Dual Number by Acharion

Clearly I am not the Professor. I don't own any of this, especially the first bit which is taken directly from the Silmarillion.

This is the first of four planned chapters. Let me know what you think and if I should continue!

Erestor has encountered not one, but four sets of twins while serving the Noldor: The sons of Fëanor, Dior, Eärendil, and Elrond.

Can it be, that the Greek grammarians invented their dual number for the particular benefit of twins?

"None and none! What I have left behind I count now no loss; needless baggage on the road it has proved. Let those that cursed my name, curse me still, and whine their way back to the cages of the Valar! Let the ships burn!"

With those fell words, Fëanor was the first to cast his torch upon the swan ships of the Teleri. Stirred in their hearts by the power of their king's words, others had followed suit. Arrows soared through the air like shooting stars, brilliant against the dark skies, imbedding themselves in the white wood and sails.

The ships took the flame like kindling in the winds of Belegaer, and the salted air was soon filled with crackling flame and the mingled sounds of laughter and song. Billowing columns of smoke curled around the masts like serpents, so thick that for days to come Erestor could smell it in his hair and clothing. Embers floated down among the host of Elves.

Their revelry was short-lived. A terrible cry pierced the night, and Erestor swung round suddenly to see the hunched body of Amrod, knee-deep in the lapping water, trying to scramble to the nearest ship, but being pulled back by Curufin. The rest of the sons stood on the shore, Maedhros a bit apart from the others. They looked at their father, pleading and confused. Four sons. Erestor only counted four and sudden understanding hit him like a blow to the chest.

The first of the Noldor host to perish on the shores of Middle Earth.

But Fëanor said nothing and stood still, terrible and silent while the wall of flame reflected in his silver armor. The fey madness that had fallen upon him on the shores of Losgar had moved his hand too quickly, so devouring was his contempt for the Valar and the house of Fingolfin. Fëanor's flame burned so brightly that it had consumed his own son.

Umbarto, The Fated, he had been called. In later years, Erestor would think that Amras had been the most fortunate of the seven sons of Fëanor.

Clearly I am not the Professor. I don't own any of this.

This is the second of four planned chapters. Let me know what you think and if I should continue!

Erestor has encountered not one, but four sets of twins while serving the Noldor: The sons of Fëanor, Dior, Eärendil, and Elrond.

Can it be, that the Greek grammarians invented their dual number for the particular benefit of twins?

It was bitterly cold, though that had quickly been forgotten in the halls of Menegroth. Exertion, flaming torches and spilled blood had made it suffocatingly hot, and inside of his armor, Erestor could feel his tunic sticking to exhausted, sweating flesh. When he exited the caves he had nearly been blinded by the sun reflected and multiplied by the snow and the icy air burned his throat.

When he closed his eyes the pain of the bright sun was diminished, but a new pain assailed him. Images of horrors just witnessed could not be banished so easily. The ring of swords and screams of the dying had echoed off the walls until the air of the caves had become a smothering cacophony. He had felt deaf watching his sword clash against steel and rip through armor with swift motions that had no discernible sounds of their own.

At some point, he had stumbled upon the body of his Lord Curufin, his once fair face mottled with gore. Erestor might have gone to his Lord then, but Maedhros had found the corpse first, and the eldest of the sons of Fëanor knelt weeping over the form of his dead brother, cradling the broken body against his chest. It might have looked tender had it not taken place in a pool of elven blood. There was nothing to be done, so Erestor had simply carried onward, deeper into the caves.

How long he ran he could not have said, but at length he came upon the throne room of Dior. A group of Noldorin soldiers were gathered there in a wide circle and Erestor pushed passed the swarming bodies until he came to the front of the throng.

In no other place could the beauty of Doriath so clearly be seen. But it was diminished now. Glittering gems and tinted glass refracted light in all directions, spilling a multitude of colored beams upon the angry faces of those gathered therein. The inlaid marbled floors were slick with the carnage of battle. Pillars carved like trees lined the chamber and the weavings of Melian hung between them, some now slashed apart, some burned in places, but all spattered with blood. At the farthest end of the room was perched, high upon a dais, the carven throne of Dior. Upon it, the King was set, slouched in death. In many places his armor was rent and shot through with long arrows. His crown had fallen over one eye, but it did little to conceal the final expression of anguish that contorted his features.

In the middle of the host, the servants of Celegorm had dragged Nimloth, Queen of Doriath. She struggled against them in vain, clutching her sons to her breast and she screamed desperately as they were torn from her grasp. The young mirrored faces were streaked with tears and the children mewled piteously as they were roughly hauled from the room. Erestor wondered with detachment what would be done with them. Hostages perhaps? The heirs of Doriath in exchange for a Silmaril?

The Queen kneeled in supplication before her captors and Erestor was vaguely thankful that he could no longer see her grief-stricken face. The soldiers were asking her something, but the ringing in Erestor's ears prevented him from hearing the words or her reply. Nimloth's sobbing pleas were mercifully cut short when Celegorm's servant thrust his spear into her chest. Erestor watched for a moment as the deadly point emerged from her back and a crimson stain blossomed on the back of her white gown before pushing his way from the throne room.

So it was done then. Doriath was fallen and the Oath remained unfulfilled.

When Erestor opened his eyes the ache from the sun was less than before. He could see clearly. The frozen wind numbed his skin and whipped his long cloak into the air. Observing his surroundings he could see that the bridge below his feet was slippery with ice under the snow. He must tread carefully here, lest he plunge into the churning waters of the moat below, frothing red and choked with bodies. It would be an ill fate to survive the battle and drown under the weight of his armor at the end by his own carelessness.

Eyes turned down to the bridge, he could see that there were many footprints made in the freshly fallen snow. Two sets though were small, tiny things, hardly noticeable among the prints made by heavy armored feet. He wondered again what Celegorm hoped to achieve by capturing the children. Hostages? But as he followed the trail outwards, he saw that it did not lead to their leaguer, but into the forests of Doriath. Erestor exhaled a long breath, and walked down the bridge to the Fëanorian camp, mindful to step carefully and trample out the trail that had been created by a pair of tiny bare feet.

Hopefully you enjoyed this super cheerful bit of fluff! Oh, right. The First Age turned out pretty horrifically for everyone.

Let me know what you think! Review or message me your thoughts…I love talking Tolkien!

-Acharion

Erestor has encountered not one, but four sets of twins while serving the Noldor: The sons of Fëanor, Dior, Eärendil, and Elrond.

Many many thanks to everyone who has read this so far and enjoyed it! Let me know what you think!

Can it be, that the Greek grammarians invented their dual number for the particular benefit of twins? – Mellville

The news of the battle trickled in slowly. Huddled around campfires in the snow, drinking wine pillaged from Menegroth's kitchens, each Elf shared what he knew until a complete story could be pieced together. Their voices were kept low, and the mood in the camp was black, for though the destruction of Menegroth had been complete, the campaign had not been a success.

Foremost in the conversation was discussion of the dead sons of Fëanor. Celegorm the Fair, Caranthir the Dark and Curufin the Crafty had all fallen and now half of the host was leaderless. The three remaining brothers had buried the bodies under the eaves of the forest in shallow unmarked graves in hopes that they would not be despoiled by enemies on two legs or four.

A group led by Caranthir had been splintered off from the larger host and all had been slaughtered, wildly outnumbered. Curufin had been pierced by many arrows in the wide courtyard where Erestor had seen him last. And Celegorm had remained a hunter until the end, loudly proclaiming that he wanted Lúthien's son for himself.

When they met in single combat, Dior had proved the better swordsman, but Celegorm in his final moments had delivered a wild stroke that had ended the king's life. He was the first of the royal family to die, and Celegorm's servants, mad with grief and rage, had sought out the rest. It was they who had despoiled Dior's body and placed him on the throne so that Nimloth might meet her husband once more before she died.

Erestor did not need to be told of the Queen's death, for he had seen it. Had his ears not still been ringing from the battle he might have heard her captors question her about the Silmaril. She had claimed it wasn't there, that she did not have it, that she did not knew where it was. They had slain her for her lies, but a more thorough search of the Caves had not produced the jewel.

Their daughter alone seemed to have escaped the slaughter for she was nowhere to be found.

And the boys. As Erestor had suspected, they had not been at the leaguer as hostages when he had returned. Nor had they been brought forth any time after. Seeking information about the children, Maedhros had come upon one of Celegorm's captains snickering and boasting loudly that he had made sure the Sindar would have no future kings. Upon hearing this Maedhros had flown into a terrible rage, black fire burning in his eyes. He had drawn his sword in the middle of their camp and would surely have slain the captain had Maglor not intervened. The pleas for peace seemed to calm Maedhros' ill temper and he sheathed his sword. But once his weapon was put away he had advanced, quick as a snake, roughly shoving his brother aside and striking the captain full in the face with the vambrace that covered his ruined right arm. The captain had lain on the ground, stricken dumb and with mouth full of blood as Maedhros strode away.

Maedhros had ridden like a red gale from their camp after that, without a word, and had not returned for several days. When he returned he denounced the soldiers responsible for their cruelty, stripped them of their swords and sent them away to whatever fate they might find.

In these actions Erestor thought he could see a ray of goodness still left in the heart of Maedhros. And so it was only with slight trepidation that he pledged his sword to him, and followed the eldest son of Fëanor to Sirion.

Clearly I am not the Professor. I don't own any of this. Especially the one line that's basically lifted from the Doom of Mandos. Many many thanks to everyone who has read this so far and enjoyed it!

Erestor has encountered not one, but four sets of twins while serving the Noldor: The sons of Fëanor, Dior, Eärendil, and Elrond.

In these actions Erestor thought he could see a ray of goodness still left in the heart of Maedhros. And so it was only with slight trepidation that he pledged his sword to him, and followed the eldest son of Fëanor to Sirion.

It had been in Sirion that Erestor had seen that ray of goodness extinguished.

Of all the bloodshed Erestor had witnessed since deciding to follow the House of Fëanor, Sirion was the worst. The residents of Sirion were the refugees of the fallen realms of Gondolin and Doriath-women, children and those unable to fight. Erestor refused to kill any who were unarmed, but there had been others who hadn't maintained even those low standards.

The other Kinslayings had been shrouded in darkness. After the Trees had been destroyed, Alqualondë had been bathed in night. The bodies of the fallen had sunk into the harbor, sucked under the waters by the weight of armor. In the gloom of Menegroth, the blood had disappeared against grey stone and the dead had been entombed in caves. But the Noldor had attacked Sirion under the light of sun. The white marble of the city had been splattered in crimson, and the bodies of the dead could not be so easily put out of mind. The fires at Losgar had been massive and terrifying, but that had been just a handful of ships and this was and this was an entire city set alight. Even the wind off of the Bay of Balar could do little to sweeten the air.

The remaining sons of Fëanor had been searching for Elwing since her escape from Doriath. Maedhros and Maglor had offered her terms of peace, protection even, for the people of Sirion if she would simply return the Silmaril. But she had refused and in doing so had doomed her people. Maedhros had come to her on the cliffs overlooking the sea, the Silmaril shining bright as a star upon her breast. He had sent his men away then and cast his sword aside so as not to appear that he was trying to take it by force of arms. But still she refused, and had flung herself into the sea. The will of the Valar had been shown then, that no matter how close the House of Fëanor came the treasures that they had sworn to pursue would be snatched away.

It was then that Erestor realized how hopeless their quest was. The words of Mandos he had chosen to ignore until then, believing that the ill fortune of the Noldor in retrieving the jewels had been nothing more than poor luck. But now it seemed as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes, and amidst the burning remains of Sirion, he could see clearly once again.

Despite this nagging doubt, Erestor had joined the crowd that populated the main square of Sirion. The survivors of the attack had been gathered there, huddled weeping masses of elves once again displaced from their homes by treachery. They were nearest to the high platform where Maedhros and Maglor stood, ringed in by the soldiers that had destroyed their city.

Maglor was shouting to them, cursing them to death and darkness for their folly in not persuading Elwing to return what rightfully belonged to him and his brothers. Erestor might have laughed then had his heart not felt so heavy. For Maglor no longer had brothers; only a single brother remained. The body of Amrod lay at the edge of the platform, wrapped in his cloak, dark blood dampening the cloth. Maedhros still lived, but he stood motionless upon the platform, staring but unseeing. His once bright eyes held no light.

Since leaving Valinor, Erestor had witnessed much evil. He had driven his sword through his own kin. He had stood aside while others did the same. His hand had helped light the fires of Losgar and Sirion. He had known what the servants of Celegorm intended to do with the sons of Dior and he had done and said nothing. But these events had worn at his conscious, and they weighed heavily upon him. What he saw next made his soul ache the most.

Someone had ushered out two small children between Maglor and Maedhros. They were tiny things, clothes torn and dirtied by soot and blood. Their hands were bound and a harsh rope connected their small necks. One wept piteously, and the other stared out into the crowd, his soft features marred by hatred for those that had ensnared him.

"I will let these two live, as a reminder to you of your indiscretions! The Sons of Fëanor will take the children of Eärendil and Elwing as hostages to ensure your peace. Should you raise arms against our House, I will not hesitate to slay them."

No, thought Erestor, they would not hesitate to murder children. The light of goodness he had seen in Maedhros must be utterly gone if he would allow this to occur. Despite all the dreadful things Erestor had seen, this clawed at him and his patience shattered away. No oaths, no promises he had made in the peace of Valinor had prepared him for all that he had done and seen done. Had he fully regarded the words of Mandos, or fully known the path that they would walk in coming to Middle Earth, he would never have left.

A wave of nausea passed over him and the world seemed to spin and tilt beneath his feet. He had served Curufin a lifetime ago and only desperation and lack of leadership had made him follow Maedhros. The destruction they had wrought could surely not be the only way. Even if the Silmarils were owed to the House of Fëanor, at what cost must they be bought? In three Kinslayings they had not achieved their goal. How much more bloodshed was necessary before the end was reached?

A sudden giddy lightness overtook Erestor then. He had sworn his sword, that much was true, but he had not sworn to this carnage. He could leave and walk away from this endless battle that had become his life. An oathbreaker was no worse than a kinslayer. If they should find him and slay him it would be a better end than he deserved.

He swirled around, pushing against the other soldiers, away from the platform where Maglor and Maedhros still stood. Freedom lay only a few yards ahead. Finally free of the swarming throng of bodies he stood staring at the gates of Sirion for a moment. At last, the wind off of the Bay of Balar seemed to clear his senses and wash the stench of smoke and death out of his nostrils.

He breathed deeply, the smell of salt and liberty filling his lungs, and left the city.

My computer is having a field day with the red lines. I think anyone who has written Tolkien fanfics can relate…..

Clearly I am not the Professor. I don't own any of this.

Many many thanks to everyone who has read this so far and enjoyed it! 

So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry—seeming parted
But yet an union in partition—
Two lovely berries molded on one stem;

-Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

The courtyard was filled with dappled sunlight, fresh air, and the clattering of wooden swords. Elladan and Elrohir had dragged Erestor out of the calming safety of his office to watch them battle one another. They swung at each other with abandon, although Erestor knew that before long their swords would be deadly steel instead of toys.

He had left Sirion in a whirlwind of recklessness. All that he had seen and done had finally been too much and the weight of guilt had borne too heavily on him to stay. The other soldiers who guarded the city gates had tried to stop him, but in a final act of cruelty and defiance he had slain the two who stood in his path and taken a horse. He had wandered far, making sure to put as many leagues between himself and the sons of Fëanor as he could. He had never lived among the dark elves that inhabited the wilderness, but he met with them sometimes and traded with them. His sword and armor, beautiful things crafted by Curufin's own hands, he had sold for a fraction of their worth in order to have warm clothes for the winter. He had lived alone among the trees for many years. It had not been a joyful time, for the memories of carnage and treachery still wrung at his heart, but those years had at least been peaceful.

It had not been so easy to gather news regarding the aftermath of Sirion alone in the wilds, but eventually he thought he could form a complete picture. The day after he had abandoned the host, Maglor and Maedhros had ridden from Sirion to Amon Ereb with the twin sons of Eärendil and Elwing. Little had been heard from them since. Erestor felt with a certain surety that the children were dead, and he did not regret his decision to leave the cruel service of Maedhros. He had once admired the Elf, but he could no longer hold him in high regard.

For too long the greatest threat to the elves had been their own kin, but when Morgoth rose again Erestor had sought out Gil-Galad and pledged his services to the High King of the Noldor. No matter the rumors of Maedhros raising and army to defend Beleriand, Erestor refused to serve him again. When he found Gil-Galad the king had met him personally, and in a light-filled council room Erestor had tearfully admitted all that he had done and repented his actions. And defying all reason, the King had been merciful and given him new armor and a sword. Better gifts than a kinslayer deserved, Erestor thought.

If the forgiveness of Gil-Galad had been a shock, it was nothing compared to what came after, for he was appointed to serve under Elrond Eärendilion. The last time he had seen Elrond the boy had been bound like a dog in the square of Sirion, yet he stood here still, herald of Gil-Galad, alive and seemingly well. For many years Erestor had thought the promise of Maglor to keep the children alive in return for peace had been little more than an act of trickery and deceit. Gil-Galad introduced them, and to Erestor's horror, had recounted that he had played a part in the fall of Doriath and Sirion. Yet Elrond had simply smiled, only a hint of chilliness in his face, and welcomed him.

The War of Wrath had passed over him like a dark cloud, and few memories stuck with him from those longs arduous years. When it was done, and Morgoth was chained and finally defeated, Erestor had ignored the summons of the Valar to return to Valinor. The peace of his beautiful homeland seemed unobtainable and he unworthy of it. And besides, he felt that he owed Gil-Galad and Elrond better service than abandonment. So they had ventured West, out of the ruined tragedy that was Beleriand, and Erestor had risen in the ranks of Elrond's army. News reached them eventually that Maedhros was dead and Maglor disappeared. When Elrond had asked Erestor for his help in establishing the secret valley, Erestor had been stunned into silence but had eventually agreed to help.

They had lived in Eregion for a time. Living so close to the last of the Fëanorions had not been easy, but Erestor had avoided Celebrimbor, the son of his fallen lord, as best he could. Years later, when Sauron had risen again, recalling the old dread of Morgoth, they had ridden out. They met the hosts of Sauron on open land. Before them, the enemy bore aloft the body of Celebrimbor like some frightful banner, impaled upon a spear of his own make, the Star of Fëanor burned into his bare chest in an act of mockery. Those that had stood near had cried aloud in grief and horror. But Erestor remained silent, for he bore little love for the House of Fëanor, and he could feel nothing but relief at its tragic end.

Only by heroisms of elves other than him, Erestor and most of the army had survived victorious, and returned to the peaceful bliss of Imladris for many years.

In the Last Alliance, no choice was given to him but to fight once again. Imladris changed then, from a refuge to an army camp and many great leaders had assembled there. Gil-Galad, Oropher, Celeborn Elendil, and Elrond had met in long council deciding how best to face the darkness before them. All the Free Peoples of the world had gathered, and once again Erestor had borne his sword into battle.

Their army had been mighty, but their losses had still been grievous. Oropher had fallen first, charging forward and ignoring the King's orders. Elendil and Gil-Galad had fallen beside one another, the kings of two realms reduced to smoldering ash and charred flesh under the power of Sauron's hand. But in the end, Sauron had been defeated, and Erestor had been the first to take to knee and pledge his sword to the new High King of the Noldor, Elrond. But Elrond had forsaken the title and returned to Imladris.

Those days had been dark, like so many days before. But some sort of joy had been carved out and Elrond had married Celebrían, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn. And when they had first conceived children, Elrond had cornered Erestor and told him first. "Twins!" he said, smiling broadly. It would not be fair to say that Elrond had neglected his duties as lord of the Valley during this time, but Erestor had picked up the extra work without complaint. His Lord was happy, and if anyone he knew deserved joy, it was Elrond, robbed of so much of it in his short life.

And now, the result of that union battled before him, wooden swords raised in conflict. There had been a time when looking upon the mirror images of Elrond's children had brought him nothing but discomfort. From time to time, when looking upon them, a strange mood seized him and he was reminded of the fearful faces of the sons of Dior and Eärendil. In them he could see the memory of evils committed for a hastily sworn oath and a handful of jewels. But they had grown, and although they still resembled their forefathers, personalities of their own had begun to emerge.

Unlike their father or their uncles, these boys had grown up in the relative peace of the Third Age, amid the beautiful calmness of the Hidden Valley. It was safe and protected and Erestor could never forget that. For a time, at least, the threat of evil and danger was diminished. They could crack their wooden swords against each other and no harm would be done.

Forgiveness went against Erestor's nature, but he marveled at the way that Elrond could forgive. For had he not been instrumental in the death of his uncles and the loss of his mother? Elrond had spent a lifetime in forgiving, and yet he was not diminished for doing so. Though the transgressions of Erestor's life had been scarlet splatters across the white cloth of his life, Elrond had chosen to forget those evils with grace and mercy and even love. Erestor was made anew in the light of Elrond's kindly words and deeds, fresh wool, ready to be spun. "You did not fully realize the deeds that you had wrought,' he had said, and Erestor had believed it. Elrond's delight was to show mercy, and more than once had Erestor been brought to tears in thankfulness.

Erestor had been baffled by Elrond's request for aid in the development of Imladris. But he had trusted Elrond and done what he could. It had soothed his soul and erased some of the memories and guilt of Alqualondë, Losgar, Doriath, and Sirion.

Here, perhaps, in the simplest of ways, he felt that he could atone for wrongs he had done. Among the shifting sunlight from the trees and fragrance of the budding flowers, Erestor at last had found a place of refuge.

"Elrohir, Elladan. Come. It is time for your lessons."

Done and done!

This chapter was hard to write, but I hope that I captured a fraction of Tolkien's message: that all things must one day end, that forgiveness and selflessness will carry you far, and most of all, that there can always be light at the end of a dark road.

For my wonderful husband, who is probably horrified that I would dedicate such a dark story to him (but that shame is probably nothing compared to knowing his wife has such a nerdy hobby!). Many thanks to him, because I'm not sure this story would be up without his help.