Dual Number by Acharion

Doriath: Eluréd and Elurín

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