Pieces of the Stars by Nibeneth

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Chapter 10

 Silence settled around the main hall at Celebrimbor’s words.

“What do you mean, gone?” Maglor said at last, frowning.

“Exactly what I said,” Celebrimbor replied. “Manwë in his power sent Eönwë at the head of a great host to strike back at Morgoth. The earth trembles before them. There are mountains where there used to be valleys and lakes where there used to be hills. It began far from here, but every battle erodes the land a little more. We know that they have been locked in a bitter struggle over the river Sirion.”

“How far has the damage spread?”

“I cannot say for sure. The newest reports are that everything west of the Narog lies underwater, and that the mountains bordering Hithlum now form an island chain around a deepening salt marsh. It’s said that the seawater has turned Talath Dirnen into a wasteland where nothing can grow. Every place I have called home is now home to none.” Deep, weary lines became apparent on Celebrimbor’s face. Elrond had to look at his plate instead. “I do not know how far it will go, but as long as the rest of Beleriand remains under Morgoth’s dominion, I do not see an end to the ruin.”

“Perhaps they intend to cleanse the world and begin anew,” Maedhros muttered. “I would not blame them.”

Another silence. “Whatever the end will be, we will face it,” Maglor added quietly. “The boys will go with you, as promised.”

Don’t I have a say in this? Elrond’s mind demanded, because it was his life, his future, and he was old enough now to understand, but it fizzled out before he drew breath to speak. Celebrimbor had silenced his protests once already, and to speak up again would not change anything. The smothering weight of powerlessness made him want to scream. Now that the day had finally come, he knew that he did not want to go.

 

Celebrimbor’s news of the war brought the mood in the great hall even lower than it had been before, and aside from a few more brief exchanges of news, everyone ate and drank in silence until it was just late enough to retire without being openly rude.

“I hope they’re not all like Celebrimbor in the east,” Elrond groused as he and Osgardir walked back to the house. He didn’t bother bringing up his reluctance to leave; that was a settled matter, as much as it rankled. “Why is he so...” he gestured aimlessly, grasping for words.

“Celebrimbor is a fine man with a great deal of integrity,” Osgardir said gently. “As for his manner, remember that grief has many faces.”

Elrond nodded, chastened. He knew that, but he still didn’t like Celebrimbor, and now he only felt worse for not liking him.

“In any case, I remember him as a tolerant and curious young elf,” Osgardir continued when Elrond did not respond. “Perhaps you will see a different side of him without his uncles in the mix.”

His use of you made Elrond shiver a little. “Are you not coming east with us?”

Osgardir’s pause was like a painful, expanding emptiness between Elrond’s ears. “I will come if you wish,” he said at last. “Were it not for you, I would stay.”

“Why?”

“There is nothing left for me with the Noldor, or else I would have gone back long ago.” He smiled a little. “There will be many other healers, though. You could have your pick.”

Elrond set his chin. “You are my pick.”

“Then I’ll come east.”

Elrond tossed and turned all night, too restless to sleep much.

His early chores, at least, were the same as ever. It was his turn to make porridge and tea at the house, and once they opened the infirmary, he began sweeping dust and cobwebs out of the corners with the doors and windows open to let in the morning air and sunshine. For a while, it was as if nothing had changed, but then someone rapped on the door frame.

It was Celebrimbor. Upon seeing him, Elrond gripped his broom-handle and mirrored the interloper’s straight, formal posture.

“I was told I might find you here,” Celebrimbor said.

“I am Osgardir’s apprentice,” Elrond replied, consciously keeping himself from rolling his eyes.

“Yes, your… keeper… was pleased to mention it.” He seemed to go out of his way to avoid using Maglor’s name. “You’re very young. Were you present when the sick mortal sought treatment here?”

“I helped with the surgery.” He adjusted his grip on the broom. “Why?”

“I’m very curious about all that has happened to you over these past years.”

Celebrimbor’s tone was friendly, but Elrond still felt as if he was being examined through a lens. The scars under his sleeves itched. “I grew taller,” he said, equally friendly.

“Taller than I expected, certainly. I didn’t think you were old enough to be six years into an apprenticeship.”

“Neither did I, but we settled the matter among ourselves,” Osgardir said, coming up beside Elrond. “Do you need a medication, or is there something else we can help you with?”

“No, I am quite well. Alwendion—or Osgardir, if that is the name you use now,” Celebrimbor said, frowning slightly at the grim appellation. “I hope you will consider coming east. You are sorely missed, and not only for your skill as a healer.”

Osgardir’s mouth twitched. “I wouldn’t have thought so. Do I have an overly-nostalgic old colleague? Is it Handir?”

“Well, no. Handir died at Nargothrond, but there are others.”

“I’m not especially concerned about them. I am coming east, but it is for Elrond’s sake,” Osgardir said. “His training is not yet finished.”

Celebrimbor drew a sealed letter out of his sleeve. “Some of the king’s people sent letters, hoping to find their friends and family alive and willing to return. This one is for you.”

He extended it, and Osgardir only hesitated a moment before taking it. Elrond peered over his shoulder at the letter, which betrayed nothing in its simple address: to Alwendion, called Osgardir.

He broke the seal and snapped the letter open with a flick of his wrist. Elrond shuffled the broom back and forth in one spot--not even a credible veneer of minding his own business as Osgardir read the letter. It looked short from a distance, but his silence grew thicker with each passing moment he spent staring at it.

“It was mis-addressed,” he said at last. “There is no possible way that...”

“I assure you, she addressed it herself,” Celebrimbor said.

“When?” Osgardir shook the letter in front of Celebrimbor’s face. “When was it written? How long have your people been saving it? Who found it? Tell me, Curufinwë, was it your cunning plan to lure me back on the promise of... of more lifeless artifacts...”

Celebrimbor’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “For what purpose?”

“Where did you get this?” Osgardir demanded. The paper trembled in his hands.

“She wrote it for you. Ranuiel, your daughter. She lives, and your son as well.”

Elrond’s mouth dropped open. He held the broom still, having forgotten what he was doing, and looked back at Osgardir. The healer was motionless. He pressed his hand over his mouth, eyes fixed on the letter.

The wave of emotion hit Elrond before he could prepare himself. It began as a warm glow in his chest, and then spikes of fear and shame and regret shot through to the very center. He couldn’t contain it--it was shredding him from the inside out, and the warmth spilled through the gashes like wine poured into a broken cup.

He partially resurfaced when he felt tears on his cheeks and a burning coal in his throat. Struggling for control was like tossing a hot rock between his hands, but finally he let it go with a forceful breath out, and he was present once again. He brushed at his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

Osgardir still did not speak. Tears coursed from his closed eyes, and his fingers were white against his lips.

“Like I said, you are sorely missed,” Celebrimbor said. The compassion in his voice didn’t quite overcome the stiff discomfort beneath it. “Everything is forgiven.”

In the end, most of the elves accepted the promise of the king’s pardon, and only a small, rough band remained with Maedhros and Maglor in their exile.

Serecthel and Midhien gladly accepted the opportunity to travel east and start over. Alagostor tried to stay as Maedhros’ squire, but Maedhros ordered him to go east and find a peaceful life. Amrúnith chose to stay in Beleriand with her mother’s people and share whatever fate they would meet. Hestedis likewise refused the invitation. “My sister promised to see me at the end of a spear if I showed my face again,” she said when pressed. “I have no reason to doubt her.”

They gathered their animals, tools, seeds, and goods. There were carts that needed repairs and projects to put on hold. Packing and sorting took up every minute of daylight they had, and Celebrimbor grew more restless with each day it took: it was clear that he wanted to leave as soon as possible, but leaving the compound to join the king was not as simple as Elrond had imagined. Life and work would continue, whether in the forest or in the distant east, and he hadn’t considered how much stuff it took to support a community since the earthquake, and then he had been too young to really understand it.

Elrond and Osgardir carefully dug up the herb garden. They transplanted the plants into pots that would travel well in the back of a wagon, paying extra attention to the valuable poppies as they packed all but one for the journey east. Those who remained would have the remaining plant, along with all the infirmary supplies that wouldn’t fit in the wagon.

“I built this place from nothing,” Osgardir said with a sigh. He stroked the steam-kettle’s battered lid. “It isn’t easy to leave any of it.”

“I’m sure there will be plenty of steam-kettles where you are going,” Hestedis said. She had come to help prioritize the stash.

“That is true.”

“Imagine how many other things you can carry instead.”

Osgardir sighed again. “That is also true. Alas, I’ve grown attached to it, but it will stay here.”

In the end, Osgardir and Elrond took most of the tools, medicines, and clothing, leaving only a basic supply behind them. Hestedis did not request much beyond what could be carried between a few people: just enough for survival. Elrond shuddered at this glimpse of the future of the House of Fëanor.

Later, when the wagons were all packed and the leaving elves saw to their final preparations, Maglor summoned the twins to his room, where open crates and baskets sat around him like attentive students. He picked out and sorted their contents into chests for Elrond and Elros to take with them, and he seemed to be leaving very little behind.

“Are we really going to need all of this?” Elrond asked.

“You’ll be glad for it. I haven’t the faintest idea what the fashion will be once you get there, but at least you can take them apart for the fabric if you want to.” Maglor layered fine tunics between sheets of paper in a chest. Elrond had never seen them before. They weren’t practical for this life like they would have been when Maglor ruled the Gap.

“I call the purple one,” Elros said. “And the green one. And also the one with the diamond pattern.”

Any other time, Elrond would have told Elros to fight him for it, but now he couldn’t find it within himself to care. Maglor kept packing things for them to bring, but they all seemed like things he should keep for himself: jewelry, books, instruments in cases. “Neither of you are putting one foot outside this palisade without a mail coat,” he continued as he dug a jingling silver-white hauberk out of another crate. “Here’s one. There should be another.”

“Don’t you need it?” Elrond said. The funny, growing emptiness inside him shivered.

“No, we have others. These ones are special, so you should take them east.” Maglor found the other coat in one of the other chests. “It’s a mithril alloy, so it will never rust and will not weigh you down. Come here, Elrond, let’s see if this one will fit you.” Elrond raised his arms over his head and bent forward so Maglor could ease the mail on without tangling his braids. Once his arms were through the sleeves, he stood straight and let the hauberk fall to his knees. It wasn’t as heavy as the steel mail he’d tried on before, but it was still uncomfortable. He could see the bright metal reflected in Maglor’s dark eyes. “You’re a little thin for it, otherwise it fits well enough,” Maglor declared, putting his hands on his hips. “Once you reach your destination, ask Celebrimbor to adjust it for you. He won’t refuse, and he’s the only one I’d trust to work with the metal. Here, Elros, come and try on the other one.”

Elros looked as awkward in his mail as Elrond felt in his, standing stiffly with his shoulders hunched and arms slightly extended like he’d felt a trickle of cold water down his back. In that moment, the idea that they were really leaving the safety of the compound had grown a little more real.

“Very handsome,” said Maglor. “Princely, even. It will be good for you to look the part when you arrive.” Elrond pulled a face at that.

“If you have a moment,” came Maedhros’ deep rumble from the doorway. The three of them looked up, surprised to see him for the first time since the evening meal some days earlier. Maglor beckoned him inside. “I have only a few things worth passing on,” Maedhros continued, and he indicated a small cloth pouch and a worn leather booklet in his left hand. “It’s more of a burden, really, like everything else I’ve given you.”

“Not everything,” Elros protested with a laugh, but Maedhros only gave him a small, tired smile.

“Let us hope. Elros, this one is for you.” He leveraged the pouch between his prosthetic fingers and tipped a milky-clear stone the size of an egg out into his left hand. At first it did not seem like anything more than that, but when Elrond looked closer he noticed a flickering spark at its center, and he recognized the blue-white light that had come through the forest to cut through the darkest depths of his visions. In daylight it shone with a softer, pearly glow as Maedhros pressed it into Elros’ cupped hands.

“This is the last lamp made by my father that survives in Beleriand,” he said. “I have a feeling that you will walk where no one has walked before. A light may be helpful.”

“Thank you,” Elros said quietly.

“The light will never fade, but it will go out if the stone is broken. I would appreciate it if you continued to keep it safe.”

Elros only nodded. A visible dimple of effort appeared in his chin.

“Here, Elrond.”

Elrond looked up. Maedhros, his expression blank, held out the booklet, which was thick with yellowed leaves of parchment and closed with crossed cords. Elrond took it and turned it over in his hands. “What is it?”

“Letters from Fingon. You don’t have to read them. Some of them are… pretty lurid.” He pursed his lips and glanced to one side. “Still, they’re all I have left of him, and I would appreciate it if you continued to take care of them.”

Elrond nodded. “I will.”

“If nothing else, every time I’ve carried them into battle, I’ve come out unharmed. May whatever protection they hold pass on to you.”

No, you need it, these are yours, Elrond suddenly wanted to say, but at his twitch of movement to give them back, Maedhros shook his head once and folded Elrond’s fingers around the booklet. “I am going where he would not,” he said in a strange, gentle tone that Elrond could not remember ever hearing. “His memory deserves peace.”

“I’ll make sure he gets it,” Elrond said.

“Thank you.”

Bare rooms and empty buildings echoed strangely, reverberating through Elrond’s belly as he tried to take in the sights and sounds and smells of the compound over rapidly dwindling days, but there was almost nothing familiar left. Without furniture, light and shadows fell in all the wrong places. Without rugs and banners, the hearths seemed cold even in the stillest part of the summer. The longhouse might have been an abandoned barn. It was all wrong.

At last, the morning of their departure arrived. Before dawn, Osgardir roused Elrond from a light, fitful sleep filled with odd dreams and left him to wash and dress while tea brewed for the last time in the little stone cottage. Instead of his usual infirmary tunic and trousers, Elrond put on the uncustomary uniform he had set out the night before: sturdy canvas trousers, linen shirt, gambeson, wool socks and riding boots. He was already sweating by the time he ducked into the silvery mail hauberk, and it was even worse with an earth-colored surcoat belted over everything else. Too warm for tea, he gulped down the bitter, yeasty dregs of the small beer in the cold cellar, knowing he needed sustenance for the days ahead.

The door opened. For a moment, Elrond smelled linen and sweet herbs and heard the sound of boots thundering under the creak of drawn bowstrings, but it was only Osgardir standing there when he blinked.

“Are you ready?” the healer asked. He was in his mail and crimson surcoat. Instead of the jingle of steel rings, Elrond thought he heard glass mancala beads clattering into a wooden cup and someone crying in the next room.

He blinked again, and the impression left him. “Almost.”

“Lord Celebrimbor is trying to leave, so finish up as quickly as possible,” Osgardir instructed. He let the door swing shut as he left.

 

Somehow Elrond found himself outside in the midst of all the carts and animals and people preparing to leave. Elros stayed close, and the two of them looked out at the crowd as if through an enclosed bubble of glass. There was anxiety in the host, but hope softened it around the edges. Still, the relief did not quite extend as far as Elrond and Elros, the only two who did not remember much of their life before the forest.

Hoofbeats and footfalls approached. The twins looked up to see Maglor and Maedhros leading Rochael and Peguiel toward them with their tails freshly braided and manes freshly clipped.

“Here we are,” Maglor said. He handed Rochael’s reins off to Elrond. “They’re ready to see the world.”

“We need to make use of the light,” Celebrimbor said from his saddle a short distance away. “Elrond and Elros, are you ready? It is time.”

“Will you not give them a moment?” one of his retainers spoke up, and Celebrimbor shifted a little.

“Very well.”

Elrond reached for Maglor, but Maglor pulled him into a tight hug first. Time seemed to be rushing through his fingers like steam. He stood at the top of a long, steep slope, and once he stepped off the edge, there would be no return. Wasn’t it safer to stay at the top, where he knew his footing? It was certainly easier.

“Keep up your cooking and music practice,” Maglor said into his hair. “Don’t just get so absorbed in your work that you neglect everything else. Understand?”

Elrond nodded. He didn’t want his voice to wobble—not now. He tried instead to memorize the strength of the embrace and the warmth of Maglor’s voice to carry with him into the unknown east.

“I don’t want to go,” Elrond confessed.

“I know. I would rather you stay as well. But… the time has come, and now there is no alternative.”

“You could still come with us.”

Maglor’s mouth twitched at the corner. “That would not be in anyone’s best interest.”

Elrond pulled back a little. “I could make the king see,” he reasoned. “I could convince him that you… that you’re not…”

“Elrond.” Maglor rested his hands on Elrond’s shoulders. A hundred arguments boiled up in Elrond’s mind: it’s all a misunderstanding, the Silmaril is far away now, it’s a new world, it wasn’t always bad, you could make amends, what does he think he knows anyway? There had to be some way to make it work, and he was willing to find it. He was nothing if not stubborn in the pursuit of answers, but Maglor saw the justifications burning on Elrond’s tongue and shook his head. “Not this time,” he said. “This new world is not for me. But you will do great things, and they will come to happier ends than the house of Fëanor could have ever imagined.”

“But what will you do? Beleriand is dying!”

“Oh, I don’t know. But you should not worry.”

Why did people always think that he would stop worrying when they said that? And when had anyone ever done only what they should? The reminder left Elrond feeling more helpless than ever, just a neurotic little boy worrying about things he would never be able to control. “That doesn’t help,” he muttered.

His joy was in the ancient, endless woods and the company of all the others in the compound. Maglor taught him and Elros to sing and play the harp, to read and write elegantly, to ride a horse and comport themselves like gentlemen. Despite all his efforts to be a sober tutor, he was also warm and indulgent and full of encouragement, and at some point, caring for the twins had ceased to be a duty. Elrond felt it in the way he leaned forward when one of them approached him with a question, no matter the subject.

He still had so many more questions—more than was possible to fit into the time they had left.

On his other side, Elros was weeping openly against Maedhros’ shoulder. “Don’t cry. This is a good thing for you,” Maedhros said gruffly. Even so, he had one arm wrapped around Elros and didn’t move to push him away. Instead he extended his other arm toward Elrond. “Come here,” he said, pulling him in close. “You will be just fine. There is a whole world out there for you to discover, understand? I’ve seen it. There is so much more than this. No crying.”

Elrond couldn’t help it. He sniffed and wiped his eyes but the tears kept coming. “Thank you for everything,” he said at last. “Teaching us. Finding me in the forest.” He lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “I’m glad we had you when we needed you.”

Maedhros pursed his lips. For a moment he looked like he was about to remind Elrond again that it shouldn’t have been him, but he only nodded once.

When Elros finally detached from Maedhros, Maglor pulled him into a hug as well. Time continued to slip by, faster and faster like the boys used to ride shields down snowy hills in the winter, and at last they could delay no longer. “The longer we delay, the harder this will be,” Maglor said finally with his hand still resting on the back of Elros’ head.

Elrond scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He did not want to go. Every particle of him screamed to stay here, but he knew that was not an option. This was always the plan. Even though this was the only life he knew, it had always been temporary. He understood this.

It took more effort than usual to put his foot through the stirrup and lift himself into the saddle, as if he had doubled his weight overnight. Every ordinary moment had crystallized into his mind since Celebrimbor’s arrival: last breakfast. Last game. Last song. Last answer to one last question. They became heavier and more frequent as time ran out, a rushing river of last moments encased forever in cut glass behind his eyes. Last laugh. Last smile. Last teardrop.

He set his jaw and looked back at Maglor and Maedhros where they stood to see the twins off to their new home. “This won’t be the last time we’ll see you,” he said. I swear it, he almost added, but stopped himself before the words leaped off his tongue.

“You need to look ahead,” Maglor said. It was only with visible effort that he managed to speak firmly. “I know this is not easy. I know. But you will get stronger.”

Elrond nodded. He turned and met Elros’ wet eyes. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I will be. Are you?”

“I guess,” Elrond replied with a shrug. This was the end, whether he was ready or not. The two of them looked up to Celebrimbor at the head of the company and nodded once. At his signal, the horses and wagons pulled forward onto the long, lonely road east.

Much later, Elrond would find that he remembered very little of the first few days of their journey.

Horses, voices, wheels, and wind rustling through the trees all faded behind the bubble of helplessness that seemed to shrink around him more with every passing mile. His throat burned with the roar he wanted to release, lashing out with both fists against the barrier until it shattered and he could breathe freely again, untethered, not protected and herded along like a steer.

He stayed quiet. His neck and shoulders ached with the effort of cooperating. He ate and slept when he was told. He stayed within the circle of wagons at night. He did not venture too far into the woods or disturb any twig or pool more than necessary. Surely today will be easier, he thought upon waking every morning, but it never was. It was only hours of walking and riding and trying not to scream when thoughts of Maglor and Maedhros and their band of remnants grew too sharp to block out any longer.

After they set up camp one evening, Elrond left the meal in progress and went to where Rochael was picketed with Peguiel by the infirmary wagon. He had already rubbed her down earlier, but he needed an excuse to avoid the crowd, so he unearthed a comb and began running it through her already-smooth mane.

It would be so easy to just... go back. He had Rochael, and they were less than a week’s ride out from the compound without the wagons to slow them down. Neither Maglor nor Celebrimbor could tell him where to go. Not when he made up his mind. Not now that he was capable of choosing his own path.

The impulse left him as suddenly as it had come. Instead, an equally intense feeling of helplessness swelled into the void, and his hand dropped to his side. Rochael twitched her ears and snuffled at his shirt--she hadn’t yet given him permission to stop stroking.

“She is a beautiful animal,” came Celebrimbor’s voice from behind Elrond, making him jump. He turned back and gave Celebrimbor a smile that felt like a grimace.

“Thank you.”

He came closer. “I’m told that your mule and your brother’s are twins? I don’t believe I have seen such a thing in the past five centuries, let alone with such markings.”

Celebrimbor’s manner was more sociable now that they were away from the compound, but Elrond still felt like he was being studied, and he did not like it. “Everyone called it an auspicious sign when they were born,” he said.

“That is understandable, though you’ll have to forgive me—I’m a bit of a skeptic.” Celebrimbor gave him a wry smile.

“You and Osgardir both. He said that there’s nothing unusual about getting spotted foals from a spotted mare, and mule twins are more likely to survive until birth than horse twins.”

“And what do you think?”

Elrond raised a suspicious eyebrow at the question. “It could be both. Why?”

“I was just wondering. Oh, hello there.” Rochael had begun inspecting Celebrimbor’s tunic.

“She thinks you might be hiding a carrot,” Elrond said.

“Alas, I’m all out.” Celebrimbor stroked her nose instead. He paused. Elrond sensed something building within it and braced himself. “I understand that this is difficult,” Celebrimbor continued. He was clearly trying to make an effort to sound compassionate even if it was awkward. “It was still painful for me to leave my father’s house when his loyalty turned to selfishness, but I knew it was the right thing to do. So I am not entirely ignorant of what you struggle with now.”

This was the first time he had claimed any of the sons of Fëanor as his family. Elrond grudgingly looked up at him; the least he could do was acknowledge this laborious crack in Celebrimbor’s carefully-maintained demeanor. “You still chose to do it,” he said. “I did not choose this.”

“You did not choose to live in their household in the first place,” Celebrimbor replied. His voice was soft enough that Elrond could not find enough condescension to make him angry. “You are being restored to your rightful home and family, or as close an approximation as possible. Everything you do from there will at last be your own choice.”

At last? Had living in Maglor’s house rendered every one of his other choices void? Even becoming an apprentice healer, though everyone had resisted his choice until he proved his dedication? Who was Celebrimbor to decide which of his choices counted as such?

“I did not come to lecture you,” Celebrimbor said in the face of Elrond’s stony silence. “I only came to offer a word of support. I know this is difficult, and I do not expect you to pretend that it is easy.”

“Thank you,” Elrond said, because that was the polite thing to say. Maglor had not raised him with the pigs, after all.

 

Elrond began to return to himself after that, but he remained suspicious. He watched Celebrimbor carefully over the unfolding days, looking for any mannerisms or turns of phrase that might link him to Maedhros and Maglor and bring a shred of familiarity to his stern presence, but there was none. He spoke flawless Sindarin with no accent, unlike Maedhros’ refusal to use the Sindarin pronunciation for vala. Unlike Maglor, Celebrimbor did not laugh or groan when Elrond tested him with a pun; instead, he lifted a confused eyebrow and changed the subject, leaving Elrond feeling a little foolish.

He had an easier time socializing with the retinue. Both twins were curious about the new settlements in the east, both those of the elves and those of Men, and the strangers were happy to answer their questions. Still, their stories could not lighten the cloud of uncertainty that hung over Elrond, but he tried anyway. “What do you call the new realm?” he asked one night around the retainers’ fire.

“For now, we call it the Havens, for it is a refuge from all the turmoil of the last Age,” said Thránion, a friendly fellow who had come from a village near the border with Doriath. “The local elves call it Lindana, and they have been very welcoming hosts.”

“What are they like?

“Much like the Sindar, who are their kinsmen.”

“Do Men live there as well?” Elros asked.

“Yes, though they generally prefer to live among their own kind.” Thránion drew a simple map in the dirt with a stick. “The king’s house is north of the river, and many Noldor and Sindar have set up their own households around it. The rest have established smaller villages across the countryside with their own markets and customs and so forth. You can travel between villages of mostly Noldor and others that have mostly Sindar and others that have a mix of customs—even though Gil-galad is High King of the Noldor in name, he doesn’t find it useful to govern everyone as if they were Noldor. And he has mixed heritage, like many of us do.”

“Is there very much conflict?”

“A little. Just people getting used to one another. It’s all sort of an experiment, but everyone tends to figure things out between themselves.”

 

As the days wore on, the deep woods thinned out into sweeping meadows graced with green groves of trees. Faraway rivers sparkled like dew on a blade when Elrond looked out from the tops of hills. Birds and bats called through the treetops as night and day faded into one another, and under daylight the sounds of deer running over soft earth rippled in the distance.

Sometimes there was a road. It had once been paved in stone, but most of it had been overtaken by grass and earth. They passed derelict farms and ruined watchtowers along the road, signs that this silent countryside had once supported civilization, but they did not see a single Man or elf outside their own party. Their solitude in the forest had not felt like this. The dense trees and the palisade sheltered the community as they went about their work, and nameless fears did not lurk in the shadows like they did out here in the open.

Everyone felt it. Celebrimbor’s retainers were quick and hardy, outfitted for stealth. The rest of the company was weighed down with supplies and animals, and it made everyone nervous. If any bandits spotted them, the company would be hard-pressed to push them back.

Osgardir seemed to be the only one not preoccupied with the forbidding emptiness all around them, and Elrond had never seen him like this before. He was as much a taskmaster for himself as he was for Elrond, but normally he did it with an air of mechanized acceptance, like the work itself was his reason for existence rather than any end goal.

He now applied that single-minded dedication toward the journey and the promise of seeing his children at the end of it. He paced and whistled when the company was delayed, and at extended stops, he grew so impatient that he barked at everyone around him. When the wind was at their back, however, he laughed and chatted like Elrond had never known him to.

Elrond usually rode Rochael beside the infirmary wagon while Osgardir drove it. Osgardir talked of nothing but his family. It made a weird, shameful sense of jealousy settle like grit in Elrond’s stomach: he’d already lost Maglor and Maedhros, would he have to fight to keep Osgardir now? It was stupid, and he felt stupid, but his mentor’s good spirits were infectious. Elrond decided to be happy with him and ignore the jealousy for now.

“Are you nervous to see them?” he asked, partially out of curiosity and also because he needed some perspective. He thought he might be nervous to meet the remnants of his kin who would be waiting for him, but it was hard to separate that from his general anxiety and resentment at being relocated against his wishes.

“Perhaps. I hardly know what to expect.” Osgardir gave him a rueful smile. “Sídhon was one of the last babies to be born at Himring before the Dagor Bragollach, and he was only a child when I went to the front with the Union of Maedhros. He’ll be grown now. All that time I believed him dead.”

“And Ranuiel? Was she very young?”

“No. She was among the earlier children born at Himring--one of many born one year after the Long Blizzard, just as I predicted,” Osgardir said, sounding a tad smug. He paused and was sober when he spoke again. “As a child she begged Raemben to teach her to fight and shoot, as much as we wanted her to know a peaceful life. I suppose she would have been among the garrison.”

“Did you ever hope you would find their bodies?” Elrond asked cautiously.

“No. Orcs fast before battle and consume the dead,” Osgardir said with a matter-of-fact detachment that made Elrond’s skin crawl. “I did not need proof. Seeing Raemben was enough.”

No response seemed adequate, so Elrond said nothing, focusing instead on the creak of wagon wheels and the irregular pattern of overlapping hoofbeats. The silence between him and his mentor only lasted for a moment, but it felt like the over-long rawness between skinning a knee and applying a bandage.

“They always felt that they had to protect me,” Osgardir continued. He laughed softly. “If I wanted to be protected, I would have stayed in Estë’s gardens. I went to the front with the Union, and Raemben stayed behind as Steward of Himring. We all thought it was the anvil on which the Enemy’s hammer would shatter.”

Elrond knew the rest. Himring had shattered instead, and its lord with it. Without that last foothold, the Noldor in Beleriand were truly defeated, scattered into the wilds of Ossiriand like primordial elves who had once hunted and wailed like animals in the endless, starless dark. “No one knew it would go so badly,” Elrond said, but he was only repeating what he had heard from his elders.

“We should have. Every day and night, I thought about what I could have done: whole narratives where I stayed and got them out, or hid them, or died in their place, or where my presence was enough to turn the tide of the battle somehow.” A muscle twitched in Osgardir’s jaw. “I tried to lie down and give my guilty, grieving spirit to Mandos, but he wouldn’t take it. I remained here, doomed to follow the house of Fëanor to Doriath and Sirion and beyond. In my mind, that was my punishment for leaving my spouse and children to die. Now I tell myself that I couldn’t have known, I tried to do the best thing, what other choice did I have, every excuse under the sun, but…” He sighed. “I apologize for burdening you with this. I would be ashamed to ask you, of all people, for absolution.”

Elrond frowned slightly, trying to untangle his emphasis. “What do you mean?”

“Ah, never mind. You are my apprentice, not my mind-healer.” Osgardir smiled a little. “Are you nervous to meet the king, now that you will be his ward?”

“Not really. I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me. We only have to tolerate each other.”

“How pragmatic of you. It shouldn’t be difficult to improve upon mere tolerance.”

Elrond grimaced. “Let’s hope so.”

 

The hills grew steeper and rougher, crowned with ferns and deep green pines and fallen trees blanketed in lichen. The wagons struggled where there was no tended road, and the company’s pace fell to a frustrating crawl as they carefully towed wagons up sloped and scouted out the easiest paths before moving onward. Wheels broke and had to be repaired. Horses sometimes had to be led single-file through treacherous rocks, with their wagons unloaded and distributed among the company until the ground could support them again. They were only as agile as their slowest companions.

“We are approaching the foothills of Ered Luin,” Celebrimbor said when complaints began to reach his ears. “It will not be much longer, though the way is not easy. If it was, the Havens would not be safe.”

A pony broke its leg and had to be put down. The company dined on horseflesh that night, and Elrond rattled out a list of excuses to sit by himself in the woods instead. Fear and pain lingered in his mind, carried on the wind with the meat-scented smoke that permeated their camp. It had been difficult enough to keep it contained while the poor animal struggled between stepping wrong and bleeding out, and it stayed with him in dark dream fragments and shards of panic until they moved far enough from the scene the next day.

“Are you not going to tell Celebrimbor anything?” Elros muttered to him out of the company’s earshot.

“No. Not until I know I can trust him,” Elrond muttered back. Everyone from the compound knew about his gift, but strangers added uncertainty to the once-easy trust they had for one another, and Elrond did not like it.

Rochael sensed his discomfort, and it made her moody, which only put Elrond more precariously on-edge. A mule thinks for herself, Maglor had told the boys in the very beginning, when they spent their days getting the two little foals accustomed to their presence. They always hesitated, casting a wary eye over Elrond and Elros for a moment before complying with simple commands, and in the end they only obeyed because they wanted to. See, now, you could ride a horse over the side of a cliff, Maglor reminded them when Rochael and Peguiel were large enough to begin riding lessons. A mule considers her own safety first. She’s happy to bear you where a horse could not, but she will not be ordered to her death. If you are not confident in your handling, neither is she.

Young Elrond did not always find it easy to be patient with Rochael. Why couldn’t she just do what he wanted her to do? He loved her from the moment she first toddled toward him on long, gangly legs—he would never do anything to put her in danger!

She knows you, Maglor said gently when Elrond’s frustration brought him almost to the brink of quitting. He placed Elrond’s hand back on Rochael’s spotted neck. See how she raises her head when you approach. Look at how far you have come already.

Elrond sighed, staring up at the sea of stars above his bedroll. The music of a summer night was familiar here: insects, frogs, running streams, and the sound of Elros breathing slowly in deep sleep next to him. I need to get some rest, he thought to himself. His body was heavy after the day’s labors, but his mind wandered in the shadows on the eastern horizon. The world he knew was behind him, and soon he would walk where every step was a game of chance.

 

“We are approaching the Havens. If all goes according to plan, we should arrive at the house of the king before sundown,” Celebrimbor said in the early morning. He stood fully equipped before Elrond and Elros, who blinked blearily up at him over mugs of porridge. “Once we reach the Rathlóriel, I expect marchwardens to intercept and escort us there before noon.”

“And then what?” Elrond asked.

“And then the king will decide what happens, and with any luck, I’ll go back to my workshop where I belong,” Celebrimbor said.

The company continued along its largely unmarked path. The day became still and hot as the sun climbed higher in the sky, and for the first time, Elrond began to look forward to what awaited him—specifically a real bath and clean clothes. He’d have it before nightfall, if Celebrimbor was correct, and then he could start navigating everything else.

Something itched at the edges of his perception. He frowned and investigated it a little, but it retreated, and he put it out of his mind until the unfamiliar buzz returned. It was like being in the vicinity of a wasps’ nest, far enough to be out of danger but near enough to be wary. The wasps noticed him—the buzz grew louder, Elrond’s hair stood on end, and Rochael twitched and snorted as if to shake off flies, but there were none.

“Lord Celebrimbor! Is it really true?”

Elrond pushed past the excited buzzing and back into the physical world. All around the company, figures cloaked in green had materialized between the trees and rocks, moving so quietly that they might have always been right there, silently watching.

Celebrimbor pulled his horse and the company to a halt. He looked up into the trees. “Many things are true, and some are not,” he said in his calculating way. “But yes, our hopes have been rewarded, and the princes return at last to our people.”

From there, everything rolled like a stone shaken from the top of a hill. The wardens escorted the company from the forest to a well-maintained dirt road, and progress was swift and easy for the first time in days, but the wardens jogging alongside the wagons and others leaping from tree to tree beyond the road made Elrond feel as if he was being hurried along faster than he was ready. They began to pass cottages and tree houses tucked into the woods, joined soon by small wayhouses and workshops and more and more strange elves. They looked up from work and play alike when the company approached, leaving their tools to follow them along the road, shouting in joyful voices as the wardens called out Hark! Make way! The princes have returned! The princes have returned at last!

Elrond set his teeth. He could feel them all approaching before they came into view, and as the buildings came together into neighborhoods and villages, it was like embers catching dry tinder.

Come! Come and see! The princes are home! The hope of our people lives after all!

They came at last to a stone bridge over the mighty Rathlóriel, and thence to the city of the king, tucked away beyond dense walls of trees and a narrow, winding path with many branches that seemed to lead nowhere but forest so deep that light could not touch it, but the wardens knew the way, and soon the trees gave way to the city itself.

The buildings were young and lively with their arched roofs and bright paint, which stood in stark contrast to the blocky, utilitarian buildings back at the compound. They favored shades of green, yellow, and white, and the roofs were made of orange clay tiles that matched the riverbank. Elrond spotted geometric Noldorin decorations alongside floral Sindarin motifs, all of them intertwined with carved and painted trees and animals and stars. He had never seen anything like it, but at the same time, it seemed to welcome him with the familiarity of an old friend, and he could not stop himself from staring with his mouth hanging open in unmasked surprise.

They stopped again in the center square before the king’s house, where citizens were gathering from all around. Their faces were bright and open, but both parties paused, momentarily unsure of how to proceed.

A woman pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She was very tall and beautiful, with silver-white hair and piercing blue eyes like a visitor from another world, but she was dressed in hunter’s drab and her face was flushed from running.

“Atya!” she cried, and then she darted forward with a second silvery elf in tow. Osgardir had already flung aside the reins and leapt from his wagon. He closed the gap in the blink of an eye, reaching for Ranuiel and Sídhon just as they embraced him in a flurry of tears and laughter and earth-colored cloth.

The impasse cleared like a cobweb from an open window. Friends and family beckoned and rushed to meet one another, years and miles of anger and sorrow thrown to the wind at last as the final wound of separation closed in a few short steps. Everything bled together in Elrond’s perception. There was too much: too loud, too joyful, too sad, too fast, and he couldn’t untangle it all before another wave crashed over him.

“Elrond!” Elros dismounted and slapped Elrond’s leg, which brought him back to the surface. Elros’ eyes were bright and a smile flashed in his brown face. “Come on, we’re finally here!”

Elrond loosened his left foot in the stirrup and jumped lightly to the ground. A mob of unfamiliar faces and voices and minds surrounded them both, beginning with a few curious onlookers, but each new person seemed to attract three others, all peering and smiling and asking questions as they flocked together around the twins. Elrond once again sank beneath the violent surf of emotion, this time tinged with a mixture of reverence and curiosity that made him feel naked.

“You’ve grown so tall!”

“Do you like it here?”

“—her spitting image!”

“At last!”

“—so worried—”

There were too many hands and eyes. Elrond flinched away from one side only to find new strangers on another, and the excited press of all their thoughts and emotions prodded at him like a hundred fingers investigating a fish pulled onto a riverbank. He craned his neck to look behind him, but he could not pick Osgardir out of the crowd. He could only see Ranuiel and Sídhon’s graceful silver heads shining above the field of black and brown around them. Something like the disappointment of noticing a rip in a favorite garment settled on Elrond’s shoulders, ill-fitting and prickly.

“Sire, they are here!”

The weight of the crowd’s attention shifted. The king had arrived. Elrond perceived him as a prism of relationships like cords of light: fealty and friendship and trust and rivalry extending beyond his physical frame, beyond Ereinion Gil-galad as a man and into everyone and everything that legitimized his claim, angles upon angles all combining into a bright, dense center. Elrond struggled to distinguish his matter from his mantle, but the hand that settled on his shoulder seemed solid enough.

“My dear young kinsmen,” said the king. “At last, welcome. It has been some time since I have been able to breathe easily. This way! There are so many people who want to meet you at last! Ah, I still cannot believe it. After so many years, you are safe! You are… well, not home exactly, but you are with your family!”

The king herded them toward the house, and the crowd followed. “Don’t touch me,” Elrond snapped in a random direction, but he wasn’t sure if anyone was actually touching him besides the king, whose arm remained firmly around his shoulders. A shadow passed over his face. He flinched again, but it was only wide eaves blocking the sun as they finally passed into the shade and quiet of the king’s house.

“There, we can finally get acquainted now that everyone isn’t trying to do it at once,” said Gil-galad. “Come! Come! Let’s have a cold drink. Do you like cucumber juice?”

A cacophony of voices still chattered around Elrond’s head, though he could not make out any words. They came from all sides and only seemed to build upon each other like a towering wave. “This is a lot to take in at once,” came Elros’ voice through the clamor. His face, always a constant, took shape in Elrond’s overwhelmed sight. “Can we settle in and talk later?”

“Of course—my apologies.”

 

Elrond had not struggled so dearly to maintain control since his gift first emerged. He was aware of a house, strangers, walking. The angles were all wrong as his perspective shifted from his own body to others’, unmoored upon a strange ocean where islands floated free and waves crashed without pattern or direction.

Doors slammed above him, below him, all around him, and then a strong hand at his chin shifted his focus to one spot right in front.

“Elrond. Hey, are you in there?” Elros tugged Elrond’s collar open and fanned his throat. “I think I shook him off for now.”

Elrond squeezed his eyes shut. He had to hold fast to the quiet room around them, sending the foreign impressions out one by one until they no longer fluttered and buzzed like insects inside his skull. Of course they had all come in a flood. They were new, all curious and eager to know him, not the steady background of people he found familiar. Still, the idea that he might be facing a relapse surrounded by strangers in a new land sent a shudder down his spine. He couldn’t lose control again. Not after all the work he had done to survive.

Don’t force it. Let them in, and then let them go. He breathed slowly, calling upon the sense of awareness and connection that had become second nature back at the compound. It was all the same. He just needed to expand it.

“I’m fine,” he said at length. “There was just… a lot. All at once.”

Elros was nodding. “Are you going to tell him about it? The king, I mean. About your gift.”

“Not yet.” Or ever, if he could help it. It rankled to think that he was required to report every detail of his private life to the king. “It might come up eventually, but I’d rather do it when I have a better footing here.”

Elros nodded. “That’s smart.”

They sat in silence for a moment. All around them, the trunks full of things they had brought with them made it feel as if they were still at home in the forest, but everything else belonged to strangers, from the light-colored wooden floor to the low furniture to the peaked ceiling. There were many windows, all of them propped open to let in the breeze and sunshine.

“Um... where are we?” Elrond asked, scratching his head.

“Our apartments in the king’s house,” Elros said. He shrugged. “I guess we’re part of his household now.”

“I guess so.”

With his mind and body firmly reunited, Elrond stood to get a better look around. The apartments were mercifully quiet and private even with the windows and doors open. Gardens surrounded their house on three sides, with cultivated plants weaving around native forest trees. There was even a pond with great orange-and-white fish that bobbed curiously to the surface when he peered at them.

“Oh, they’re Doriathrin carp!” Elros said, coming up behind him. “Mother had a pond. Do you remember feeding them breadcrumbs?”

“I think so.” Elrond crouched at the edge of the pond and let the bubbles of little fish minds float up and pop within his perception: Snack? Snack? Snack? Big snack? Tasty snack? He retrieved a leftover bit of waybread from his belt pouch and crumbled it in his hand. When he scattered the crumbs into the pond, the bubbles boiled into an excited froth of Snack! SNACK! SNACK SNACK! as the fish happily gobbled them up.

“There were some clothes and things set out for us here. Oh, hmm, I don’t think they’ll fit,” Elros said from back inside. Elrond turned to see him holding up a tunic that was too narrow in the shoulders and much too short. Elros raised an eyebrow and dove back into the open chest at his feet. There were Noldorin-style trousers and shirts and Sindarin-style robes, but all of them were too small, and at last he unearthed a pair of boy-sized shoes from the bottom of the chest and laughed a little.

“Celebrimbor said we were taller than he expected,” Elrond said. “I bet they expected us to still be children. Elf-boys would be.”

“Well, they know better now. This fabric is nice.” Elros inspected a patterned blue robe. “Glorious wax-resist technique. It’s too short to be a robe, but I think I can make it work. I am thinking of… a summer tunic with no sleeves. Let out the shoulder seams, take some fabric from the bottom to make it wider under the armpits… where’s my sewing kit?” He strode into the other room with the garment in hand, rustling through his baggage while Elrond poked around some of the other things Gil-galad had provided. There were plenty of puzzles and models that might have interested him ten years earlier, but he now found them simple.

Purposeful ripping and cutting sounds began to come from the other room. “Maybe I’ll make some slippers with the rest of the fabric,” Elros said.

Elrond meant to unpack, but after washing up and changing his clothes he found a pair of dice and instead challenged Elros to a casual game of hazard while he worked on his tunic. Long shadows began to stretch across the floor as the sun sank low in the sky. Elros was a fine tailor who worked quickly, and he was just tying off the last stitches when there was a knock at the door to the rest of the house, followed by the door creaking open a little.

“Hello, Elrond and Elros?” It was the king. “If you’ve settled in, I’d like to chat for a moment. There is juice.”

Elrond grimaced, but he knew it wasn’t a request, like when Maglor used to ask if he “wanted” to help wash dishes after dinner. “All right,” he said.

“Excellent, it’s in my garden.” The door creaked shut again.

Elros quickly scrubbed his hands and face and donned the new summer tunic, and the two of them managed to find their way with the help of a friendly servant. There was a platter of fruits and cheeses as well as the promised cucumber juice when Elrond and Elros arrived at the garden, where the king was waiting for them on a shaded porch.

“Hello! Let’s not stand on ceremony!” He waved to them from the cushion he was lounging on. The twins sat cross-legged on their own cushions across the table from him, awkwardly ignoring the food even though Elrond could hear Elros’ stomach growling even louder than his own. “Come now, you must be hungry,” the king prompted, scooting the platter closer to them. Elrond and Elros each took an apple slice and nibbled politely.

Ereinion Gil-galad would not have looked out of place among any of the craftsmen Elrond knew. He was wiry and bronze-skinned, and although he was shorter than the twins, he carried an air of confident authority. He had glossy black hair and bright, curious eyes to match, which followed Elrond and Elros as they stared back at him.

“Where to begin,” he said at last. “Much has happened to my people, and I’m sure much has happened to you as well. To think we had no word of each other for twenty years, and now here you are.”

“We weren’t unhappy,” Elrond said quickly, trying to head off another display of unnecessary apologies. “I’m sorry that you worried for so long.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he started ruminating on all the ways he could have sounded rude or ungrateful by accident, but Gil-galad did not seem to take it that way. “Let me get a good look at you,” he said, rising to his knees and clapping his hands on the twins’ shoulders. “Completely identical!” he said, and then he leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. “And yet you couldn’t be more different. Am I correct?”

Elrond and Elros glanced at each other and shared a smile. “You aren’t wrong,” Elros said. It was only a first impression, but Gil-galad seemed warm where Celebrimbor was cold. Perhaps it would not be all bad.

“You won’t remember it, but we’ve met before. I visited Sirion when you were born. ‘The hope of all Noldor, Sindar, and the great houses of Men,’ it was said—a weighty expectation for little beans!” He chuckled fondly, and then paused, sitting back on his heels. “For twenty years we have nurtured the hope that one day you would return safely. Truly, having you here at last is like seeing the evening star light up the sky for the first time.”

“We saw it in the forest as well,” Elrond said. He was glad to jump at the topic to avoid talking about himself. “Everything started changing after that. Did you notice it?”

“Yes, and I still thank our stars that we left Balar before the earthquake hit. From what we heard, the whole settlement just slid off into the sea,” Gil-galad said, miming a landslide with both hands for emphasis. “You felt it too, didn’t you?”

“Our people had to rebuild almost the entire compound afterward,” Elros confirmed. “We were asleep. We probably wouldn’t be here if Elrond hadn’t... woken up to get a drink... and pulled us both under the bed right away. They had to dig us out.”

The king’s eyebrows shot up. “Incredible. It’s little wonder you became so attached to the kinslayers in such circumstances. Tell me more about your life! Did you have any playmates?”

“Just each other,” Elrond said. Gil-galad’s comment had made him a little defensive. “We didn’t have playmates at Sirion either. Are there any children here?”

“A girl was born last year. What a blessing in these times.” His smile became almost reverent. “It seems like the perfect season to put the past behind us, don’t you think? I’ll be calling the Fëanorian retainers into my court tomorrow for a formal pardon,” he continued before Elrond or Elros could answer. “I’d like you two to stand among my council at that time. Maedhros’ people must be reminded that they need your pardon as well as mine, even if close quarters have made you familiar to them.”

“Wait,” Elrond said. He laid his hand flat on the table. “I don’t feel the need to pardon them for anything. They’ve been our community for the last twenty years, and we wept for the ones who stayed behind. Celebrimbor had the same misconception that we were being kept in a cellar or something, and it is absolutely false.”

“I believe you,” Gil-galad said. “Strange circumstances make strange bedfellows, especially when children are raised by those who murdered their family. That should never have been your path.”

Elros frowned a little. “But it was. And here we are, safe and sound.”

“Of course, but in time you will understand the injury the sons of Fëanor have dealt you.” The king was no longer smiling. “You have endured more at your tender age than many have endured over centuries. At least now we can try to set it all to rights, as far as that is possible.”

 

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