need, tell me.”

***********

The day wore on for Elrond and Elros. Ólloth worked once more on her spinning as Nelmir, Arthoron, and the twins occupied themselves and, when they grew restless, she took them out to the courtyard, where they played tag in the frosty air, their cloaks flapping as they ran. Then she shooed them back inside and fed them a lunch of bread, cheese, and cold sausage.

Maglor joined them at the table halfway through the meal, with a pile of slates and some chalk, but he waited until they had finished eating to reveal his purpose.

“Boys,” he said, “how much education have you had? Do you know how to read?”

“Nana taught us to read the Cirth,” Elrond said. “But Pengolodh only just started showing us the…tengwar, I think they’re called?” Then his expression crumpled, and he turned his face into his brother’s shoulder. They were probably never going to see Pengolodh again. He was probably dead, dead like their mother, killed by Maglor and Maedhros and their people.

Maglor reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, but Elrond pulled away. “Don’t touch me,” he mumbled, glaring at Maglor through teary eyes. Elros, too, was glaring at the man, with his arms wrapped tightly around his twin.

Surprisingly, Maglor took his hand away and sat back, giving the two of them some space. It might have seemed a kindness, but Elrond didn’t trust Maglor’s attempts at kindness. He wasn’t a kind man. A kind man would not have destroyed Elrond’s home or killed his family. He was only being nice to Elrond and Elros now because he needed them, because they would be a useful bargaining chip if it turned out that the Silmaril hadn’t vanished forever into the waves.

Probably, if Maglor and Maedhros hadn’t needed them, the brothers would have killed them, too, just like the Sons of Fëanor had killed their mother’s brothers in Doriath, before Elrond and Elros were born.

“Come now,” Maglor said gently. “We need to focus on your schooling. You’re young, and there’s much you need to learn. We are the Noldor – the Wise. Education is key. We start today. You’ve had time to play, and you’ve eaten. Now it’s time to study.” He set a slate and a piece of chalk down in front of each of them and said, “We’ll work here for today. I haven’t set up a proper schoolroom yet, but the kitchen is always warm.”

Maglor copied several lines onto his own slate – the tengwar alphabet, Elrond thought, though he still didn’t have a handle on each of the letters.

“Let’s begin,” he said. “This is tinco. It makes the tuh sound. After that comes parma…”

Clearly, there was no escaping this. Reluctantly, hating himself for it, Elrond turned his attention to the lesson.

A week passed, then two weeks, then a month. The days fell into a pattern – play time with Nelmir and Arthoron in the morning under the watchful eyes of Ólloth, followed by lunch, followed by lessons with Maglor. Elrond and Elros saw little of Maedhros and, thankfully, even less of Galwen.

It was hard to tell what Ólloth thought or knew about the reasons for Elrond and Elros’ presence at Amon Ereb; she was one of the most reserved people Elrond thought he’d ever encountered, never showing her thoughts on her face. Calm and quiet, she only ever broke her tranquility to scold her charges when they got into squabbles. But at least she was consistent, even if she was hard to read. Elrond and his brother didn’t fear her the way they feared some of their other captors.

Maglor, however, still frightened Elrond. It was true that he had yet to harm his hostages, never so much as raising his voice with them, let alone striking them, but Elrond couldn’t forget his first sight of the man, coated in blood and ash, with blood dripping from his naked blade – the blood of Elrond’s people, for not the first but the second time.

He had admitted, however, if only to himself and his twin, that Maglor’s lessons were interesting. He’d started them on reading, writing, and mathematics, and said that if they continued to improve at their current pace, it would soon be time to add science and history lessons. The idea of studying science intrigued Elrond, but he wasn’t sure about history. He wasn’t certain he could trust a Kinslayer to tell him the truth.

Right now, Elrond’s biggest annoyance was the fact that the people here so often liked to leave him and Elros out of their conversations. Bad enough that they didn’t even speak Sindarin properly; why were they constantly lapsing into a language that neither he nor Elros understood? Even Ólloth did it sometimes, speaking to Nelmir and Arthoron in that strange, lilting tongue. Elrond had asked Maglor if he could teach them, but Maglor had said that that was too many subjects to tackle at once.

Elrond doubted that. More likely, Maglor simply didn’t want to give up his foolproof trick for talking over the twins’ heads.

“Well, we should do it back,” Elros said, when Elrond next complained to him about it. “I bet they don’t know Taliska. Let’s see how they like it.”

Much to their indignation, however, it turned out that Maglor did know Taliska – at least, enough to follow what his two young captives were saying. This revelation had occurred rather dramatically, when Elrond had insulted Maglor to his brother in Taliska within Maglor’s hearing, and Maglor had responded in the same tongue with an admonition about incivility.

As though the Sons of Fëanor knew anything about being civilized!

Elrond missed his mother terribly. But his mother was dead. She would not be coming back for him. He and Elros were trapped here, trapped with Fëanor’s wicked sons.

“We’ll just have to make the best of it,” Elros whispered to him later that night. “At least they don’t plan to kill us. If they wanted to do that, they’d have done it already.”

Elrond had to concede the point. Maedhros and Maglor clearly wanted them alive. But that thought was of little comfort to him.

*************

When Elrond woke the next morning, it was with a feeling that his head had been stuffed full of ooze and that sandpaper had rubbed his throat raw. “I don’t feel good,” he mumbled when Maglor came to get him and Elros out of bed.

“What’s wrong, hinya?” Maglor asked.

Elrond didn’t know what hinya meant and felt too miserable to ask. “My head’s all stuffy,” he said, his voice hoarse and scratchy. “And it hurts. And my throat hurts. And I’m cold.”

Maglor reached out to brush some hair out of Elrond’s eyes, but froze when his hand made contact with Elrond’s skin. “Stars above, you’re burning up,” he said, his face going white. “You say you’re cold? Your skin’s hot enough to cook on.”

“He’s sick,” Elros said, and then broke into a fit of dry coughing.

“I think you’re sick, too,” Elrond rasped, closing his eyes against the pain in his head.

Maglor looked stricken. “Stay in bed,” he ordered, and then he fled from the room.

*************

When Maglor burst into the room Melloth used to store and prepare her medicines, he found both Melloth and Maedhros there, Melloth tidying something away and Maedhros halfway through a cup of tea. Willow bark, Maglor realized from the smell. His brother’s old wounds must have been paining him today.

“Melloth! Maedhros!” he said urgently. “I need help! The boys are sick and I don’t know what to do.”

“Sick how?” Melloth asked, straightening up.

“Elros is coughing, and Elrond says his head and his throat hurt, and that he’s cold. But his skin is fever-hot. Melloth, I don’t know what to do!”

Maedhros spoke then, setting down his cup. “It sounds like what happened to Bór’s people the year after they first settled south of Lothlann. What did they call it, Melloth? Influenza, I think the word was? I remember you and some of your colleagues and apprentices rode down to the settlement to help see to the sick.”

Melloth nodded. “I remember that,” she said. “Take me to them, Maglor. I’ll see what I can do.”

Elrond was huddled shivering beneath the blankets when they returned to the boys’ room, with Elros beside him rubbing his back and murmuring comforting words in between more hacking coughs. “It’s okay, Elrond,” he said in his small voice. “I’ll look after you.”

Approaching the bed, Melloth rested her hand on each of the boys’ foreheads in turn, and frowned. “You both have fevers,” she said. “And I don’t like the sound of that cough, Elros. I’ll bring you both some ginger tea with honey, all right? And I want you to get plenty of rest, and drink lots of fluids.”

She left, returning roughly five minutes later with the promised cups of tea. “Drink,” she urged. “And I’ll ask Cúroneth to cook up some broth for you.”

The children obeyed and then returned to their positions under the blankets.

“I’ll sit with them,” Maglor said, and Melloth nodded. “If we need you, I’ll come and get you.”

As Melloth departed, Elrond cracked his eyes open and mumbled, “Will you sing us a song, Maglor?”

“Of course. What kind of song would you like?”

Elrond shrugged. “Anything.”

Perhaps it was the memory of faithful Bór and his sons, lost so long ago, that made Maglor choose the song he chose. Something lighter would probably have been more appropriate, but both Bór’s people and Ulfang’s people had had songs that tended towards the morbid. At any rate, the boys didn’t seem to mind, both closing their eyes as he sang.

“As I was walking all alone
I heard two ravens cry and moan

The one unto the other did say,
‘Where shall we go and dine today?’

‘Out beyond that old mill dam

I know there lies a murdered man

And nobody knows that he lies there,

But his hawk and his hound and his lady fair.’”

He continued with the song until the boys had fallen asleep, and then he sat beside them in silence as they rested, checking the temperature of their skin every so often.

Influenza had killed some of Bór’s people. Maglor had no intention of letting it kill these tiny children.

Chapter End Notes

hinya (Q.) - 'my child'

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Within a week or so the boys were well again, though not before Maglor had learned how truly miserable being sick could be. The low point of the week was definitely the day that Elrond had vomited spectacularly right into Maglor’s lap, which had caused Elros to throw himself protectively across his brother’s body with a cry of, “Don’t hurt him! He didn’t mean to!”

“I’m not going to hurt either of you,” Maglor had reassured them, all the while trying not to breathe in the smell of vomit. “Even if Elrond had done it on purpose – which I know he did not – I wouldn’t hurt him. You are safe here. I have sworn it, and I never go back on my word.”

That was the problem, really, he couldn’t help thinking. He’d sworn a different oath long ago, sworn it for his father and grandfather’s sakes, and he would pursue it unto the ending of the world, no matter how heartsick it made him, because he never went back on his word. More than that, Maedhros never went back on his word, and Maglor would follow Maedhros to the ends of the earth.

He had failed his older brother once. He would not fail him again. 

Melloth, with her experience treating Mannish illnesses, was invaluable throughout the ordeal, and Maglor wished he had some way to reward her beyond simple verbal praise. But the remaining Sons of Fëanor had no treasures left to bestow. While they were rich in the loyalty of their people – apart, of course, from those traitors who had turned on them at Sirion – they were poor in resources; a single keep, with their people numbering less than two hundred now. They hunted, and fished, and farmed enough grain and herded enough sheep to keep themselves fed and clothed, but they had no gems, no jewels, no precious metals. Praise was the best he could offer.

“Do you get sick often?” Maglor asked the boys once they were on the mend, with more than a little trepidation. He hoped the answer would be no.

Elros shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know how often is often. We get sick sometimes. Nana says – Nana said,” he corrected himself, his mouth twisting into a frown at the use of the past tense, “that it’s part of being half-elven.”

Full elves, Elros knew, did not get sick.

The upshot of the incident was that the boys had begun to soften slightly towards Maglor, who had barely left their sides while they were ill, and they had softened even more towards Melloth, whose gentle care and soothing demeanor had comforted them enormously. Maglor decided to count it as a small victory, a step in the right direction. Already he had grown fond of his tiny charges, thinking of them as his wards rather than his captives, and he was optimistic that they would eventually settle in and come to trust him.

It wasn’t as though they had any other options. Besides, they were still quite young, and young children were more easily molded. Someday, they would understand why they were here.

*************

“I’m going to start you on a new subject today,” Maglor said, once Elrond and Elros had recovered enough to return to their schooling.

“Quenya?” Elrond asked. He was still annoyed about the fact that Maglor wouldn’t teach them the High-Elven tongue, which the Sons of Fëanor and their people used so frequently. He had come to realize, however, that it wasn’t merely a case of talking over his and Elros’ heads. Many times, Maglor and the others didn’t even seem to realize that they had switched languages, and Ólloth had even apologized on occasion for leaving the twins out of her conversations with Nelmir and Arthoron.

“Not Quenya,” Maglor said. “But it is a new language. I’m going to teach you our sign language. It’s important that you be able to understand it, and it’s been highly useful for us. I think you’ll be staying with us for some time, so it’s best you start learning now.”

I think you’ll be staying with us for some time. That was one way to put it, Elrond thought sourly. There had been no messengers from the people of Sirion, from Círdan or Gil-galad, from Eärendil his father – assuming Eärendil was even back from the sea. No one had come to rescue them, or to parley, or even to give themselves up as a hostage in the twins’ place. It was a lonely feeling, knowing that your own people weren’t even trying to get you back.

That’s not fair, Elrond, Elros had said when Elrond confessed his feelings. Maedhros and Maglor would probably have any messenger or rescuer killed. They won’t give us up without their stupid Silmaril. That’s not Ada’s fault, nor Círdan or Gil-galad’s. If the jewel is lost in the ocean, there’s nothing any of them can do.

Elrond, though, couldn’t help the way he felt, and he felt abandoned and bereft.

“Are you paying attention, Elrond?” Maglor said, snapping Elrond’s attention back to the present.

“Yes,” Elrond lied.

Maglor gave him a look that was heavy with skepticism, but didn’t press the point. “I’m going to start by teaching you the finger alphabet,” he said, with the air of one who was repeating himself. “It’s simple, and it will let you spell words that you don’t know the signs for.”

Elros raised his hand and, when Maglor acknowledged him, asked, “Is it just the tengwar with our fingers?”

Maglor shook his head. “It doesn’t map exactly to the tengwar alphabet, no. Vowels and diphthongs each have their own signs.”

The language – Fëanorian Sign Language, as it was properly called – had been developed centuries ago by a linguist who had followed Amrod and Amras to Ossiriand. And, though Maglor had no intention of telling the boys this – at least, not yet – it had been developed specifically to give Galwen a way to communicate, for the injuries she’d sustained in the orc attack that had killed her family had left her mute, and she struggled greatly with trying to read or write. Its utility in other areas – especially hunting and war – meant that it had spread beyond Ossiriand and into the lands of Maglor and his other brothers.

Maglor thought his father would have been proud of Amrod and Amras, arranging for a problem to be solved with the clever and sustained application of linguistic principles.

Would he be proud of his eldest sons now, with their younger brothers slain and the Silmarils still out of their grasp? Maglor didn’t know, but the question haunted him and Maedhros both.

Chapter End Notes

For more about Fëanorian Sign Language, see my Chosen Exile series.

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