The Hearts of the Eldar by grey_gazania

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The Hearts of the Eldar

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“For the sons of Fëanor that yet lived came down suddenly upon the exiles of Gondolin and the remnant of Doriath, and destroyed them. In that battle some of their people stood aside, and some few rebelled and were slain upon the other part aiding Elwing against their own lords (for such was the sorrow and confusion in the hearts of the Eldar in those days).”

- J. R. R. Tolkien, “Of the Voyage of Eärendil”, The Silmarillion

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Elanor stood in the reeds of Lisgardh in the pre-dawn gloom, waiting in silence for the order to attack. Amrod and Amras had taken a small group of men to scout ahead, and to kill any sentries that they could find. Elwing and her people would have no warning of the coming assault, not if Fëanor’s sons could help it.

 

Mud squelched beneath her boots as she shifted her weight. She glanced sideways at her brother, who stood beside her, but Seregon was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on Maedhros’ tall silhouette. If he had any doubts about his lords’ orders, they didn’t show on his face. He looked every inch the hardened, loyal soldier.

 

It hadn’t always been like this. Elanor had been a scribe, once. Seregon had been a stonemason. But then Morgoth had sent forth his flames, and the orcs had descended upon Thargelion, and they had fled with their neighbors to the relative safety of Amon Ereb. When Maedhros had begun planning his assault on Angband, Caranthir had trained all his people to fight, scribes and stonemasons included. Many of them had ended on the Haudh-en-Ndengin, but Elanor and her brother had survived, only to follow Fëanor’s sons into battle again a mere thirty years later.

 

But Doriath had been nothing like the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. It was easy to kill orcs. But killing elves, killing people who looked just like her -- Elanor had done it, fighting back-to-back with Seregon as the Iathrim tried to repel them, because the only alternative was to let herself be slain, but it had been a waking nightmare. She’d been sick afterwards, retching up her breakfast alone in the forest outside Menegroth while the sounds of the battle played over and over in her head.

 

They had returned to Amon Ereb without the Silmaril, without three of their lords, and without nearly a thousand of her fellow soldiers, well-trained though they had been. She’d considered deserting, then, but Seregon had been disgusted by the idea, calling her a traitor and a coward, saying that he was ashamed to count her as his sister.

 

We did what had to be done, he’d said. Dior had no right to Prince Fëanor’s creation. He was warned, and he chose not to listen. He brought his death upon himself. We did nothing wrong.

Maybe Seregon believed that, but Elanor couldn’t. Still, she had chosen to stay. If she did leave, where would she go? There would be no welcome for her in any other Elven realm. She was a Kinslayer.

 

Now she was about to compound her sin.

 

Beside her, Seregon brushed at the midges that were circling his head, still taking care not to look at his sister. He and Elanor hadn’t spoken properly in years; their past affection had been swallowed up by the gaping chasm that Doriath had opened between them. But he was her brother. If she had to fight, she would do it at his side.

 

A moorhen’s gargling call drifted through the air, the noise coming three times in quick succession. That was Amras’ signal, and Maedhros lifted his hand and gave the order to move out.

 

Silently, they approached Elwing’s city. Few lights were visible -- it wasn’t yet dawn -- and Amrod and Amras had left no guards alive to raise the alarm. At first they encountered no resistance as they spread between the darkened buildings, but then a piercing scream rent the air, accompanied by the crash of broken crockery.

 

Elanor couldn’t see who had cried out, but it didn’t matter, because now lamps were being lit and people were looking out of their windows. There were more screams when they caught sight of the invading Fëanorians, shouts of alarm and cries of despair, and Elanor knew that they would soon be facing Elwing’s soldiers.

 

Seregon had grabbed her by the elbow, and he was tugging her towards a large dwelling that stood a little ways away from its neighbors. “Come on,” he said. “Remember the plan.”

 

The plan. Right. Search the buildings for Elwing.

 

Several men had spilled out of the front door, some armed with swords and some with axes, and Elanor and Seregon waited until they had been engaged by the Noldorin soldiers before slipping around the side of the building and breaking in through a window.

 

Inside, it was silent. Swords raised, the siblings moved from room to room, alert for any sign of the building’s inhabitants, but they found nothing but empty chambers until they reached a heavy door on the ground floor. Seregon made to shove it open, but his efforts yielded only the slimmest crack between the door and the frame.

 

“I think it’s barricaded,” he grunted. “Help me.”

 

Elanor put her shoulder against the door and pushed. There was a clatter of falling furniture, the sound of wood scraping across stone, and a child’s scream as the door was forced partially open.

 

Squeezing around the door, Elanor entered the room first, braced for an attack. But none came. The room held only three people -- a woman and two children, all pressed into the far corner. The woman wasn’t Elwing; Elanor could see that at a glance, though she had never laid eyes on Elwing in her life. Everyone knew that Elwing had black hair. This woman’s hair, though, was pale and silvery.

 

“She’s not here,” Elanor said to Seregon. “Let’s go.”

 

She turned away, lowering her blade, but whirled back around when she heard the children shriek. Seregon had crossed the room, and he now stood over the cowering woman, the edge of his sword resting against her neck.

 

“Where is Elwing?” he demanded. “Where is the Silmaril?”

 

The children were still screaming, but the woman seemed too terrified to speak. She stared up at Seregon’s towering figure, eyes wide and full of fear, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

 

“No!” Elanor shouted, rushing towards him. “Leave them, Seregon. They’re not why we’re here.”

 

“We have orders,” he argued. “We’re to kill anyone who withholds the jewel.”

 

“Maedhros didn’t mean children.”

 

“This one’s not a child,” Seregon growled.

 

He drew his blade back, preparing to strike a killing blow, but Elanor deflected his stroke with her own sword. Killing Elven soldiers had been sickening enough. The idea of killing an unarmed woman in front of her children chilled Elanor to her core. When had her brother turned into this?

 

“Leave them,” she repeated, shifting to stand directly in Seregon’s path.

 

Seregon shook his head and, voice cold, said, “Get out of my way.”

 

She didn't move. Her brother’s eyes had narrowed in his flushed face, and he lunged at her, his sword scything through the air.

 

She parried. He swung again. She tried to dodge, but wasn’t fast enough, and she cried out as his blade bit through her leather sleeve and into her upper arm.

 

“Don’t make me do this, Elanor,” he said, his voice low and furious. “These are Elwing’s people! Thieves! Will you choose them over your own kin? They don’t matter.”

He’s going to kill me, Elanor realized. Seregon had become so twisted up with hate, so hell-bent on reclaiming that cursed Fëanorian jewel, that he would cut his sister down where she stood. But no gem was worth this kind of bloodshed. She was sure of that now.

 

She flung herself forward, crashing shoulder-first into Seregon’s chest. He swung his sword wildly as they fell, slicing Elanor across the cheek. She tried to twist away, her own blade still clenched in her hand. She felt it strike something, heard a gasp, and then she was on the floor, stars bursting across her eyes as her head slammed against the stones.

 

After her vision cleared, she realized that she was pinned beneath her brother. Hot blood was spilling down onto her face and chest, filling her nose and mouth with its copper tang. Above her, Seregon groaned weakly. Desperately, Elanor shoved him off of her, spitting his blood from her mouth as she sat up, and then rolled him onto his back. Blood was spurting from a deep a gash across his neck, and in one sickening moment, Elanor knew that she had killed him.

 

“No,” she whispered, pulling off her tunic and trying to staunch the flow of blood. But he was already ashen, his breathing fast and shallow, and when she said his name, he failed to focus his eyes on her. In less than a minute, her tunic was soaked through.

 

She blinked, and he was gone.

 

There should have been tears. Her brother’s blood was on her hands now -- on her hands, on her face, on her clothes. She should have wept, or maybe screamed, but staring down at Seregon’s blank gaze, she felt nothing but a horrible, echoing emptiness. She hadn’t meant to kill him. She’d only wanted to stop him from murdering someone innocent.

 

But then, maybe all of Elwing’s people were innocent.

 

She might have sat there for hours, that thought bouncing around her head, had she not felt a light touch on her shoulder. She jerked away, her heart pounding, and turned to see the silver-haired woman kneeling beside her, holding strips of cloth that she seemed to have torn from her own skirt.

 

“You’re bleeding,” the woman said, speaking with the lilting cadence of the Iathrim. “Let me help you.”

 

Elanor held still as the woman bandaged her wounded arm. Her gaze was pulled back to her brother’s body, but the sight was too horrible to bear. She closed her eyes.

 

“You saved us,” the woman said, wiping the blood from Elanor’s face and then dabbing gently at the cut on her cheek. “Why?”

 

“I can’t do this again,” Elanor whispered, her voice shaking. “You shouldn’t have to die for that damned Oath. Too many of your people have died for it already.”

 

“Nana?” a small voice said. Elanor turned and saw that it was one of the children, a dark-haired girl whose tear-stained face was plump with baby fat.

 

“Nana,” the girl said again, “I smell smoke.”

 

Smoke. Yes. That had been the rest of the plan, hadn’t it? Search each building for Elwing. If Elwing isn’t there, set the building on fire.

 

“They’re burning the city. You won’t be safe here,” Elanor said. “You need to take your children and get out.”

 

It was easier to focus on that, easier to think about how to get this woman and her children to safety than to think about the way Seregon had gasped when her sword bit into his flesh. Deliberately, Elanor turned away from her brother’s body and forced herself to concentrate on the living.

 

“Is there anyone else in here with you?” she asked.

 

The silver-haired woman hesitated for a moment, but then said, “The others are beneath us, in the cellar. My girls and I didn’t make it there in time.”

 

“Let’s get them out, then,” she said. “There has to be somewhere you can hide. A stone building? Something.”

 

“If we can get to Lisgardh, we can hide in the reeds,” the woman said. “Fëanor’s sons can’t burn that. It’s much too wet.”

 

Elanor shook her head. “Maedhros thought of that,” she said. “He left some of us waiting there, in case Elwing tried to flee that way.”

 

The woman was silent for a time, clearly thinking. Then, slowly, she said, “There’s a cave in the rock along the beach. The Gondolindrim carved steps into the cliff that lead to it. But it’s a long way down.”

 

“Better than burning,” Elanor said. “Let’s go.” As the woman gathered her children, Elanor steeled herself, turned back to Seregon’s body and, hands shaking, undid his sword belt. Then she shoved his sword into its sheath, slung the belt over her shoulder, and picked up her own blade.

 

The smell of smoke had grown stronger, and Elanor wondered if the fires had reached them yet. If they hadn’t, they probably would soon. She followed the silver-haired woman as she went to a door on the far wall and pushed it open, revealing a large pantry with a trapdoor in the floor.

 

When the woman hauled it open, there was a shrill scream from below, quickly muffled, as though the screamer had had a hand clapped over their mouth.

 

“It’s me,” the woman said quickly, climbing partway down the wooden steps that led into the earth.

 

“Nendis!” a relieved voice cried. “Quick, bring the girls down and close the door.”

 

“No,” Nendis said. “The city is burning. You need to come with me. We’re going to try to reach the sea cave.”

 

“Are you mad?” someone hissed. “We’ll never make it!”

 

“I think it’s our only chance,” Nendis said.

 

Up above in the pantry, Elanor breathed in and found that the smell of the smoke had increased tenfold. Peering out the pantry door, she could see a grey haze drifting into the kitchen from the corridor. “Nendis,” she said urgently, “you have to go now. The house is on fire.”

 

“Come on,” Nendis said to the cellar’s unseen occupants. She climbed back up and grabbed hold of her daughters’ hands. After a moment, a second woman rose into view, clutching an infant in her arms. She stopped when she caught sight of Elanor and, in a voice laden with suspicion, asked, “Nendis, who is this?”

 

“This is…” Nendis paused.

 

“Elanor,” Elanor supplied.

 

“This is Elanor,” Nendis said. “She’s helping us.”

 

“And you trust her?”

 

Nendis looked at Elanor in silence for a long moment, and then, voice firm, said, “Yes. Yes, I do. She saved my life.”

 

It seemed that Nendis’ opinion was a good enough endorsement, because the woman with the baby continued up the stairs. She was followed by several other women, some empty-handed, others trailing children.

 

Elanor held out Seregon’s sheathed sword. “Anyone who can use this should take it,” she said.

 

At first, no one did. Most of the women eyed the weapon with varying degrees of apprehension and revulsion. The blood staining the leather belt and sheath probably wasn’t helping matters. But eventually one of them said, “Gwaloth, your father’s taught you some swordsmanship, right?”

 

“Only a little,” a stocky, dark-haired young woman standing in the back of the group said. But she stepped forward anyway and took the sword, strapping it around her waist.

 

Elanor led them out of the kitchen, her blade drawn. The smoke was thicker out in the hall, and she gestured for everyone to stay low. She didn’t know where the outside door was, but exiting that way would probably be a bad idea anyway. It wouldn’t surprise her if she found her people waiting there to ambush anyone fleeing the flames.

 

Finally, they came to a window. She peered through it to check that their path was clear, and then smashed it with the hilt of her sword and heaved herself out, standing guard as Nendis and the others followed.

 

Flames were billowing from the windows on the other end of the wall, and all around them were shouts and confusion and the crackling roar of burning wood. Though the sun had risen, it was hard to see anything through the smoke that filled the streets.

 

“Which way?” Elanor asked, raising her voice to be heard over the cacophony.

 

Nendis pointed to a spot along the cliff. “Right by that tower,” she said. “The short one with the red roof.”

 

If the roof hadn’t been so brightly colored, Elanor wouldn’t have been able to see the tower at all. As it was, she could only tell that it wasn’t close, and that going in a straight line would take them directly into the melee. They needed to find a way around -- if they even could. Everywhere Elanor looked, she saw flames, and she could feel the baking heat hanging in the air.

 

Still, they would have to try. They had nowhere else to go.

 

She walked in front, obeying Nendis’ hurried directions. Gwaloth was at the rear, clutching Seregon’s sword uncertainly, and the other women had picked up the children so that they could move more swiftly.

 

They made it all the way down one street before they encountered anyone who tried to stop them. In the smoke, Elanor couldn’t discern the man’s face -- only the star on his tunic. She couldn’t help being grateful for that; it was easier to attack when she didn’t have to see which of her neighbors she was fighting. She brought the man down with a chop to the back of the knee and then hurried on, the others trailing after her and Nendis like a row of ducklings.

 

Coughing, their eyes watering, they made their way towards the tower. As they rushed through the city, Elwing’s soldiers let them pass, or moved to defend them if they could. Twice more, Elanor was forced to cross swords with her own people, and twice more she disabled her opponents without hesitation, her desperation lending her strength.

 

As they drew closer to the cliffs, it became easier to breathe; the breeze was blowing the smoke away from them. They had nearly reached the tower when a terrified shriek rang out. Turning around, Elanor saw Gwaloth struggling to fend off an attacker.

 

A red-haired attacker.

 

Elanor broke into a sprint. Maedhros, Amrod, Amras -- she couldn’t see which of them it was, but it didn’t really matter. Gwaloth was a novice. She didn’t stand a chance against any of Fëanor’s sons.

Neither do you, a tiny voice whispered in Elanor’s mind, but she ignored it. She knew she wasn’t a skilled enough swordswoman to defeat any of her lords, but she might be able to buy Nendis and the others enough time to get to safety.

 

“Go!” she shouted to Gwaloth. Then she lunged, jabbing her blade towards the attacker’s side. He swung around to parry, and she saw that it was Amrod, his teeth bared in a feral snarl. If he recognized her, he gave no sign of it. The parry turned into a lightning-swift strike, and he pressed his advantage with more strength than Elanor could muster, forcing her back. She struggled to hold her position, but he fought with an easy grace that she simply couldn’t match. In one fluid movement, he thrust out his arm, drove his sword into her gut, and then ripped the blade free.

 

Pain hit her like a hammer, knocking the breath from her body. Her sword slipped from her fingers as she crumpled. A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see Amrod towering above her, preparing to strike another blow. She closed her eyes.

 

But the blow never came. There was a sound like a cleaver hitting meat, and a grunt, and she opened her eyes just in time to see Amrod fall to the ground, his face frozen in a final look of surprise. Behind him stood a man with an axe, soot-streaked and breathing heavily.

 

Someone was shouting. Elanor couldn’t make out the words, but she saw the man nod. He shoved his axe into his belt, and then he was lifting her in his arms. The movement sent a red-hot surge of agony through her, and she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears that were welling up.

 

“Easy,” her rescuer said, his voice rumbling in his chest. “Try to be still.”

 

She couldn’t have moved even if she’d wanted to. Every breath she took was like being stabbed anew, and as the man began to walk, the impact of his steps only increased her torment. Gritting her teeth, she focused all her willpower on not crying out, though she wasn’t able to stop her tears from flowing.

 

Gradually, she realized that she was being carried downwards. That meant something, she knew -- something about that direction was important. But she couldn’t recall what; she was dizzy and lightheaded and hurting, and her thoughts fluttered away like a flock of startled sparrows. An overwhelming haze of pain enveloped her, and soon she was lost within it.

 

---

 

“Elanor,” someone was saying. “Elanor.”

 

It took some time for the voice to filter down through the fog in Elanor’s brain, but when it did, she managed to summon the strength to open her eyes. Someone was bending over her, pressing hard against the wound in her stomach. After a few moments, the blurry figure came into focus, and she saw that it was Nendis. Walls of rough rock surrounded them, and she could feel sand beneath her, gritty against her skin. They must have made it to the cave.

 

“Is everyone okay?” she asked. It was hard to form the words; her tongue felt thick in her mouth, and the world had gone cold and slow. The pain had abated, at least, but she was so tired...

 

“We’re all fine,” Nendis said, giving Elanor a watery smile. “The only person hurt is you.”

 

They’re safe. That’s all right, then, Elanor thought. She let her eyelids fall closed, but Nendis shook her by the shoulder and said, “Elanor, I need you to stay awake. Help is coming. You just need to hang on.”

 

“Help?” she said weakly.

 

“Círdan and Gil-galad,” someone else said. Elanor let her head roll towards the speaker, and she saw that it was the man who had saved her from Amrod. He was standing at the mouth of the cave, his axe drawn, and he added, “I can see the ships. They’ll be here soon.”

 

But Elanor wasn’t really listening. Her attention had been caught by what she could see outside the cave, the deep cobalt expanse of the sea that stretched away towards the horizon.

 

“It’s so blue,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen it in daylight before.”

 

She’d only been twelve years old when her parents had taken her and Seregon and gone with Fëanor across the sea. By the time the sun had risen, they had already been settled in Mithrim. From there, her family had followed Caranthir east to Thargelion. She hadn’t seen the ocean again until today.

 

Seregon had never seen it again at all, because she had killed him.

 

Now that Nendis’ people were safe, there was nothing to stop the weight of that act from crashing down upon her. She began to cry, desperate, uncontrollable sobs wracking her body.

 

“Am I hurting you?” Nendis asked, looking down at her with worried eyes.

 

Elanor shook her head, sending another wave of dizziness through her. “My brother,” she managed to gasp through her tears. “I killed him. I didn’t mean to,” she added desperately. “I only meant to stop him. The children-- I didn’t want him to hurt--”

 

She broke off, out of breath, and then pushed weakly at Nendis’ hands. “Leave it,” she begged in a choked whisper. “Let me go.”

 

Living with the Iathrim’s blood on her hands had been hard enough. Living after having slain her own brother would be unbearable.

 

“Elanor...” Nendis said. She was crying, too, now, but Elanor pushed at her hands again with all the strength she could muster.

 

“Leave it,” she repeated.

 

For a long moment, Nendis didn’t move. Then, slowly, she sat back, taking the pressure off Elanor’s wound. She wiped at her tears with the back of her wrist, and then wrapped her hands around Elanor’s own.

 

“Rest,” she said softly. “Just rest.”

 

Elanor closed her eyes. Beneath the crash of the surf and the sound of her own heartbeat, she could feel a gentle, rhythmic tug. Mandos’ call, she thought muzzily. She breathed out, and then her spirit slipped from her body and sped homewards across the sea.