Sirion by Grundy

Elrond was woken by an increasingly insistent repetition of his name.

“Elrond?”

Poke.

“Elrond.”

Poke.

He tried to delay answering as long as possible, because he was fairly sure he knew what was coming, and he had no good answer.

“Elrond!”

He reluctantly opened his eyes to find he was facing the cave wall and no more comfortable than when he’d fallen asleep in the first place, largely out of sheer boredom. The back of the cave was already dark, and even at the entrance, the shadows were lengthening.

“I know you’re ignoring me, El. But it’s getting dark. And I’m hungry.”

His twin had always been the impatient one. His impulsiveness often led to trouble - and (inexplicably in Elrond’s mind) to those who did not know them well concluding that Elros must be the younger of the pair. It was vital that Elrond keep him from doing anything rash just now.

“Elves can go much longer than this without food before suffering ill-effects,” he replied after a moment’s thought. He hoped the uncertainty in his mind wasn’t apparent to his brother.

“That’s grown elves,” Elros pointed out testily. “We’re elflings. And we might not even be proper elves anyway.”

Elrond didn’t bother asking where his brother had gotten that notion. In the last year or so, as their mother’s time was given more and more to ‘matters of state’ and the worry on her face had kept pace with the hours she spent away from them, the pair of them had gotten very good at slipping about unnoticed. They’ve heard quite a few things not intended for their ears.

The adults’ worry that they might not be ‘proper elves’ is a topic they’ve heard quite a few variations on. Both their parents are only part-elven. Earendil is half-elven- adan father, elven mother. Elwing is more than half-elven, but with strains of both edain and maia. No one is quite sure what that makes their children.

Opinions vary. Some like to point out the reassuring ways they are clearly like elves – occasionally more elf-like than either of their parents, even. Others fret about the ways they aren’t, like the way they grow too fast. No one has quite decided whether their apparently unelvish talent for mischief is mannish or an inheritance from Melian. If Luthien was ever less than perfect as an elfling, none of the Sindar care to remember it now.

All the concern puzzled Elrond whenever he thought about it. Surely an adan grandfather and an adan great-grandfather couldn’t outweigh their greater number of elven ancestors. If they did, by the same logic, shouldn’t Melian outweigh them all, making them maiar instead of elves? It didn’t make sense.

Either way, Elrond often comforted himself with his mother’s assurance that not everything they overheard was necessarily accurate. He wondered if he should repeat it for his brother’s benefit now, but decided to address the more immediate problem.

“We have to wait,” Elrond said firmly, putting into his words all his trust and conviction that the grownups in their lives will be back, even if it’s later than expected. No one abandoned elflings, after all.

Nellas and Lalwen had both told them to stay in the cave. It was important.

They’d been still in their beds, just rising to get ready for breakfast when Lalwen came rushing in, peremptorily signaling the young elleth who normally helped them dress that she was dismissed. Lalwen had a large rucksack in her hands, the sort the twins had seen grown elves going on journeys carry. Flinging the doors of the clothes press wide open with a carelessness neither twin had ever before seen, she began throwing their things into the bag.

Nellas had entered the room not a step behind. She too carried a pack, and to their shock, she was armed. No one in Sirion carried weapons openly in the queen’s house.

“Dress at once, and mind you pick warm things,” Nellas told them as she stripped the bedding from first one bed, then the other, and crammed it into her pack.

Too alarmed to question this extraordinary behavior, Elrond pulled the outfits they usually wore for playing on the beach from the clothes press before Lalwen could add them to her bag. Nana had had those made specially so that they could still build their cities in the sand even with winter coming on.

“Boots, boys, not the shoes you wear for inside,” Lalwen called.

He could not ever remember dressing faster in his life – and to his surprise, by the time he finished, Elros was dressed as well, even getting his boots laced properly without help. He had never managed that before.

Lalwen and Nellas had finished cramming their packs to the point that they could hold no more, with Nellas dumping two books from Elrond’s beside table into hers almost as an afterthought.

At Lalwen’s sharp look, Nellas shrugged.

“They will need something to occupy them,” she said brusquely. Grabbing Elrond’s hand, she added, “come!”

Lalwen took Elros’ hand – his half-hearted complaint that he could walk on his own was hushed instantly by her expression.

Their mother met them in the hall, looking frightened. The fright did not leave her face when she saw them with Nellas and Lalwen, but she did look somewhat relieved.

“My big boys,” she said, sounding as though she might cry as she hugged first Elrond, then Elros. “You must go with Nellas and Aunt Lalwen now. Behave yourselves and do exactly as they tell you!”

“My queen,” Nellas began, but naneth had cut her off.

“No. You know why I cannot. The time for argument has passed. Get them safely away. If I can join you later, I will.”

Naneth kissed them each twice and hugged them fiercely.

Then Nellas and Lalwen had hurried them away. They rushed down a little-used outer corridor that the twins sometimes played in on rainy days, until Nellas reached the dead end. To their surprise, a small door opened beneath one window, small enough that Lalwen and Nellas had to crawl to go through.

The astonished twins had been helped out that little door by Nellas, and down a ladder-like set of hand and footholds that they could not have managed on their own. It was not a long way down before they found themselves standing on a ledge cut into the cliff, one that could not be seen from any window. Lalwen followed them down, closing the little door from the outside.

“Come,” she said again.

The stairs down the cliff had no railing, and were just wide enough that an elfling could walk side by side with a grown elleth or ellon. Lalwen and Nellas took the outside, and set a pace so quick that Elrond and Elros both stumbled more than once, always to be caught at once by firm but urgent hands.

Neither twin made a sound as they were rushed down the secret stairs, and then what felt like miles of beach to the caves they were normally forbidden to enter – not only were the caves much further away by the way they normally reached the shore, but Elwing always worried that Elros would injure himself out of sight and not be found.

“Inside,” Lalwen instructed.

A glance at her face was all Elrond needed to understand that naneth’s normal rules did not apply today and forgo any protest he might have liked to make. Elros, of course, needed no further encouragement to explore the previously out of bounds area.

Nellas followed them inside, but stayed long enough only to drop her pack and nod at Lalwen before disappearing. Elrond made to follow her, to see what she would do next on this very odd morning, but was restrained gently but firmly by his aunt.

“Now listen you two,” Lalwen said, her voice tense in a way that unsettled Elrond – and evidently Elros as well, judging by the way his suddenly still brother’s hand crept into his. “You are to stay in this cave no matter what. Keep quiet and don’t go out where you can be seen. Nellas is outside and will look out for you. Don’t go out unless your mother comes for you herself or one of us tells you it’s all right.”

Elrond blinked.

“What if it’s someone other than you or Nellas or nana?” Elros asked uncertainly. “What if it’s Tirniel or Glinwen?”

“No!” Lalwen replied sharply. “Naneth, Nellas, or me.”

“Not even Uncle Celeborn or Aunt Galadriel?” Elrond said, alarmed at the prospect of being in the position of having to disobey one of his kin on at the order of another. Uncle Celeborn probably wouldn’t mind too much, but both twins had a healthy respect for his wife and Elrond had no wish to have her cross with him. Not only could she be a bit frightening, he didn’t have enough aunts to go upsetting them willy-nilly.

To his surprise, Lalwen frowned as if this might be a valid concern. She paused for a moment before replying. Elrond wished he was old enough or at least wise enough to decipher what the series of expressions that flitted across her face as she thought meant.

“I do not think your uncle will return in time,” Lalwen said at last. “But yes, if one of them come to get you, that will be fine. But no one else, do you understand? Stay quiet, stay together, and above all, stay in the cave.”

“Where are you going, auntie?” Elros asked nervously.

Elrond judged his twin to be close to tears. Everything about this morning was wrong.

“Back to gather a few more things,” she replied, with another of those looks he did not undertand. “It may be quite a while before we can go home again.”

It had been very quiet in the cave after Lalwen left.

That had been hours ago. After their initial unease wore off, it had been a fun game for a while, exploring the cave and pretending they were creating a new hidden kingdom. Theirs would surpass Nargothrond, perhaps even rival Menegroth. It would be the grandest hall the elves of Ennor had ever seen.

Eventually, they had gotten bored, and Elros had taken to building what he could with the stones he found on the floor of the cave and gathered into a large pile in the middle while Elrond read.

It didn’t take him long to read both his books. Not because they were short- in fact, the one was a rather weighty tome that he had picked from nana’s library solely because he liked the picture on the cover- but because he didn’t know his letters very well yet. Lalwen often tutted that the education of young elves in Sirion was not what it should be, which had for a time given Elrond the impression that he was somehow disappointing her by not being able to read well or write much more than his name yet.

That had lasted until Lalwen and Nellas had a truly spectacular row on the subject, during which Elrond’s presence had been quite forgotten as they traded verbal blows and vented grievances he would not begin to understand until years later. But by listening, he had learned that the elflings of Sirion were not as well taught as they should be because the Sindar refused to have their children learning Noldor words from Noldor books – and while he did not see why that should matter, it seemed most of the books in Sirion were Noldorin.

That included the two Nellas had packed for him. He had tried very hard to sound out the words, not wanting to waste this rare concession on her part, but it was not easy, and made no easier by the lack of adult help.

He wasn’t sure at what point he had fallen asleep. But it seemed he had been sleeping for some time, for it had been bright outside when last he looked. He did not feel any better for having slept. He could not remember what he had dreamed beyond an uneasy impression of freezing wetness and having lost something important. He didn’t feel well, and if he hadn’t felt a need to be brave for his brother’s sake, he would have admitted to wanting nana.

What was worse, no matter how he turned it over in his mind, Elrond inevitably returned to the conclusion that Elros had a point. Lalwen had been gone all day, and they hadn’t seen anything of Nellas, either. He hadn’t felt the reassuring brush of his naneth’s mind against his in some time. And it was getting dark. While Elrond knew it got dark sooner now it was nearly winter than it had in the summer, he still felt like they had been here much longer than they should have been left on their own.

But no one abandoned elflings…

“I’m going to look outside,” Elros announced.

Elrond could hear the fear under the bravado, and that stoked his own. More than that, he wasn’t sure what he would do if something happened to his brother. Elros was too impulsive, prone to react first and think later. He needed to stay in the cave.

“No,” he retorted. “You’re always getting told off for not thinking. If Aunt Lalwen or Nellas see you, you’ll be in big trouble.”

He paused, reviewing the events of this unsettling day.

“Huge trouble,” he amended. “I haven’t been in trouble for a while, it should be me that goes to look.”

“Fine,” Elros huffed, rolling his eyes. “You. But go look. Something must be wrong. It’s not like Aunt Lalwen to have not brought anything to eat.”

“She said she was going back to get more things,” Elrond pointed out. “Probably she realized she forgot.”

“She’s the one always telling me haste makes waste,” Elros grumbled. “She should have remembered something that important. Nana brings snacks even when we’re just going to play by the sea for a few hours.”

Elrond stopped short when he reached the mouth of the cave. Because of the grownups’ not so secret worry that he and Elros might not be proper elves, he had heard that the sight of Men was not as sharp as that of elves. But he doubted it needed elvish sight to see the town of Sirion burning, lighting the sky with a glow that scared him more than everything else that day put together.

“Can you see Aunt Lal?” his twin asked urgently from within.

“No,” he said quietly, not sure how to explain what it was he was seeing, or if he even should. Elros was already frightened enough without being told that their home was being destroyed. It wasn’t on fire yet, set apart from the rest of the town as it was, but it was surely only a matter of time.

“What about Nellas?”

As Elrond’s eyes grew accustomed to the rapidly deepening darkness away from the fearsome glow of the flames consuming the only home he had ever known, he realized he could see Nellas. She was far up the beach, nearly all the way to where he judged the stairs they had come down must be.

Elrond had never seen death before, but he was not a baby. He did not need to be told that someone lying so still with arrows sticking out of them was no longer alive.

He swallowed hard, and somehow made himself answer.

“She won’t be coming,” he said quietly, retreating back into the cave.

The tears slipping down his face felt like they were on fire, too.

Elros started toward the mouth of the cave in alarm at the sight and feel of his twin, but Elrond grabbed his arm.

“They told us to stay in the cave,” he snapped. “We stay in the cave!”

He turned away before Elros could see him crying, hoping he’d done enough to keep his twin in here, where it was safe. If it was safe. He could only hope that Aunt Galadriel or Uncle Celeborn knew about this place. He suddenly had no great confidence that Aunt Lalwen would be coming back for them.

“El,” Elros said, sounding suddenly very small and afraid. “What about Nana?”

I don’t think she’s coming, either.

He couldn’t say it out loud.

Elwing was pleased that her hands did not tremble as she dressed herself as the queen that she was, however reduced her realm. She fastened the Silmaril, the cause of all her losses over the years, about her neck, smiling slightly at her young handmaiden’s impressed ‘oh!’ as she beheld her wearing the cursed jewel openly for the first and last time.

No matter what fringe benefits they had brought to those they derided as moriquendi, the hard truth was that the Noldor hadn’t come to Beleriand for any other reason but the jewels of Feänor. For those jewels his sons would slaughter any who stood in their way, elf or man, adult or child. For all their posturing, though, it had been Elwing’s grandparents who retrieved a Silmaril from the Enemy, not the sons of Feänor.

It had been paid for in blood all the same – their quest had claimed the life of Finrod Felagund. Galadriel could not bear to look on the jewel knowing her brother had died for it, that their cousins had betrayed him to his death. Not even the last light of the blessed Trees was as wonderful in her eyes as her beloved eldest brother.

“Even had they retrieved all three, it would have been a bitter price,” she had murmured the first time she saw the Silmaril Elwing had carried all that long, cold way from Doriath to the sea.

Elwing, being somewhat more romantic than the princess of the Noldor, liked to think that Finrod died for love and honor, not just for a jewel.

But the Silmaril of Luthien had not been done its grisly work. Finrod’s death wasn’t enough. It had claimed Elwing’s parents, her brothers, and much of the folk of Doriath with them when the sons of Feänor, the Kinslayers, descended on Menegroth. That was why Elwing couldn’t bear to look on it. Like Galadriel, she no longer saw light and wonder in its depths, only ruin and death.

And now it would claim one more, one that escaped it last time its maker’s sons had come calling – Elwing herself. She wondered if that would be enough to satisfy the bloodthirsty bauble at last.

The scouts had returned that morning at dawn, riding so fast and hard that one horse had died on the way and another had to be put down by the stable master. Normally such treatment of animals would be anathema to the Sindar. But they had been desperate to reach Sirion ahead of the remaining Feänorions and their forces, to give the warning. To buy what time they could for their people to escape.

They were survivors of Menegroth, and knew all too well what to expect from the Kinslayers.

Nor did Elwing believe for a moment that Maedhros, Maglor, and Amras were only coming to parley as they claimed in their last letter. One did not bring an army to a peaceful meeting.

When they had first written in the spring, demanding the Silmaril, she had known better than to send them a bald refusal. Though she had no intention of surrendering the despised jewel to them, she also knew she was at a disadvantage in any contest of arms. The folk of Sirion were few, primarily refugees of Gondolin and Doriath, a handful of survivors from Nargothrond, and a few Nandor who had joined them.

The warriors of those elven cities had fallen in their defense, their weapons lost with them. The refugees had too much need of food, shelter, clothing, and other necessities of life to turn their thoughts to rearming immediately. Even once they did, outfitting themselves properly for their own defense was problematic.

Sirion was not rich in metals, nor smiths to work them. Gil-Galad could spare only so much from the defense of Balar, especially given the limited value of what they could provide him in recompense – and the Sindar of the settlement did not want to be in debt to the king of the Noldor. There were fewer swords than grown elves, not that all here would know how to wield them; arrows used in the hunt were salvaged from game carcasses for reuse.

The walls of Sirion were strong, but Elwing knew from bitter experience that trusting in their walls had never saved the elves of Ennor. The only walls that held were the ones the Valar have erected around their own lands. The elven strongholds have fallen, one by one.

She remembered all too well the flight from Menegroth, in the harshness of a fell winter, frightened and bereft - of all her once numerous kin, only Celeborn had been with her. Galadriel had joined them later, carried in wounded by Oropher. The older elleth had never spoken to Elwing of what she had seen in the halls she had stayed behind to defend until there had been nothing left worth defending.

Elwing had replied to Maedhros’ first letter requesting more time. Her husband was at sea, and she knew perfectly well that by the mores of the golodhrim, he was accounted lord of Siron. Never mind that she was queen in her own right, or that the Sindar had never subscribed to the practice the Noldor brought with them of giving precedence to sons before daughters and husbands before wives. Perhaps that is why Galadriel chose to marry a prince of the Sindar rather than of the Noldor.

The second letter had come in the first days of autumn, the demand for the Silmaril repeated with greater urgency. Elwing had again replied in a way that should have been acceptable to the golodhrim, had they not been set on violence. A handful of seasons was nothing in the eyes of the elves. And by their own customs, it was only right and proper that Maedhros and his brothers should wait until Eärendil- not only her husband but their kinsman- returned, and treat with him.

They waited only for winter.

She has ordered her gates closed and barred, the walls manned, those too young or otherwise unable to bear arms sent across the river to flee to the forests of Arvenien carrying what food and clothing they could lay hands on at short notice, and all that can be done to make ready the defense of the town to be done. But she knew with chilling certainty that it will not be enough. Her only hope lay to the west, with Cirdan and Gil-galad. She was queen of the Sindar, and her duty was to her people – she will sacrifice her pride and bow to the King of the Noldor if that would save them.

But the horizon remained stubbornly clear of any sail, and she had realized with chilling certainty that if she could not see them yet, they would not reach her in time. That was when her decision had been made. It is more than her pride that she will have to sacrifice if her sons are to live. That was the only thing that mattered now.

Nellas, bless her stubborn heart, had tried to argue that there was still time for Elwing to escape with the boys, to join the flight to Arvenien and Cape Balar. But Elwing would have none of it. If she ran, the Kinslayers would chase. That was the way of predators and prey. She would not allow it.

Not only would it be the grossest dereliction of her duty to her people, she knew perfectly well that running could not save her boys from their Feänorion kin. It would only put off the day of reckoning – at best. At worst, she would see her sons slaughtered to compel her to give up the jewel. And she will not hand the Kinslayers that which they desire above all else. Too much of her family’s blood, her people’s blood, has been shed for that.

No, she had a plan that will keep her boys much safer. If both she and her thrice-damned Silmaril are forever beyond their reach, the sons of Feänor will have no reason to pursue the sons of Eärendil.

Well she knew the words of their terrible oath, for Galadriel had made sure that she did, that she would understand the danger of her inheritance.

Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,
shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin,
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,
finding keepeth or afar casteth
a Silmaril. This swear we all:
death we will deal him ere Day's ending

She has indeed hidden, hoarded, and in her hand taken her grandparents’ Silmaril, the last thing her father had ever given her. By the terms of the Oath, her life is already forfeit, even if she were to send the jewel away. So let it be - but she will see to it that they gain no Silmaril this day all the same.

She garbed herself in robes of state, as the queen that she was rather than the wife of a minor lord they hold her to be. She had not armed herself. She is no Kinslayer, nor will she be.

Her handmaiden followed her loyally to her throne room, and made to take up a position that would put her between Elwing and the invaders, but that Elwing will not allow either. She wished to save what she could, however little it might be.

She shook her head.

“No, Glinwen,” she said firmly. “I thank you with all my heart for your years of loyal service to myself and my sons. But I must dismiss you now.”

“Please, my queen,” the stricken elleth whispered. “Do not send me away.”

Glinwen was not much younger than her queen- an orphan, born on the long trek to Sirion. Her father had fallen defending Menegroth. The early birth in the hardest part of that bitter winter had left her mother weak, and despite the child, she had faded like a leaf in autumn. She was the first elf Elwing had seen fade, but not the last. It was almost a comfort to realize she will never have to see it again.

The babe had been raised in the same household as Elwing. But Elwing, with her mixed blood, came to maturity much faster, more as a woman of the Edain would. Glinwen was scarcely a youth when Elwing’s sons were born. Elwing had named the girl a handmaiden as much to have another young elf around her children as for any true service Glinwen could render. Her ‘service’ until now had consisted mainly of amusing the boys at formal dinners and seeing them safe to bed on nights when duty kept Elwing from doing so herself.

“I do not send you anywhere, my dear,” Elwing said, feeling suddenly tired and old despite her youth, and wondering how in the name of the Starkindler Lalwen has managed to go on through so many years and so many deaths. “I ask you to leave, that you may live. I do not wish you to die on my account, and still less on account of a jewel- would that it were never made!”

“But it is so beautiful,” the girl protested, wonder in both face and voice as she gazed on it.

“And the cause of so much suffering and loss,” Elwing replied grimly. “I will not have it cause yours as well. You know as well as I do what we may expect from Fëanorions.”

Indeed, she could already hear the first screams from the town. Her warriors were no match for the hardened soldiers Maedhros commanded. This is the first time most of them have been asked to fight other elves. They do so only to buy time for the others to escape. She has asked them not to fight to the bitter end – only to buy what time they can before fleeing themselves.

“I would follow you wherever you go, my queen. Is there nothing else I can do?” the girl begged.

Elwing sighed, and took the girl's hands in her own.

Where I am going, no follower, however loyal, will be of aid or comfort to me.

“Glinwen, please, I beg you, do not remain here. If you will not go for your own sake, or even for mine, then please, for the love you bear Elrond and Elros, go! The only folk of Balar my sons will know are my uncle and his wife. All will be new and strange to them. Elrond and Elros are very fond of you. They will be happier if you are with them. ”

Glinwen blinked back tears, and nodded.

“Go now, dear Glinwen, with my blessing,” Elwing said gently, hoping the girl would obey.

To Elwing’s great relief, she did. Her first steps were slow, almost against her will, but then she fled, the sound of weeping drifting back in her wake.

Elwing straightened and moved to the windows, throwing them open. The compound her people call her ‘palace’, laughable though the title is by the standards of Menegroth, sits atop a cliff. The throne room runs right up to the face of the cliff, with stunning views of the sea – and a sheer drop from the windows, hundreds of feet.

It will be more than enough to kill her. And more importantly, she knows that the water below is deep and the currents treacherous. The sons of Fëanor will not recover her body or her Silmaril.

The noise continued unabated outside, and Elwing could not help but shudder at the screams. Her loyal warriors were far too young to be dying. Just as she herself was. Her people had whispered at her marrying and having children at her tender age, but now she was glad she had. She will at least leave the world – and her husband – something more to remember her by than merely her death.

She stared out the window to sea, wondering where her beloved is now, and how long Lalwen and Nellas will have to hide with the boys before it will be safe for them to make their way to her uncle. Celeborn and Galadriel will care for her children until their father returns for them. She must believe he will return, that the Sea has not claimed him too.

The bang of the doors being thrown open startled her, but only enough to make her turn in surprise. She had not expected it to go so quickly. Was it even mid-day yet? She had hoped for longer, for her sons and for her people.

So soon…

She was unsurprised to see that it was Maedhros in the lead, his brothers a pace behind. More unexpected was that all three looked pristine, unstained by blood. Had her people really been so overpowered that these three have not even needed to raise their own swords?

“Queen Elwing,” Maedhros greeted her with a curt nod. “I implore you to hand over the Silmaril before there is any further bloodshed.”

The commotion outside has not stopped. Indeed, she could hear it within her own house now. Elwing cannot believe that the man before her thinks it is still in his power to stop the dying. Sirion’s defenders, outmatched though they may be, are as steadfast as loyal Glinwen. Despite her plea, many have chosen to fight to the death.

“And if I do not?” she asked.

Her voice did not shake any more than her hands had earlier. Her sons were safely away and she already knew how this was to end, so what was left for her to fear?

His hand moved to his sword only with the greatest reluctance. She could see in his eyes that he did not wish this, had long since ceased to desire the Silmaril for its own sake. She had always thought that if Maedhros the Kinslayer found the burden of his Oath lay heavy on him, she would be glad of it. But now she discovered to her surprise that she felt only pity. He might have been great, mighty among his people. Instead, he was reduced to this – and at his father’s behest. What parent would do such a thing to their children?

“Stay your sword, Nelyafinwë Maitimo,” she commanded coldly. “It will not be necessary for you to shed any more blood of the line of Thingol, today or any other day.”

Though he flinched at the use of his given names, there was a weary relief in his face, echoed in the eyes of his brothers.

“Then you will return the Silmaril?” Maglor asked hopefully.

She suppressed a shiver. Even ruined as he was, his voice was still glorious. If there had been no Oath, no blood staining him beyond forgiveness, she should have liked to hear him sing.

She shook her head.

“No, I will not. If you will have the goodness to excuse me, my lords, I must bid you farewell.”

She did not wait for their horrified comprehension. She was out the window before any of them had taken more than a single step.

“Hear me Ulmo, you have always loved the elves. Keep my sons safe - let the Silmaril be forever beyond their reach!”

She felt the pain when she hit the water, and the cold as she sank, refusing to fight, to live, because to live was to doom her children. As the edges of her vision blur and darken, she thinks only of her darling boys, reaching out to their bright little spirits as long as she still could. They will be safe now, Elros and Elrond.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love…

Maedhros- once Maitimo, before his mother-name had been turned into a cruel joke- gaped in shock when Elwing leapt. True, she had been standing by the window when she received them, the sheer curtains streaming in the chill breeze, but he had thought nothing of it.

There was no way he could have foreseen this. He had never known an elf to commit suicide. Even his uncle’s ride to challenge Morgoth had not been blatant death-seeking. He cannot say how the Sindar think, for he is well aware that he has never understood them, but to the Noldor, what the queen had just done was unthinkable.

He ran to the window, knowing even as he did that it was too late. He and Makalaurë reached it just in time to see her hit. She began to sink, and though she twitched, he knew it was little more than involuntary reflex. She made no attempt to regain the surface, to reach air, shore, life. The fall alone might have killed her, and he supposed it might be kindest if it had.

She chose death if it meant keeping the Silmaril.

What was it about his father’s jewels that made their owners lose their minds?

It was only when the huge white bird rose, glowing, from the waves- filling his shocked eyes with light he recognized all too well- that the screaming registered.

It was female, and frantic. And much closer than outside, where he was painfully aware that the few remaining defenders of Sirion who refused to lay down arms were being killed. How had it come to this, when they meant only to talk?

As he turned, he realized with sinking clarity there was only one brother standing next to him.

His eyes found Amras on the floor, lying in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. It was the girl standing next to him screaming, hysterical at the sight of imminent death – for all that she was clearly the one who caused it.

He braced himself just in time for the wave of coldness that swept over him, yet another brother claimed by the Oath.

The girl had sunk to her knees, imploring the elf she had stabbed to not die, unaware that he was no longer able to hear her desperate request, much less comply.

She was still holding the bloody knife – Pityo’s own, Maedhros noted dully – when Maglor advanced on her. She was too beside herself to even be afraid, as anyone in their right mind would be at the sight of one of the Kinslayers advancing on one who had just killed their brother.

“Please, please, I didn’t mean it, I only wanted to make him let go,” the girl babbled. “It’s so much blood... oh please, I didn’t mean to hurt him so badly, I never meant to!”

The knife clattered from her outstretched hand to the floor, echoing unnaturally in the suddenly silent room.

Maglor lifted the girl to her feet and turned her away from what was now only a body where moments before there had been a living elf, crooning softly and soothingly for all that he was surely no less distressed by Amras’ death than Maedhros. She wept into his chest, too distraught to care that it was a son of Feänor comforting her.

He allowed her to weep, waiting until the shuddering sobs fade to weak hiccoughs and she pulled away, startled by kindness where she had expected none.

“What is your name, young one?”

That provoked a fresh spate of weeping.

Maedhros’ gorge rose as he realized that the girl was little more than a child. She looked too young to know anything but Sirion, and certainly too young to deal with the burden of being a kinslayer.

He turned his little brother’s body face up, noting the fatal wound –the only wound. Amras’ expression was one of surprise, lacking anger or pain.

“Tell me what happened,” he suggested, softening his voice as best he could. Soft was not one of his qualities anymore, not since the Nirnaeth. He has not dealt with children since Tyelpë grew up. Even that seems like another lifetime now.

“I never meant to,” came the broken reply. “I just wanted him to let go.”

She stared in bewilderment at her hands, as though hoping if she only looked long enough and hard enough, the blood would not be on them and Amras would stand up.

He remembered the feeling.

The girl’s words were enough for Maedhros to guess what had happened. She must have been hidden somewhere, watching them confront her queen. When Elwing jumped, the child rushed out, and Amras restrained her, perhaps on reflex, perhaps fearing she meant to throw herself after her mistress. The child had panicked and fought to free herself, and in the struggle, his brother’s knife had nicked the vein in his leg. She probably couldn’t have done it on purpose if she had tried.

“No one is going to hurt you, young one,” Makalaurë said gently. “Won’t you tell us your name?”

“Glinwen,” she whispered. “Glinwen because I was a little light in a dark time. What would my parents say?”

The last words sounded utterly horrified, as the enormity of what she had done truly began to sink in.

“I don’t know, but you should go to them now,” Maedhros said.

What she chose to tell her parents was up to her- he saw no point to making it known to the world that she had elven blood on her hands. He rather doubted most Sindar would fault her for killing a Feänorion.

She said something so quietly even elven ears couldn’t make it out properly.

“What did you say, Glinwen?” Makalaurë asked.

“They’re dead,” she repeated dully.

“You have no one we can send you to?” Maedhros asked in surprise.

She shook her head.

“I was the Queen’s ward,” she said quietly, her unnatural calm as worrying as the hysterics had been. “Anyone who might look after me if she’s gone will be on their way to Cape Balar now.”

Maedhros sighed in relief. At least Elwing had sent those she could to safety. Though that now left him a dilemma in the form of an abandoned child on his hands. He couldn’t very well leave her on her own, but he also couldn’t drag a distraught girl back to Amon Ereb to live among the people likely responsible for orphaning her in the first place.

He heard the approaching footsteps and looked up to find the captain of his guard had joined him.

“Sirion is yours, my prince,” he said curtly.

“The defenders?”

“Mostly dead, but those that were wise enough to surrender we put across the river. They’re not foolish enough to come back without weapons, and I doubt they have any hidden outside the city.”

Maedhros nodded. The defenders hadn’t had adequate weapons within the city. That idea they had cached any beyond it was ridiculous. He meant to be away by dawn in any case.

He caught Pelendur’s questioning glance at the girl, who was regarding him in turn with unnaturally large eyes in her pale face.

“There was a mishap here. We will need to build a pyre for my brother.”

Pelendur’s expression darkened as he saw Amras lying in his own blood, but he nodded at once. It was not the first time he had had to perform this duty. They did not leave their dead for others to tend. It might be hasty, and certainly not the way the Noldor would once have seen to their fallen, but at least they would know Amras had been treated with dignity.

“And the girl?”

Maedhros sighed.

“I suppose we will have to bring her with us,” he decided reluctantly. “If you’ve already sent the surviving adults away, we can’t very well leave her here on her own. And even if she could find her way to them, I doubt the Nandor will be kind to her.”

The wood elves of the region shunned all kinslayers. He could not imagine her secret would remain secret long. Though for all he knew, he might be setting his own people up for the ordeal of watching a child fade…

Somewhere, he was sure, the Valar were laughing.

To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well.

Pelendur hesitated.

“My prince,” he began.

“Whatever it is, say it straight,” Maedhros ordered, gritting his teeth, though he had no idea what could possibly compare to a dead brother.

“There’s another body I imagine you’ll want us to attend to,” Pelendur said quietly.

Maedhros glanced at his remaining brother, baffled. Who else in this Valar forsaken settlement would they be uncomfortable leaving for Gil-galad and Cirdan? They followed, the girl in tow.

It was only when Pelendur led them to the corridor with so many windows – another fine view of the sea – that Maedhros understood.

He heard a small shriek from behind him, and Glinwen wriggled out of Makalaurë’s half-hearted grip, crying.

“Lady Lalwen!”

His aunt was slumped against the wall, sword in hand. Five of Maedhros’ own men had fallen to that sword, so fiercely had Lalwen fought.
Glinwen was once again utterly distraught.

“What is it, child?” Pelendur demanded, standing over her.

“Stop it, you’re scaring her. And I don’t think she understands Quenya,” Maedhros advised sharply, taking in the way the girl shrank back, her eyes showing white all around at the armor-clad elf towering over her.

His captain sighed. Like many Feänorion loyalists, his Sindarin was barely passable outside of battlefield commands, and not about to reassure a frightened child.

“I’ll see to the pyres,” Pelendur announced, looking relieved to have an excuse to remove himself from the situation.

Many Feänorion loyalists also had little experience with elflings, having seen very few at close quarters since leaving Aman. A happy child was one thing, likely to inspire a mixture of nostalgia, curiosity, and wistfulness, but a frightened and weeping one was a different matter entirely.

“Young one, this is our own aunt. Please believe she will be treated with honor and respect,” Makalaurë assured the girl, who seemed to be edging back toward hysteria.

Maedhros suited action to word, removing the sword from his aunt’s stiffening grip, trying not to ask himself how it was that the gentle, laughing aunt he remembered so fondly came to die at his men’s hands. He removed the bulky pack she had borne- heavy enough to have been a disadvantage, and possibly the reason for her death- before shifting her cloak around to her front, the better to conceal the wounds and the blood from the child.

What was so precious that Irimë had not simply cut the pack off, removing the hindrance? And how had she allowed herself to be cornered in a dead-end corridor, when she must have known the palace well?

He opened it, and found food, waterskins, and more chillingly, a few children’s toys.

“Glinwen,” he said quietly, hoping very much that the conclusion he had just come to was wrong. “Where are Queen Elwing’s sons?”

The child looked terrified but resolute, and clamped her jaw firmly shut.

He sighed.

“I was not kinsman to your queen, young one, but I am to her sons. Even if I were not, I am not in the habit of leaving unattended elflings to die. Where are they?”

He was honestly uncertain what he would do if the child refused to answer him. But daylight was already waning and he couldn’t leave two boys of five out in the dark alone. Even in Aman such a thing would have been shocking. And this was not Aman- there were things that came out at night in Beleriand much worse the shadows that haunted the nightmares of the innocent elflings of Tirion.

Perhaps this time he would not be too late.

“Did they not go to Arvenien with the others?” Makalaurë wheedled. “It would have been very sensible of the queen. She would surely wish her sons safe.”

At last the girl shook her head, and edging just a few steps further along from where Lalwen had fallen, pushed at the windowsill.

A door, small enough that Maedhros wasn’t sure he could fit himself through it, opened below the window.

Makalaurë looked at him, following his thoughts easily enough.

“I don’t think anyone will be using this palace again, brother,” he advised.

Maedhros nodded and told the girl curtly to stand clear.

He waited until she complied, venturing as far up the corridor as she thought he would find acceptable, before he broke the window and knocked the sill out. Now he might fit through. Looking over the edge, he could see the crude stone ladder leading to a stairwell below. Fortunately it was not very far, and for one of his height the ladder was unnecessary, at least on the way down. Up would be another problem.

Climbing with only one hand was difficult.

He slid down, using his cloak as necessary to sweep the ladder and ledge clear of glass shards for Makalaurë.

“Come on,” he ordered.

He had meant his brother, but the girl clambered down first. Makalaurë looked somewhat startled that she would voluntarily follow him.

“Now we go down the stairs?” Maedhros asked, more for the purpose of trying to get Glinwen speaking again than anything else. There was little choice but to go down the stairs unless one fancied leaping a hundred fifty feet to the sand below.

The girl didn’t reply verbally, but she did nod.

Makalaurë, catching his older brother’s pointed look, took his cloak off and wrapped the girl carefully, making sure to hike the garment far enough up that she wouldn’t trip on it. There was a stiff breeze blowing in from the sea, and the child was dressed for indoors.

Maedhros took the lead, hurrying down the stairs. When he finally reached the beach, he found himself not far from yet another body.

“Nellas,” Glinwen murmured.

He found it worrying that she could no longer muster shrieks or tears for this latest corpse, despite it being someone she had known. They must find Elwing’s sons quickly, before the girl collapsed from shock.

“Where would the boys be?” Maedhros asked, as kindly as he could. “Surely Nellas and Lalwen would not leave them out in the open alone. They would have hidden them somewhere safe.”

“The caves?” Glinwen replied, but it was as much as question as an answer.

He did not waste energy being upset with her. Knowing about the secret escape route did not mean she knew the entire plan. They were already much further than he would have gotten without her help. Elwing’s sons will not suffer the fate Dior’s did. He will not be too late this time.

She began to lead them. Maedhros decided it was as well that she was too firmly focused on her task to realize that Sirion was aflame, whether intentionally or accidentally. At the rate the fire was spreading, pyres for Lalwen and Amras might prove unnecessary.

When they reached the cave, Glinwen sank into a huddle on a low rock, apparently at the end of her strength.

Taking a deep breath, Maedhros entered. He was not too late. The Doom will not claim another pair of innocents. Not today, at least.

Elros didn’t want to admit it, even just to his twin, but he was afraid. Very afraid. Nothing about today had been remotely normal. True, he usually liked the new and unexpected, but this was too much of a good thing- if it had ever been a good thing in the first place. All of the unexpected new things today had been unnerving.

The most unsettling, though, had been when Elrond had come back into the cave and yelled at him not to go out of the cave.

Then he had thrown himself down and cried.

Elros didn’t know what to do, and that was bad. He was the older brother, even if it was only by several minutes. He was supposed to take care of Elrond and keep him out of trouble. Instead, it was usually Elrond who wound up taking care of him. And now Elrond was crying, something he never did anymore. Even on the rare occasions when he was hurt, it was unusual for him to cry this much.

Elros sat down next to his brother. While the cave had been like an adventure at first, he was tired, hungry, and cold. He wanted nana to come get them – she would know what to do. She always did. But she wasn’t here, so he’d have to do his best. He put a tentative arm around his brother’s shoulder, unsure if Elrond would push him away.

He could feel his twin’s troubled emotions rolling over him like storm-churned surf. Elrond was afraid, too. It had taken all his bravery to go look outside, because he had already suspected that something was wrong. Whatever he had seen – and he had locked it up tight in his mind – was worse than he’d braced himself for.

“El, please don’t,” he begged, his own voice shaky. “We’re together, and we’ve done what Nellas and Aunt Lalwen said. We’ll be safe here. If Nellas can’t come for us, we’ll wait for Aunt Lal or Uncle Celeborn and Aunt Galadriel. Like you said, elves can go much longer than this without food.”

He had a disagreeable feeling that even grown elves couldn’t go nearly as long without water as without food, though. And he knew enough to know you couldn’t drink sea water. He quickly squashed that down where his brother wouldn’t notice it. Elrond was upset enough already.

“Think how cross Aunt Galadriel will be with whoever kept Nellas from coming back like she said she would,” he added hearteningly. “It’ll be much worse than the time we tried to sail out into the bay on our tree trunk boat!”

Really, he thought that boat had been rather well made. And they hadn’t meant to go far, just to see how well it would float, so the adults’ reaction had been very much out of proportion. It wasn’t as if he’d intended to go chasing his father into the unknown West.

The only answer he got was a sniffle.

“It can’t be that long. A day. Two, maybe. We can camp for a day or two. Nellas brought our blankets and pillows. I guess she didn’t have time for our mattresses, but we can pretend we’re camping out in the forests of Doriath like Uncle Celeborn used to.”

He wasn’t really sure if forests were like caves, or if maybe forests also had caves, because he and Elrond have never been anywhere but Sirion. He couldn’t rightly count his steps this morning like he usually did, not with Nellas moving so fast he could barely keep up, but he felt like it wouldn’t take very many more to be the furthest away from home he’s ever been.

Home’s gone, El.

His brother’s thought was so quiet he isn’t sure he heard it right. Maybe he wasn’t meant to. It would be like Elrond to try to keep something he knows will hurt away from him.

“Home’s gone?” he repeated, stricken at the thought that such a thing is even possible.

Sirion was huge! It couldn’t all be gone, could it? Maybe the Enemy the grownups sometimes talked about swooped down from the North and gobbled it all up? Was that why nana and Aunt Lal looked scared this morning? And if home was gone – did that mean nana was, too?

Elrond sat up, his face red and tear streaked from crying.

“Of course it’s not,” he said thickly.

But Elros was paying close attention, and he could both feel the lie and see that his twin couldn’t meet his eyes.

Home is gone, he repeated silently to himself.

He wondered if there was a limit to how cross Aunt Galadriel could get. He was certain that whoever did this will be in the most trouble ever. He’s not sure even the Enemy would be safe from her wrath.

“Ok, home is gone,” he said. His voice has gone a little funny, but maybe Elrond won’t notice. “But there’s still Balar. Uncle Celeborn will come for us.”

He wasn't really sure where Balar is, but he was sure of their uncle. Nothing will stop Celeborn once he knows they need him. He’s usually so jolly that people forget he’s a skilled and fearsome warrior at need.

“Only if he knows where we are,” Elrond replied quietly.

It’s like his twin was voicing his own worst fear. They’d been rushed here so quickly, nana can’t possibly have had time to send a message to their aunt and uncle. And if she left a message at home, Celeborn won’t be able to find it because home is gone.

But Celeborn has to come for them …

“Aunt Galadriel will find us,” he said, impressed with how very certain he could make himself sound. “She always does. That’s why we never play hide and seek with her anymore.”

Elrond nodded after a moment of thought, leaving Elros pleased with his own quick thinking.

“You’re right, she always knows where we are, even if she pretends not to so we get to play a little longer.”

Elrond was starting to look a little calmer. Elros tried to take comfort in that. It was something, at least. He could be braver if Elrond wasn’t crying.

That’s when someone the twins didn’t recognize entered.

The elf standing there was the tallest person Elros had ever seen, and for a moment he had the wild idea that perhaps it was the Enemy himself come to take them away like he took home away.

Elros stepped protectively in front of his brother, prepared to do whatever a six year old maybe not quite elf could do to defend him against someone so much bigger than they are.

But then the stranger spoke, and while his voice was unhappy, he didn’t sound mean.

“There you two are,” he said. “We’ve been searching for you.”

A somewhat shorter elf, but still very tall, followed him in.

“We are your cousins, little ones,” he said, sounding relieved. “We’ve come to take you home.”

Elros frowned. This didn’t sound right to him. Someone was lying, and on balance, he was pretty sure it was the people he hadn’t met before. Elrond rarely lied about anything, and certainly never about something as important as this. His twin was regarding both newcomers suspiciously.

“Elrond said home is gone,” he said cautiously.

The two elves exchange a glance. Elros realized to his surprise that they were having the kind of silent conversation he often had with Elrond.

“Elrond is unfortunately correct, Elros,” the shorter elf said sadly. “We did not wish to shock you with such upsetting news.”

“Is Nellas dead?” Elrond asked abruptly.

Elros blinked in shock. While he knew that elves could die – he and Elrond have grown up hearing whispers about the fall of Gondolin and Menegroth, and how many of their kin died at both- he can’t believe it. Not Nellas. Nellas- fierce, funny, warm-hearted Nellas who has always told them that she would keep them safe no matter what- can’t be dead.

Once again, the two unknown elves glance at each other.

“Yes,” the tall one said flatly. “So is Aunt Lalwen.”

Elros frowned, thinking hard. He didn’t like to think about Nellas and Aunt Lal being dead, so he didn’t. He focused on the newcomers instead.

These elves called Aunt Lal ‘aunt’ also. So maybe what they said about being cousins was true. He hadn’t known he had grown cousins. Actually, he hadn’t known they had any cousins but King Gil-galad, and he’s still not quite sure how Gil-galad is their cousin, much less King when nana is Queen. But maybe it’s right, because Aunt Galadriel was also Gil-galad’s aunt… so that made sense. At least, he hoped it made sense. He’s had to think about a lot of difficult and confusing things today, and he’s not as good at thinking as Elrond.

“Are you Aunt Galadriel’s sons?” he asked, trying to puzzle out the relationships.

For some reason both elves laughed at that. The tall one looked surprised at his own laughter even while he laughed.

“Oh, if Artanis could have heard that,” the tall one murmured.

“No, Galadriel is also our cousin,” the shorter one said. “I am Makalaurë and this is Maitimo.”

“Maedhros,” the tall one corrected immediately, looking as if the word was an insult instead of a name.

Elros blinked.

From the whispers they had overheard the last few weeks, he had gotten the idea that Maedhros was some sort of monster. But this elf doesn’t look like a monster. True, he was missing a hand, but old Tarlancil had only one foot from where a wolf bit him so bad they couldn’t save the other one, and he was nice enough. He taught them games he said the elflings had played in Menegroth.

“How can you be our cousin and Aunt Galadriel’s?” Elros asked skeptically.

“I suppose the family tree is a bit complicated,” Maedhros snorted, “but rest assured it is true.”

“Where is nana?” Elrond said suddenly, still sounding very unlike himself.

Elros looked nervously to their new cousins for the answer. He had gotten a horrible cold, painful feeling earlier in the day, while Elrond was sleeping. He had clung to his brother until it passed, but when it did, they had both felt a little sick, and unlike what usually happened when they felt sick, he had felt no concerned touch from their naneth. It had also occurred to him to wonder where nana was if home was gone…

“She is gone, little one,” Makalaurë said quietly, sounding very old in the way the elves who could remember Menegroth and Gondolin used to sound sometimes.

“Gone like Nellas?” Elrond asked shrilly, sounding so panicked that Elros pulled him into a tight hug without even thinking, and glaring fiercely at their cousins for upsetting him.

“No, Elrond, not like Nellas,” Makalaurë said immediately, looking as if he would have liked to reach out to hug him as well but wasn’t sure if Elrond would let him.

“But gone, and she may not return for a long time,” Maedhros broke in.

“Gone like adar, you mean,” Elros muttered.

He had only vague memories of his father, a tall man with golden hair. Elros thought his father used to tell them stories, and he was pretty sure they went walking on the beach together once. He’s not sure how long adar has been gone, only that nana’s answer to when he will come back is always ‘soon, I hope.’ He privately agreed with the adults he’s overheard who think it scandalous for Earendil to leave his young sons and wife as he had.

“I suppose so,” Maedhros said, sounding uncertain.

Maybe he doesn’t remember when Eärendil left either, Elros thought.

“In any case, you cannot stay here,” Maedhros continued. “I see someone has packed some things for you. We must get back to your mother’s house and pack a bit more, and things for Glinwen also.”

“Glinwen is coming with us?” Elros asked excitedly. She was his favorite babysitter, much more fun than Aunt Lal or Nellas, who made them do boring lessons. She knew many good games.

“Glinwen is waiting outside,” Makalaurë said bracingly “She is the one who thought this was where you might be. And she’s been very worried about you, too.”

He moved to draw the two elflings to their feet, but Elrond pulled Elros back out of reach.

“Nellas said we weren’t to leave the cave unless it was her, or Aunt Lalwen, or naneth, or Aunt Galadriel or Uncle Celeborn telling us to come out,” Elrond snapped accusingly.

Elros was shocked to hear his normally well-behaved, obedient twin talking to a grownup like that.

El, they’re grown elves, he pointed out quietly. And our kin. That means they’re in charge.

We’re princes of the Sindar and the Noldo, Elrond retorted heatedly. They’re not allowed to tell us what to do. We’ve never even met them before today. Nellas and Aunt Lalwen both said stay! And nana told us to listen to Aunt Lalwen!

“I don’t think Nellas was expecting that neither she nor Aunt Lalwen would be able to come back for you today,” Maedhros said slowly.

To Elros’ surprise, he did not comment on Elrond’s rudeness at all, even though Elros did not think that Maedhros was the sort of elf who normally tolerated anyone being rude to him, least of all elflings.

“And while it is wise of you to obey what you were told to do by your elders, I should not like to explain to your Aunt Galadriel why you were left alone in a cave until she could get here, which may not be for some days.”

“If you have never seen it, you should know that Galadriel can get very angry when people do dangerous things,” Makalaurë added. “And you two staying alone in a cave at your age would certainly be dangerous.”

Elros could see Elrond chewing on his lip. He’d been doing that a lot today before all the crying.

I’d rather whoever took home away be in trouble than you, El, he thought to his brother. Remember how cross Aunt Galadriel was about the boat, and that wasn’t nearly as dangerous as staying here by ourselves would be. There could be wolves. Or orcs.

Elrond’s shoulders sagged. Elros could feel his confusion and bewilderment. They had no good choice. On the one hand, it truly wasn’t safe to stay by themselves – they were only six – and there were adults here telling them to come. On the other hand – disobeying their mother and great aunt and going with elves they had never seen before who could be lying about being kin. Either choice was trouble.

But Elros couldn’t help feeling that even if they weren’t kin, Maedhros was right that Aunt Lalwen hadn’t been expecting to leave them alone. She certainly hadn’t expected Nellas to die, or to die herself. And if these two meant them harm, they could have just killed them and been done with it – or left them here for orcs or wolves or cold or hunger instead of trying to find them.

“You promise we won’t be in trouble with Aunt Galadriel if we come with you?” Elros asked, trying to make things easier on his twin.

“Elros, if anyone is in trouble, it will certainly be us, not you two,” Maedhros said, looking like he might laugh again.

Elrond nodded at last and moved to pick up the pack Nellas had carried, but Makalaurë got it first. Maedhros brought Lalwen’s pack.

Then, to Elros’ intense embarrassment, Maedhros picked him up as well.

“We’re not babies!” he said indignantly. “We can walk!”

It was one thing from Nellas and Lalwen, but another altogether from cousins they’d only just met! Even if it did mean he was suddenly much taller than usual – and under any other circumstances, with a cousin he had met before, he might well have pestered for such a treat.

“I don’t doubt it,” Maedhros replied, not putting him down. “But I wish us to get back to your mother’s house as quickly as possible. It is dark, the weather is turning, and the tide is coming in. I want you someplace safer than a sea cave.”

Elros noted that Elrond was not protesting being carried. His defiance had evaporated. If anything, he seemed somewhat relieved, snuggling into Makalaurë.

I don’t feel good, El. And I don’t want to climb those stairs in the dark, Elrond explained. It was scary enough going down them in the daytime.

Elros sighed, but gave up. He knew he would not win with two cousins and a brother all in agreement.

Makalaurë was relieved when Elrond allowed himself to be picked up. He could feel the tension and strain on the little boy, who had clearly realized for some time now that things had gone very badly wrong in his small world. He hummed softly, snatches of lullabies he’d once sung to a different set of twins, hoping to soothe the little one.

When he and his brother emerged from the cave, each carrying an elfling, Glinwen looked as if this was the only good thing to happen to her today.

“I can carry one of them, my lords,” she offered stoutly.

Maedhros brushed off her suggestion, sounding just for a moment like the gentle older brother he had been in Tirion rather than the scarred and hardened elf he had become here in Endórë. Despite that, Makalaurë knew he had already been impatient to be away, and that was before it had taken so long to reassure both twins that it was all right for them to disobey Lalwen.

It was entirely possible they would need to carry Glinwen up that narrow staircase, he realized as he watched the girl’s faltering steps. The twins may have lost their mother – not to death, but somehow Makalaurë cannot believe that the Valar will allow either the Silmaril or its bearer to return to the Hither Shores – but Glinwen has lost more.

To make matters worse, the wind was whipping up fiercely as a storm rolled in from the bay. It was not raining – not yet, at any rate – but the spray from the furious waves was enough to soak them before they had covered even half the length of the beach. The incoming tide meant they would have to hurry to make it to the stairs before the narrowest section, right at the base of the cliff, was underwater. Ulmo was signaling his wrath at their actions – as if intervening to spare Elwing had not been sign enough.

The two grown elves managed to steer the girl between them until they reached the stairs, keeping her on her feet despite the occasional stumble. She was in a far worse state than she was willing to let on.

Makalaurë was relieved to see that someone had had the sense to move Nellas so Glinwen did not have to pass the corpse a second time, and the boys would not see it at all. He did not want to contemplate how little Elrond had known his caretaker was dead.

“Glinwen,” Makalaurë said when they reached the stairs. “Are you able to make the climb to the ledge?”

“I think so,” the girl said, sounding as if she meant the exact opposite but was frightened of what might happen if she admitted it.

He supposed from her perspective, it might make sense that she would be superfluous now that they had retrieved their young kinsmen. Said young kinsmen, fortunately, were oblivious to her fears- one was now asleep, and the other gave every appearance of greatly enjoying his much higher than usual vantage point.

“If you didn’t have the rucksack, I could ride on your back,” Elros piped up from his perch in the crook of Maedhros’ arm. “Then you could carry both of us. You’re big enough and strong enough.”

“That,” Maedhros said slowly, “is a very good idea, young Elros. But I think it would be best not to leave your things, especially not when this pack is Aunt Lalwen’s last gift to you.”

Elros beamed at the first words, but lost a bit of luster at the reminder that he would not see his aunt again- at least not unless the Valar relented and allowed innocents like him to make the journey to Aman. Makalaurë was certain Lalwen would be reborn. Any sin in following Nolofinwë across the ice must surely be mitigated by having kept Itarillë and her grandchildren safe, even at the expense of her own life. Or so he would like to think…

Makalaurë would have gladly carried more, but Elrond was already sleeping, and he could not see how they could maneuver the second pack onto his back without shifting the child, waking him. He had a feeling that waking him would not improve the situation.

“Elros will ride pickaback, and you can strap the pack on over him,” Glinwen said to Maedhros. “It will be safer, even. If you use the hip straps, you will bear the weight, but with the shoulder straps and pack itself to keep him in place, he cannot fall.”

She glanced apprehensively at the stairs, a challenge enough for children even when dry. The first raindrops were already falling, and all too soon, it would be pouring down.

It was a relief to hear both children offering helpful suggestions. They would not do so if they had not decided to trust them- or at least to trust that they are better than being left alone on the shore with a storm blowing in. Makalaurë was not certain which it was right now.

It took some time to arrange children and pack so that Maedhros could manage, but they did manage to begin the climb before the churning surf was hitting the first stairs. The ascent was harrowing, and Makalaurë found himself praying as he had not in many years.

Ulmo, truest friend of the Eldar, no matter how unworthy of your aid we are, surely you would not punish children for our sins? The little ones have suffered enough this day. Let us see them safe at least!

When they finally reached the ledge after what felt like forever, Makalaurë helped Maedhros undo the pack from his back. Glinwen was set gently down, and retreated, shaking with cold and possibly fear of the gale now howling around them, plastering herself as firmly to the face of the cliff as she could manage.

Makalaurë handed the still sleeping Elrond, who was now soaked, to Maedhros. Elros had been kept somewhat drier by the shelter of the pack over top of him.

His brother balanced both children in his arms while Makalaurë scrambled up the rough ladder. He was relieved to find that Lalwen had also been moved, so the children will not be distressed by the sight, and some thoughtful elf has poured sand around on the floor. Hopefully the young ones will not realize that it is there to cover the blood.

Then again, perhaps he worried too much. Elrond was asleep, Elros was finally nodding off despite the excitement, and poor Glinwen had already seen it.

“At last. We were worried the tide would cut you off!”

Pelendur was waiting for them, and Makalaurë could kiss him when he saw that his brother’s captain had blankets and hot drinks at the ready, as well as ropes to assist his brother if necessary.

Maedhros passed up first one twin, then the other, before lifting the girl up for Pelendur to haul into safety. If the girl remembered him from earlier, she was too exhausted by her ordeal to protest. Only when the children were safe did Maedhros pass the rucksacks in and with some assistance, clamber up himself.

“The storm may bring the elves of Balar here faster than expected,” Pelendur told them quietly. “The winds are in their favor.”

That was no surprise.

Pelendur led them without being asked to the children’s room. There, they found elves briskly dismantling the boys’ furniture, their remaining clothing and toys already packed into trunks which were being closed and made ready to carry outside.

Two of his own men peeled off at once to bring warm towels and help Makalaurë change the sleeping children into dry nightclothes. A nis who had been one of Amras’ followers half led, half-carried Glinwen off to find dry clothing of her own and pack whatever she wished to take with her.
Makalaurë raised an eyebrow.

“Pelendur, how do you expect us to carry all this?” he asked.

They may have horses enough – spare, even, since they have surely lost more than just Amras in today – but horses alone cannot carry such heavy trunks.

“We secured a few wagons before the flames really took the town,” the captain replied stolidly. “Elwing’s house is far enough from the rest that it would likely have been safe even without this storm soaking everything down. The trunks will go on one wagon, and the other can have tarps fixed over it so the young ones can ride dry until the weather clears.”

Makalaurë decided it was best not to question that everyone involved seemed to take for granted that all three children would be returning to Amon Ereb with them.

“And if Gil-galad follows us in the morning?” he enquired.

There was no road directly from Sirion to Amon Ereb. It was several days’ journey at least by horse to the nearest road running to their fortress, and that lay well northeast, beneath the Andram, connecting their stronghold with what had once been Nargothrond.

“On foot?” Maedhros snorted. “Even if he’s risked bringing horses- and I doubt he will have wanted to waste the time loading them would take- they won’t recover from being aship in a storm fast enough to ride in hot pursuit.”

Makalaurë nodded. His older brother has always had the best mind for logistics. Only Curvo had been his equal at strategy – and their younger brother had all too often failed to accurately account for people. If Maedhros did not think it likely, that was good enough.

“When do we set out?” he asked.

“Morning will be soon enough,” Maedhros replied. “The storm may help the ships from Balar, but they were still not in sight mid-afternoon, and if they spot the evacuees, they will doubtless put in to help them first. They must realize that they are too late for the town by now. We’ll post lookouts. Elwing’s house is an excellent vantage point.”

Probably the entire reason it had been sited atop a cliff. Surely the designers had not had suicide in mind.

“The wagon with the trunks can set off as soon as we finish loading, and by a different route,” Pelendur suggested.
“Rendezvous later, when you’re certain you’ve shaken off any pursuit.”

Maedhros nodded, and Pelendur marched off to see to it.

Then his brother clapped him on the back.

“There are other rooms still intact, and the little ones may as well sleep in a bed while they can.”

That was true enough. It might take several weeks to reach home, and while the young ones could bed down in the wagon, it will not be the same.

Makalaurë chose to settle the twins in what they believe to be Elwing’s room, where he hoped the familiar scent may soothe them into untroubled dreams. He was thankful they did not stir as he tucked them in.

He made himself a bed on the floor. It was no worse than many places he has slept, and if either boy woke with night terrors, he would be close at hand.

He did not sleep immediately. Instead, he watched, somewhat amazed, at the elflings that fate has entrusted to his care. He usually did not let himself think on his wife, but tonight, he could not help wondering what Lindelotë would say if he could tell her that their cherished dream had been fulfilled after a fashion.

Perhaps one of them will like music…

The sky was not yet fully light when Maedhros shook him awake.

“We’ve sighted ships flying Cirdan’s banner on the horizon,” he told him quietly. “Bring the boys at once.”

Both twins were still sleeping deeply enough not to stir when Makalaurë carried them down to the wagon waiting in the courtyard, which Pelendur had made quite comfortable with mattresses from beds that would no longer be slept in, and piled with enough blankets and pillows that the children will be in no danger of chill.

A third of their force has been sent with the baggage, in case of orcs or other forms of trouble. The remaining soldiers are milling about, ready to set out as soon as the children are safely settled. Makalaurë noticed that quite a few of them stared, as if children were a sight more exotic than anything they have seen in the wilds of Beleriand.

Guided by the same nis that had seen to her last night, Glinwen walked to the wagon under her own power, but still dazed enough that he suspected she was not properly seeing anything. She appeared to sink straight back to sleep as soon as she lay down.

He tucked heavy blankets carefully around all three children, making them as comfortable as possible. The storm may have blown itself out, but the day will be all the colder for it. The twins did not stir, even when after a moment’s thought, he placed them separately. The younger one was not a quiet sleeper, and little Elrond still looked exhausted. He needed uninterrupted sleep.

He was thankful that they depart while the children sleep. This way, they would not see the ruin of the Havens, or look back longingly at Elwing’s house.

Galadriel had known fury at the sons of Feänor before. This time, though, she felt no fury, only a hollow emptiness. She was so very tired of viewing their handiwork.

It is the third Kinslaying, and the most grievous, for the folk of Sirion were little better than refugees, survivors of previously fallen elven strongholds. They had scarce had time to rebuild before all had been destroyed again.

Unlike the last two Kinslayings, she had not been at Sirion to take up arms in its defense. It was perhaps for the best, for she and Maedhros had mutually promised each other no quarter if ever they should cross swords again. While she knew herself able enough with a blade, her eldest cousin had her advantage in both height and mass. And he has certainly proved more adept at killing...

The corpses by the gate have been left where they fell, and are not the better for having lain out in the storm that turned most roads in the town to mud. But further in, and closer to Elwing’s house – they do not usually call it a palace, though it is the grandest building outside of Balar – there has been an effort to treat the dead with some honor.

The fires they had seen lighting the horizon last night do not appear to have been deliberate, but accidental- or perhaps the mass pyre got out of hand. In any case, the buildings closest to Elwing’s house had been torn down to create a firebreak, so it at least remained unburnt.

In the courtyard, there were two individual pyres, but the storm had snuffed their flames too soon. She could still recognize the faces of her aunt and her cousin. Amras looked as though death came as a welcome surprise, but Lalwen’s expression suggested she was not pleased.

It is the most unhappy she can ever remember seeing her lovely, laughing aunt since the Helcaraxë.

Surely you did not kill her yourselves, she silently addressed her cousins, living and dead. It was as well that Maedhros and Maglor had already retreated. In that moment, she felt quite capable of drawing her own sword, and to the everlasting Darkness with consequences.

Lalwen had followed Nolofinwë to Ennor, and her son had followed her. All three are dead now, her uncle in his foolish duel, her cousin defending Idril’s escape from Gondolin, and now her aunt defending Idril’s law-daughter and grandchildren.

There are times when Galadriel wonders if it is her fate to be the last of the Noldor in Middle Earth, standing alone on the western shore weeping for all she has lost.

The brief flame of her anger flickered before blowing out, leaving only bone-deep weariness in its wake.

Celeborn had disregarded all else in his haste to reach Elwing’s house, to see what had become of his grandniece and her sons. By the time she entered, he was coming back to meet her, looking haggard.

“There is no sign of them,” he said worriedly. “Though it is clear that many fell within.”

Gil-galad’s boots sounded unnaturally loud, crunching over the broken glass of the brightly colored picture windows the children had been so charmed by when he sent them as a gift for their last begetting day.

“Aunt Galadriel,” he greeted her, his subdued tone matching the bleakness in his eyes.

He has long since foregone calling her ‘great-aunt’. Orodreth’s son has so little kin left to him that he is happy to have the relationship sound less distant.

She can hear the question in his voice.

She shook her head.

“What of Elwing’s secret door?” she asked.

It had been Idril’s idea, one she had shared with Elwing when the young queen felt ready to govern in her own name. The princess of Gondolin knew well the value of a concealed escape route, and had felt strongly that not only her own house, but also the compound built expressly for the queen should have one.

The three of them proceed silently to the corridor described in the sealed letter Elwing had sent, written in the dialect of the Iathrim and coded so that only one who knew both that tongue and the royal family of Menegroth well– in practice, really only Celeborn or Oropher - could decipher its full meaning.

To their dismay, they found the corridor sanded to cover a bloody floor. Someone had died here, or several someones, judging by the quantity of drying sand. The secret door was secret no longer, and had been smashed to bits. Pulleys remained where they had been discarded in the corridor, but whether they had been used to lower things or raise things was impossible to say. Bloodstains and scraps of torn cloth on the lip suggest that corpses may have gone this way, but the storm the previous evening had scoured away any signs they might have gleaned from the beach below.

“The children’s rooms?” Gil-Galad suggested, desperation in his tone.

Galadriel was certain well before they reached the bedroom and sitting room the twins shared that they will find no boys there.

“They are not here,” she warned Celeborn softly before he pushed the door open.

The rooms have been stripped. Much of the furniture is gone, and all the children’s possessions, as if someone had hoped to conceal that there had ever been children there in the first place.

“What could they have hoped to achieve wasting time on this?” Gil-galad murmured. “Maedhros and Maglor knew Elwing and Eärendil had twin sons. What purpose would it serve to erase their presence?”

“Perhaps the plan was to send the children away to safety, but in the end they had not time enough,” Celeborn suggested.

“Then why would Queen Elwing not have said so in her letter?” Gil-galad demanded. “Surely she could trust us with that information if she meant to eventually trust us with the children!”

“You overlook another possibility,” Galadriel said, gazing out the eastern window, stretching her senses. Yes, there. She found two familiar minds - and with them, two much younger, less familiar but still known to her.

Her husband and her royal grandnephew both turn to her.

“They are with Maedhros and Maglor,” she told them.

The maelstrom of rage that hit her through her bond with Celeborn startled her before he ruthlessly clamped down on it, controlling his feelings and protecting her from taking the brunt of his anger. It should not surprise her so, for the boys are his kin as well as hers – and if their mother is dead, Elros is now his king.

The fury on Gil-galad’s face was no less chilling for all that she did not experience it as intensely.

“What good do they think taking six year olds hostage will do them?” he snapped. “It is not even certain that Eärendil still lives, and if they have killed Elwing…”

“Had they killed Elwing, surely she would have merited a pyre,” Galadriel pointed out.

“Are you so certain of that?” Celeborn asked quietly.

“Yes,” she replied sharply.

The cousins that had fallen at Menegroth might not have respected the Sindar, but whatever Maedhros and Maglor had done before the host of Fingolfin arrived, they have treated the Sindar with all due courtesy since Maedhros passed the crown to her uncle.

“They have fallen far, but not so far as that, husband,” she said, quieter but still with a reproof in her tone.

“What can we do?” Gil-galad asked plaintively, before belatedly remembering that he was king and should not sound so at a loss. “We have little hope of catching up with them.”

They have only two ships in the harbor – the majority of their fleet had stopped further west to take on board the folk of Sirion they had spotted fleeing at sunset the previous evening. The pitiful convoy would scarce have been able to defend itself from wild animals, let alone orcs if any were about.

“Even if we could catch them, how would we rescue the boys?” Celeborn replied. “We are too few to prevail in a fight, and they have but to kill the children if it looks like we stand any chance of success.”

“They will not kill children,” Galadriel exclaimed in exasperation. “It is possible they have what they have so long desired, the Silmaril, in which case, they have no reason to harm the twins.”

“Perhaps the Silmaril evaded them and they took the children in the hopes of striking a bargain – exchanging the boys for the stone,” Celeborn pointed out.

She was not sure if he was suggesting his fear or his hope when he spoke of Fëanor’s jewel.

“Or they were simply unwilling to abandon elflings so young to fend for themselves, not knowing how long it might be before help would arrive,” Galadriel shot back.

They have long disagreed about her eldest cousins – indeed, about the majority of her kin, though she had come to agree with him wholeheartedly about Celegorm and Curufin after hearing the full tale of their doings in Nargothrond and Finrod’s death. Seeing their corpses had not mellowed her towards them.

But she found it difficult to believe that Maitimo, who had always had a kind word and a patient ear for his younger cousins, who had been the favorite of all the little ones in turn, who she and Irissë had all but worshipped, could be cruel to children.

“Enough!”

It is as well Cirdan had accompanied what began as a rescue mission. He was perhaps the only elf left in Middle Earth that the other three in the room would all obey.

“You gain nothing by quarreling amongst yourselves,” Cirdan continued, eying them all sternly. “And you waste time.”

Galadriel bowed her head, accepting the rebuke. It was foolish. She and Celeborn should be able to control themselves better, particularly in front of her young kinsman, who they are meant to guide and advise. Gil-Galad is scarce more than a youth, and not only burdened with the crown, but now with cleaning up after the Fëanorion cousins he has never met.

“Are there any survivors left in the town?” she asked.

Cirdan shook his head.

“Any who surrendered were disarmed and sent across the river. We already found them, and they are being taken aboard as we speak. They report that any who ignored the offer to lay down arms were warned to expect no further quarter.”

Celeborn’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“No survivors have been found in Elwing’s house,” Gil-galad said. “Any who died here were moved to the pyres by the Feänorions. My men are gathering the dead that were left in the town.”

He paused.

“I know you will not wish to hear it, but at least one person was killed in the throne room.”

“Enough,” Galadriel said. “Who was killed where no longer matters. The dead are in Mandos, we can do no more for them.”

“And the living?” Celeborn asked pointedly.

“If you wish to run after Maglor and Maedhros and ask them nicely to return the boys, by all means, husband,” she replied drily. “I had in mind seeing what if anything can be saved from Elwing’s house and those buildings not ruined by fire that would be of use to those who must now build new lives for themselves on Balar.”

His anger was still smoldering, but she could tell from the slight lessening of tension in his shoulders that Celeborn had reluctantly accepted that the boys were not the priority at the moment.

Maglor and Maedhros had at least half a day’s lead in their favor if not more, and their force was mounted. If they meant to kill the children, they would have done so at once, during the sack of Sirion. They did not.

If the two have any sense left to them at all, the twins will be well looked after and carefully guarded. The Sindar have neither forgiven nor forgotten the fate of Eluréd and Elurín. If their nephews perish in the care of Fëanor’s last remaining sons, there will be nowhere in Middle Earth safe for them.

“We cannot leave them in the care of Kinslayers!” Gil-galad protested.

“No, but we need not chase them today,” she pointed out. “We know they return to Amon Ereb. We have time to plan how to approach them.”

Cirdan nodded.

“There is no advantage in provoking a confrontation while they are in retreat. Even should we overtake them, our force is not large enough if it came to open conflict. And if we wish to retrieve the boys safely, open conflict would be a great risk.”

Gil-gilad gritted his teeth.

“Very well. Salvage what we can from Sirion. When we have finished, I will send a messenger under flag of truce to Amon Ereb.”

“I will go,” Galadriel said.

“Aunt!”

She could see Gil-galad debating how best to phrase his protest, and considering whether he might make it a command. She is his elder kinswoman, but he is her king, and he does not wish her anywhere near her deadly cousins.

She preempted him.

“Who else can be trusted with such an errand?” she asked simply.

Then she left to salvage what she could from the wreckage.

Celeborn was still angry, hours later. Not with his wife – he had long since accepted that in giving Galadriel his heart, he bound his fate up with the Golodhrim exiles, for good or ill. This was not her doing, and she knows he does not believe it to be.

No, he was angry with her wretched cousins, the Kinslayers. Why must it always be his kin they slay?

The first Kinslaying he had been blissfully ignorant of. The Lindar of Alqualondë were kin to the Sindar of Doriath, but so long sundered that the Sindar had known of the deeds of the sons of Fëanor the Accursed only when their cousins the sons of Finarfin confessed. Even his beloved Galadriel had breathed no word of the blood on the quays – a crime of omission he had understood only much later, long after he had forgiven her silence.

If the Valar would condemn her for standing against her cousins in defense of those who had done them no wrong, Celeborn wanted none of them. He cannot say he would not have done the same in her place. Who were they to judge what she had done at the harbor of the Lindar when it was their blessed ways that had loosed the Enemy on the world?

But the second Kinslaying, the one that had destroyed his home, that one he had seen with his own eyes. It was not only Galadriel who had taken up arms to defend his people – was he not a prince of the Sindar? – but his queen had charged him with defending something far more important. He had been tasked with spiriting little Princess Elwing safely away from the carnage.

I trust no other to do this, Uncle!

Had he but known he carried not only the last of Thingol’s bloodline, but the Silmaril as well, how differently might things have ended? He would have happily given the sons of Fëanor what they desired – he would have shoved their precious jewel right down Celegorm’s treacherous throat and bid his brothers cut it out.

Now he has failed again, and his failure can once more be counted in the corpses of his people. The sons of Fëanor have struck again. A third Kinslaying, as though two had not been monstrous enough. This one will echo in horror through the annals of the Eldar, though – they have killed those who had escaped them last time, those who had escaped the Enemy when he overthrew Gondolin and Nargothrond. None of those who have arrived too late to aid the Havens have words for the enormity of the crime.

If the what the Exiles say is true, the dead will be returned to life on the other side of the sea, but what good is that to those who remain in Ennor, barred by the whim of the Valar from joining their kin save in death?

Little Elwing numbered among the dead this time, and whether the Kinslayers have the jewel or not is no matter, for they have taken something far more precious – they have her sons Elrond and Elros, the last of the line of Luthien. The Exiles may account them only minor princes, but they are also princes of the Sindar, and with their mother’s death, Elros is the rightful king.

His king was captive, and he must sit here, packing what can be made useful from the ruins of Sirion, rather than riding out after the two surviving Kinslayers and their followers. He was almost grateful that Elwing was dead – at least she will not know that her trust, unlike her mother’s, had been so gravely misplaced.

He felt, rather than heard the sigh.

Galadriel did not wish their disagreement to be noted by the others, then.

You cannot still think riding after them would be of any use?

There is resigned patience in her tone. Truthfully, it would probably be as much a disaster as Galadriel and Cirdan say. And yet…

I know it does not become you to sit idle when those you care for are in danger, beloved, Galadriel whispered. But I truly believe they are safe with Maitimo, as safe as any can be in Beleriand.

Safe, perhaps. He may yet hope they are safe.

But what of happy? The children have never been exposed to violence. Not only had Elwing protected her sons to the best of her ability, Sirion had been a peaceful place until now, where the most upsetting sight young eyes might witness was the results of a hunt or an accident in the kitchens or forge. And they were only six. Even for the edain, six was a tender age.

You may not wish to hear it, but we all adored Maitimo. And Makalaurë’s voice could make nightingales sound like crows.

All meant all her kin. Maedhros was the eldest of her generation. But Celeborn was not sure Galadriel understood that the cousin she knew in childhood was destroyed in Angband. What Fingon brought back from Thangorodrim was an elf altered not only in body, but in soul. She might trust Maitimo with children, but Celeborn cannot trust Maedhros. He was too long in the Enemy’s power for that.

Not that he could say that to her.

She has never spoken of what passed between her and her cousins before they drove her, wounded and near collapse, from the ruins of Menegroth. If Celeborn’s own cousin hadn’t chanced to go back, there would have been one more sin to lay at the Fëanorions’ door. Oropher had found her unconscious in the snow, bleeding and nearly as cold as the dead, and carried her for miles until he found other Iathrim fleeing toward Sirion.

It is only now, when she has volunteered to go to retrieve the boys after a decent interval that he worried about it. Until today, he had always hoped that the remaining Kinslayers would die before his beloved could come face to face with them again. Now he dared not hope for that, for anything that kills them endangers Elros and Elrond as well.

Such cheerful thoughts, my love, Galadriel murmured in his head.

Then she was there in person, somewhat disheveled – it looked as though she had been digging through some of the buildings damaged by flames, judging by the layer of ash on her clothes.

“You worry so much,” she said softly.

He pulled her into his arms, kissing her forehead. How can he not worry? They hold his young kinsmen, his king, and all too soon, his heart in their keeping.

“I will come back to you, Celeborn Galadhonion,” she whispered, reassuring him with both voice and mind. “You will not be rid of me so easily.”

You are mine and I am yours and I will not let my cousins come between us.

“I will hold you to that, beloved,” he replied quietly.

He knew she meant it, but he cannot help the shadow of fear that fell over him whenever he thought of her near her murderous kin.

A heart could only stand so much loss. She would be the one that breaks him.

When Elrond woke, he was startled to see that the sun was shining and the day was beautiful. Somehow it felt wrong for it to be such a lovely day when Lalwen and Nellas were dead and naneth was gone. He was not sure why, but he did somehow believe Makalaurë’s assurance that in this case gone did not mean dead.

No, Nana was gone like atar, which meant it might be years before they saw her again, though Makalaurë had not explained why she had gone. He wondered what would become of him and his brother now.

A moment later, he noticed that the ground underneath him was moving.

Sitting up abruptly, he almost smacked into Glinwen, who was cradling a bowl of oatmeal in her lap and eating with the air of one who is not fully present.

“Good morning, Elrond” she said, but her smile lacked its usual warmth – it seemed somehow false, as though it was only pasted on her face to cover unhappiness. Her voice sounded hollow.

“Where is Elros?” he demanded urgently.

Glinwen looked startled by the question, and a second later, Elrond understood why when heard Elros-sized snores. Looking behind him, he found his twin wrapped snugly in several fluffy blankets, fast asleep.

He himself had been ensconced in a blanket nest of his own, he realized. In fact, it was only in sitting up that he realized how cozy it had been – he pulled several still warm blankets back around himself, as the air was chilly.

“Awake, little prince?” asked a friendly voice.

The strange elleth was speaking Quenya. He had heard it spoken by some of the Gondolindrim, and Aunt Lalwen had begun to teach him and his brother to say some of the words, but Sindarin was the tongue of Sirion. Elrond had already learned that most there did not care to hear the tongue of the Exiles.

“Yes, thank you,” Elrond replied carefully, hoping conversation would not be necessary. Though he understood a good deal more than he spoke, what he could say was only simple courtesies.

She called out to someone he could not see.

Looking forward, Elrond saw that he was riding in a partially covered wagon. It might have been fully covered earlier, as the land around them showed signs that it had been raining. But now that last night’s storm had blown itself out, the canvas had been raised so that the sides were open. He could see a river in the distance, and green fields. He had never been outside the Havens before, so could not guess where they were, much less where they were going beyond ‘northeast’.

There was an elleth he did not know driving, with another sitting armed at her side, ready to protect the driver should the wagon be attacked. Many elves, mostly male, but with a few ellith sprinkled here and there, were keeping pace with the wagon on horseback.
Clearly their cousins were not waiting for Uncle Celeborn and Aunt Galadriel. Elrond did not care to think on why that might be.

A few moments later, the smiling elleth was handing Elrond a bowl of oatmeal of his own. He was surprised to find that there was even a dollop of honey and a sprinkle of raisins in it, just as he liked it best. He wondered how they had known. Glinwen did not seem to be in a talking mood, so he doubted that she had told anyone.

“We hope you eat happy,” the elleth explained, her Sindarin pronounced so carefully that Elrond realized that she was no more comfortable with his cradle tongue than he was with hers – though she clearly knew more Sindarin than he did Quenya.

“Thank you,” Elrond stammered, fretting that he did not know enough words to properly return the gesture of using the other’s language. Such things were important. He knew that from mother and Aunt Galadriel. And it was probably even more important now.

He had not wanted to say so to Elros last night, but he knew that Maedhros and Makalaurë were two of the feared sons of Feänor. They were cursed. He’d heard Aunt Galadriel discussing them with Aunt Lalwen once.

He did not understand why the pair had been so kind to them last night, even if it was true that they were cousins – which he supposed might be right, for Aunt Galadriel said they were her kin, and Aunt Galadriel was also kin to their father. But being cousins did not necessarily mean that they were safe to be around. After all, the reason the sons of Feänor were cursed was because they were kinslayers.

So it was very important that he and his brother be well behaved. He had always felt perfectly secure with Aunt Galadriel and Uncle Celeborn, or Aunt Lalwen. Though they might be sent to their room, or otherwise punished for mischief, actual harm was out of the question. But who could say what kinslayers might do to badly behaved elflings?

At least, that was what Elrond thought at first. But he began to notice things that confused him.

For one thing, he could clearly see both Makalaurë and Maedhros at the head of the column. The elf who had brought the bowl of oatmeal to the elleth who spoke Sindarin had ridden faster to catch up to them, and as he spoke to them, Elrond saw that both brothers turned to look back at him. Maedhros’ expression was hard to read, but Makalaurë gave him an encouraging smile, which only grew when he began eating.

As he ate, Elrond paid more attention to his surroundings. He noticed that the mounted elves were shifting as they rode, switching positions so that they all got to have a turn riding closest to the wagon, catching a glimpse of Elrond, Elros, and Glinwen. While they were all armed, Elrond knew that no one travelled unarmed in Beleriand. There could be orcs – or worse – anywhere. He had heard more than enough of what could befall the unwary traveller. But the elves riding around them, armed though they were, seemed curious and even happy to see them.

Weren’t kinslayers grim, fearsome elves who would kill you as soon as look at you? Elrond didn’t see how elves who tucked you into blanket nests and brought you oatmeal with honey and raisins could be kinslayers. Kinslayers wouldn’t look so pleased to see elflings, would they?

Kinslayers killed elflings. Nana had been furious when she discovered Thranduil telling them what had happened to the elflings of Menegroth who had not escaped as Elwing had. (Elrond very much regretted having asked. Elros had dared him.) The twins had been marched off to bed by Tirniel and Glinwen while their naneth gave her older cousin a dressing down that Nellas later chuckled would have done Thingol proud.

Elrond tried to make sense of everything he was seeing, and found he could not. Maedhros and Makalaurë were kinslayers beyond a doubt. The elves that followed them must be also, for even together with their dead brothers, the two of them could not have destroyed mighty Menegroth themselves. It would have needed many more than six elves. Logic – and his tutor often praised him for being such a logical little boy – said that he was surrounded by elves of the most dangerous sort.

But if they were such fearsome killers, why had these elves taken such care to bring clothes and toys for him and Elros? He could see their packs from the previous day, and more besides, stacked neatly at the rear of the wagon. Even Glinwen seemed to have her own clothes and things brought for her, so it wasn’t just that he and Elros were being well treated as kinsmen or even as princes.
He chewed absently at his lip as he tried to readjust his worldview to accommodate cousins who were kinslayers but still took good care of elflings.

“Bad doing!” said another cheerful voice from just outside the wagon.

Elrond didn’t recognize the elf, but Glinwen seemed to, because she lunged at Elrond, pulling him close to her.
The elf looked startled, calling to one of the other elves nearby. He shook his head, and cautiously reached out to chuck Elrond’s chin gently, just below the lip.

“You will hurt,” he said, sounding unsettled by Glinwen’s reaction.

“Oh!” Elrond exclaimed, suddenly understanding what the elf had been trying to say at first. “You meant ‘bad habit’!”

The elf’s face brightened, and he nodded, grinning.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Bad hab-it. You stop!”

“That’s what my aunt tells me,” Elrond sighed, deciding after a slight hesitation that it was probably more polite not to tell an older elf he was saying a word wrong.

Glinwen burst into tears.

Now it was Elrond who was startled, and he looked from Glinwen to the grown elf in confusion, unsure why she was crying.
Elros chose that moment to wake up, and seeing Glinwen crying, flung himself at her in concern, hugging her tightly. When her tears only increased, Elros began to tear up as well.

Not knowing what else to do, Elrond hugged Glinwen also, asking her as nicely as he could not to cry, and assuring her everything was all right. He wasn’t completely certain that was true – he still was worried about his naneth, and troubled by the kinslayer issue – but he was feeling a bit more confident that they were safe, and they were being looked after and fed properly, so things couldn’t be too bad.

When Glinwen’s tears only increased, Elrond felt as if he might cry himself. If only nana was not gone, she would know what to do…
For a few moments there seemed to be far too many elves he did not know about, all of them talking, and all of it Quenya, far too much at once, until a shout restored order.

Elrond saw that his cousins had dropped back to find out what the commotion was. The other elves were speaking to them, too rapidly for Elrond to follow even had he recognized all the words, gesturing first at him, then at Glinwen, and finally at Elros.

Makalaurë maneuvered his horse close enough that he was able to lift Elrond from the wagon easily. Another elf passed one of the blankets Elrond had been wrapped in, so that Elrond found himself seated securely in front of his cousin and wrapped as warmly as if he’d still been in the wagon. Makalaurë put a reassuring arm about him as if he were well used to dealing with upset young elves.

Elros was passed to Maedhros and similarly wrapped, while the elleth who had brought Elrond's breakfast climbed into the wagon to try to soothe Glinwen, whose sobbing was subsiding into messy sniffles. Other elves on horseback were still milling about, looking as though they would have liked to help if they could only work out how.

At a command from Maedhros, they returned to something more like a normal riding order, and the entire group continued on their way. Elrond worried about his brother for only a moment, for it seemed that getting to ride on Maedhros’ spirited horse quickly cheered him, as did the unexpected novelty of being able to eat breakfast while riding.

Elrond found himself watching his brother wistfully, for he seemed to be having the time of his life.

“Are you well, young Elrond?” Makalaurë asked him after a few moments.

Elrond was a bit embarrassed, but couldn’t help confessing the truth in the face of his cousin’s clear concern.

“I do not think I like riding,” he admitted quietly.

The motion was unsettling. He would much have preferred the wagon, but Glinwen still looked very unhappy, so he was certain he would not be allowed back yet.

“You have not been on a horse before?” Makalaurë asked, sounding surprised. “But-“

He changed his mind and left whatever he had meant to say unspoken.

Elrond ducked his head, feeling still more embarrassed. Was this another thing that a young Noldo should have known, like reading?

Makalaurë said nothing more, but Elrond noticed that the horse slowed, and as its stride changed, the motion became more bearable.

“The stable master was trying to find us a pony to begin learning,” he explained, a touch defensively.

It wasn’t poor Rochendil’s fault that there was little call for an animal small enough for young elflings to ride – the next youngest elf in the Havens was Glinwen, and she ventured from the queen’s house no more often than the twins. The other ‘young’ elves had been nearly adult height.

“There is no shame in not knowing something you have had no opportunity to learn,” Makalaurë said gently. “I daresay we will also need to find a pony or two. I am sure we have none at Amon Ereb. And I think you may enjoy riding once you have been taught how.”

Elrond felt a bit better at that. He had never liked the feeling he sometimes got from Aunt Lalwen that he was disappointing her. And if there was no shame in not knowing things, surely there should also be no shame in asking questions…

“Will Glinwen be all right?” he asked, still concerned for his friend and confused at her reaction to a gesture kindly meant.

“I am sure she will. Glinwen is still upset at some of the things she saw yesterday,” Makalaurë told Elrond reassuringly. “And it seems she is frightened of Peneldur. The first time she saw him, he was in full armor, and he is so much bigger than she is that she might have been startled even if he could speak Sindarin.”

“He does speak some,” Elrond said truthfully. “He was trying to tell me to stop chewing my lip, like Aunt Lalwen always does. He just did not know the word ‘habit’ is all.”

“Ah,” Makalaurë said, as if this somehow explained everything. “Perhaps you could tell Glinwen that when she is feeling better. I think we will leave Nyellië to take care of her for a little while.”

“Nyellië is the elleth who brought our breakfast?” Elrond asked, hopeful that he might learn names. It was easier not to be scared of kind, smiling elves with names than nameless Kinslayers.

“Yes, she and her brothers followed my younger brothers when we came here,” Makalaurë explained. “She has long missed the little sister they left in Tirion. She will take good care of your friend. In the meantime, you will ride with me.”

So he did. As they rode, Makalaurë pointed out not only other elves riding with them, who all smiled as they were named, but also birds and trees, naming them in both Quenya and Sindarin so Elrond might begin to learn the tongue of his father’s people.

The light was stabbing her eyes. The brightness hurt.

Everything buzzed. She couldn’t make sense of the noise in her ears. She screwed her eyes tight shut against both the harshness of the light as well as the noise and the confusion. She would have covered her ears if her arms didn’t feel like they were so terribly heavy.

It took a moment before she remembered anything.

She was Elwing of the Sindar, and she had sacrificed herself to keep her sons safe. Was she being reborn? The Noldor had claimed that such a thing happened, but the Exiles had only ever seen the dying part of the process, not the returning, so they were as ignorant as their moriquendi kin about what to expect.

Some of the noise finally resolved itself into words, and the words began to make sense again. It would have helped, she thought, had they been speaking Sindarin.

“She’s waking at last. Someone fetch Earendil!”

Her husband was here? Had he done it? Found the West at last? Why had he sent no message to tell them?

She opened her eyes, cautiously this time. After the painful brightness, she had expected sun and sky. Instead, all she saw was wood. She was inside a building?

“Elwing!”

Her husband’s voice was ragged, and worried, and exhausted. She turned her head toward the sound, and found that his face matched.

She was certain he would have clutched her close and kissed her, but someone else held him back.

“Gently, man, she is only just conscious!”

“Release me!” Eärendil snapped, sounding furious – for once the proud prince of the Noldor rather than the kind man she’d married.

He shook himself free roughly, for once not caring if he inflicted harm, but the hands that touched her face were beyond gentle.

Beloved, he whispered in her mind.

It has been years since she heard his voice, much less felt his touch. Her fëa latched onto the contact as one drowning would clutch at a raft.

“Elwing,” he whispered, his face close to hers, hugging her as though she were made of glass that might shatter at a careless touch.

She is not the only one relieved to be whole again after so long.

She could not say how long they stayed like that, unspeakably happy just to be in each other’s presence.
It was only when she finally felt able to sit up – Eärendil’s hands supporting her as she did, as anxious as though she were one of the boys about to take their first steps – that she spoke again.

“Where are we, my love?” she asked, fretting as she did at how gravelly and strained her voice sounded.

“Aboard Vingilótë,” he replied, sounding as though he might cry.

She has never seen her beloved cry. Not when he had recounted for her the fall of Gondolin or the death of his adored kinsman and tutor Glorfindel. Not when he told her of the road from the Hidden Valley to the Sea, every bit as long and harsh as that the survivors of Menegroth had faced. Not even when he had stood forlornly on the quay watching the light of his parents’ ship shrink to nothing on the horizon as Idril tried the last desperate thing she could think of to save her husband, leaving their son with the knowledge that he might never see his father again if the Ban of the Valar held.

Her arms may still feel heavy and wrong, but they wrap around him of their own accord.

“You are not well, my love,” she whispered.

He laughed, though the tears finally fell.

“You do not remember, do you?” he asked thickly.

Since she cannot tell what it is she does not remember, she concluded her husband was likely correct.

“The last thing I recall is water,” she said quietly.

It was no pleasant memory.

Pain. Cold. Knowing that she might not see her boys again for many years. The miserable thought that she had neglected to say the most important words of all when she bade them farewell that morning. What sort of mother did not tell her children how very much she loved them at such a moment? She could not say whether they heard her or not when she called out beneath the waves.

“How did you come to be in the water, my lady?”

It was not her husband who asked, but Galdor. It must have been he who had restrained Eärendil – she can think of no other who would dare. But the Lord of House of the Tree has known Idril’s son since the day he was born, and would not hesitate to stand in the place of an elder kinsman at need.

Elwing shuddered just thinking of it. She was not sure now where she had found the courage to be so calm as she did it, except that it had been necessary.

“I jumped,” she whispered.

She was not sure if Galdor had asked anything more. With her husband’s arms around her, with him so near, all she could take in was his reaction, because he knew the Havens well enough to have guessed at her full meaning. He held her tighter, as if he could erase whatever wrong had occurred by the strength of his love.

“Why?” Eärendil asked raggedly. “What happened, Elwing?”

“It was the Kinslayers,” she replied quietly. “They came for the Silmaril.”

“What of our sons?” her husband asked, his voice quiet, his fëa gone cold with fear.

“I sent them with Nellas and Lalwen,” she assured him. “They were to hide. I stayed. Maedhros and Maglor would not chase children when all they could see was the Silmaril, and I made sure they would see nothing else. I finally did it – I wore the Nauglamir for the world to see.”

“Name them not!” he snapped. “They deserve no names – their mother should have called them all Umbarto!”

She could feel his fury at his distant kin, those misbegotten wretches who should have been protectors of his wife and sons, but had become their hunters instead.

“No matter how I name them, their doom will find them all the same,” she replied, certain as she spoke the words that they were true. “In any case, they had neither my sons nor my Silmaril, for all they shed my people’s blood again.”

She could not keep the bitterness from her voice, for she knew that too many of her loyal followers had not done as she bid and fled when the Fëanorion assault overwhelmed the town. She did not ask what became of the jewel. She knew it was no longer around her neck, but found it mattered not, so long as it had not fall to the Fëanorions. She was free of its shadow at last.

“No,” Eärendil agreed, an odd tone in his voice, “they certainly do not have your Silmaril. Let us hope the same is true of our sons.”

She blinked in surprise, for he spoke as one who knew it as fact.

“We were on the point of turning back to the Havens, for we had no more success this voyage than the last,” he said slowly. “My heart was heavy, for it had come to me that if we did not find the way West now, any help would come too late. I stood on the deck late at night, considering whether it was worse folly to press on than to turn back, when I saw what seemed at first to be a white cloud exceeding swift beneath the moon. Then I thought it was a shooting star, for it resembled more a pale flame on wings of storm. And then I realized at last that it was a great white bird, with a shining light on its breast – and I recognized the Silmaril.”

Elwing said nothing, but she did not entirely like the conclusion that her mind leapt to even as he spoke.

“The bird dropped onto the deck at my feet,” he continued, “and I saw that it was nigh unto death. Well could I understand that, for we are weeks from land, and such a flight would have been exhausting even had the bird not flown with such great urgency of speed.”

“I called for help, and we carried the poor thing to my cabin, expecting it at any time to expire despite what aid we were able to render. I sat by its side, feeling I should not be elsewhere until I knew its fate. At some point I must have dozed off, for when I woke, I found the bird was gone – but you were laid now in my bed, the Silmaril shining at your throat.”

“At which point,” Galdor broke in sardonically, “it is a wonder his yelling did not wake you.”

“I did not yell,” Eärendil grumbled. “I was merely surprised to find my wife where I had expected a dead seabird!”

Elwing could not help but smile.

“It was then,” Galdor explained, “that he took the Nauglamir from your neck.”

“You seemed to breathe easier without it,” Eärendil explained earnestly. “And it looked to me as if a great weight had been removed, rather than a simple jewel.”

He reached into his sea chest and drew it out.

“Here,” he said, making to pass it to her. “I know how important it is to you.”

She snorted. If asked to choose, she would have taken her sons rather than the Silmaril, but she rather doubted they would have been spared had she leapt with a twin under each arm.

“It is far more important to the Valar than to me,” she said, choking down an unholy urge to laugh.

She knew if she laughed, all would be lost.

The Noldor have always thought the Sindar impious. Her husband’s mainly Noldorin crew will not welcome her thoughts on Ulmo – for it can only have been the Lord of the Waters doing – saving her for the sake of a bloodsoaked bauble.

If she can but keep her composure, they may finally hold the whip hand.

Elwing closed his hands firmly around the necklace, and looked up into his bewildered eyes.

“The Silmaril is little to me, I care only that the sons of its maker do not hold it, for they deserve it not after their deeds,” she told him. “But will the Lords of the West dare refuse you admittance to their sacred lands when you bear this?”

Eärendil’s face, beloved and so well known to her that she can read it like a book, was torn.

“But the boys-” he protested faintly.

“You told me when first you undertook these voyages that our best hope for their safety lay in convincing the Lords of the West to intervene, to use their might to defeat their wayward kinsman,” she replied steadily. “I may once have been uncertain, but I believe it now. The situation has only grown more perilous, not less, while you have been at sea. If we turn back, it is true we may see our sons grow to adulthood – but what will become of them then?”

Her sons look much as she remembered her brothers, dark hair, and grey eyes – the eyes of Luthien and Thingol. Their father is very much their opposite, with his golden locks and eyes that reflect the sea. Yet it struck her now as she watched Eärendil that in manner at least, Elrond was very much his father’s son. They both chewed at their lip in the same way when worried. Lalwen had long since given up remonstrating with Eärendil, but she hoped she might yet break Elrond of the habit.

“But if we leave them behind…” Eärendil whispered, and it grieved her to hear the pain in his voice at the idea. In his fëa, she could feel that it had been one thing for him to leave them with her – for not only did he love her dearly, he trusted her above all others with that which was most precious to him – but he cannot bring himself to leave them to an unknown fate, perhaps in the hands of strangers.

“We already have left them,” she said softly. “We may not have intended it so, but it is done. Now we must see this through- for their sakes if for no other! Lalwen and Nellas will let them come to no harm. Nor will your kinsman Gil-galad. And I am sure Celeborn and Galadriel will raise them well.”

In truth, she hurt no less than he did at the idea of leaving her babies to the care of any other. Not while she still lived. But she was as certain that the Valar will not turn away a ship bearing Fëanor’s jewel as she was that the sun rose in the east, or that the Enemy could not be defeated by the power of the Elves alone.

She has already proven that there is nothing, not even her own life, that she valued above her sons’ safety. If leaving them with what remained of their kin on the shores of Ennor for several years was what it took to ensure that safety, that was what she would do.

She could only hope that they would someday understand.

It was astounding, Maedhros thought, what a difference a handful of days could make.

Elvish memory was not so fragile as that of the Aftercomers – it was as enduring as the Eldar themselves. So he had not forgotten what it was like to have little ones looking to him. He had just chosen, for many years now, not to think on it.

That was no longer an option.

Since that first morning, when the slip of a girl who had been Elwing’s handmaiden had been so upset, he had a pint-sized shadow as often and as long as he would allow it. While Elrond had been happy enough to ride quietly with Makalaurë, his twin was a cat of a different color.

They might be identical in appearance, but definitely not in temperament.

Maedhros had watched six younger brothers, not to mention half again as many younger cousins grow up, and seen a few of their children as well. He had long since learned to spot the difference between calm children and rambunctious ones. Elros was definitely one of the latter.

Fortunately, Maedhros had both height and age in his favor, not that either one had awed the child for long. Even the missing hand that repulsed most Eldar, young and old alike, was to the boy a subject of covert fascination. Maedhros had already resigned himself to the fact that the child would ask at some point how it happened.

He was already prepared. He might be a marred shell of what he had been in the days of his youth, but he hadn’t lost all sense. The little one would hear just enough to satisfy his curiosity and no more. The day might come when Elwing’s sons were ready to hear the full tale, but that would be years yet.

He is not sure he will ever be ready to see the look in Elros’ eyes when he learned how little his older cousin deserved his regard. The child’s borderline hero worship was not something he had seen since before the Darkening.

Indeed, Makalaurë had pointed out with a suppressed laugh the first evening that none since Findekano have been quite so set on following Maedhros around. He had shushed his sole surviving brother before the peredhil twins heard. Because it was plain enough to him why the children have each latched onto the Fëanorion most like themselves.

The twins had been woefully short on kin and sorely lacking in male elders to look to in Sirion. A few quiet words with Glinwen had confirmed his guess on that score. There had been fewer neri in the settlement from the outset. With their father and his trusted retainers at sea, the boys were left in their mother’s care, and Lalwen’s. Over the past year, even their mother’s attention had been taken from them more often than it should have been.

Of course, it was not just that they were the twins’ elder kinsmen - he and Makalaurë were now the only kin present to care for the children. Maedhros was rather troubled by this. The children were far too young to be deprived of both parents. That they were twins probably helped, but he and Makalaurë were not close kin – the twins’ father was Turukano’s grandson. He and his brother did not have the sort of bond to the young ones that older siblings or even first cousins would. He had been keeping a vigilant eye on them, terrified he would see signs that their fëar had been damaged, or still worse, that they were fading.

So far, to his relief, they seemed to be holding up better than he would have dared hope. Whether it was the blood of men, or simply that there had been kin, in whatever degree, with them almost immediately, he did not know or care.

It was enough that they were in good health, for no matter his worries, he was unable to change how things were. Elwing and Eärendil were both gone, and while Maedhros might tell others he hoped to exchange the children for the silmaril, privately he did not expect to see either Elwing or his father’s jewel again.

In truth, he was not all that sure anyone believed him when he spoke of trading the children for the jewel. His brother certainly didn’t, but he’d hoped perhaps that was just Makalaurë. His brother had known him since his begetting, and for all they had often teased him about having his head in the clouds listening for the Music, Nerdanel’s second son missed little.

But it was more than just his brother. He had discovered that the longer the children had to settle in among their followers, the less seriously anyone took his statements about exchanging them as hostages for the silmaril. He suspected he’d have a mutiny on his hands if he tried to send them away. There were far too many neri and nissi vying for the children’s attention for any of them to be pleased at the thought of giving them up – even to their parents in the unlikely event that either of them returned.

Just last evening, he had overheard one ner quietly soothe another that Lord Maedhros was only talking such nonsense so everyone wouldn’t realize he was just a big softie.

“It’d be one thing if their mother or father came to claim them, but how likely is that?” the first ner had said to the other. “Lady Elwing jumped off cliffs high enough to kill our lord himself, and she wasn’t built anywhere near as strong. No one’s seen hide nor hair of Itarillë’s son in years. Like as not he met the same fate as every other fool who tried to return despite the Ban, for all he was born in Beleriand.”

“Then why say it at all?” the more upset of the pair had demanded. “If he has no intention of doing it?”

“Doesn’t want the world to realize he’s not nearly as fearsome as they think,” had been the knowing conclusion. “Bad for his image.”

Maedhros had snorted quietly to himself, but not revealed that he had overheard. If caring for one’s young kin was being soft, so be it. He would look after his own – what little was left of them.

He has already been thinking on what must be done to make Amon Ereb safe for children. Carnistir’s fortress had not been designed with young ones in mind, and so far as he can recall, there had never been any within its walls.

It has been many years – since Tyelpe was small, in fact – since the House of Fëanor last needed to worry about sharp corners, slippery floors, or bladed weapons kept low enough for little ones to reach. Maedhros was out of practice, and it didn’t help that Curvo’s son had been more in the Elrond mold, quiet and biddable, than of the Elros ‘into everything’ variety. Painful though it was, he found it necessary to cast his mind back to Ambarussa’s youth.

The list of changes necessary was not a short one, and he had no illusion that it could wait. It required no great foresight to see that keeping Elros from damaging himself, his brother, or his immediate surroundings would be a full time job even without obvious hazards. From what he had seen, the boy was as inventive as Tyelko when it came to mischief.

Then there was the problem of where to put the children. They had empty rooms enough in the fortress, for even aside from their recent losses at Siron, the number of their followers dwindled with every cycle of the sun. Some slipped away of their own volition, weary of the fighting with no end in sight. Some faded. Far too many died, one way or another. Tears unnumbered had they been promised…

The girl was easy enough; she could either be given a bed in Nyellië’s room, or the unoccupied chamber next door. He would consult the young craftswoman on that score – she kept close to her young charge, doing such a fine job of keeping her calm that Maedhros was thankful she had been chosen to assist their armorer in place of the usual smith.

The twins he could not simply put in any unoccupied room. They were still young enough to need to be near their guardians when they slept. A child in his own room was out of the question, for even now Maedhros was plagued by nightmares he would not willingly inflict on an elf grown, let alone elfings. Unless they put trundle beds Makalaurë’s suite- probably unwise given how often his brother’s harp was heard long into the night- the only option left was to settle them in Pityo’s chambers.

Which meant someone would need to clear the room of Pityo’s things first.

The last time such a task had been necessary, Maedhros had taken it upon himself, sparing his younger brothers. Unfortunately, he could not see where that was an option this time. He doubted that any of the children would be sufficiently at ease in the somewhat forbidding and completely unknown surroundings of the fortress to let their chosen adults out of their sight for the first few days. As such, neither he nor Makalaurë would have the time for such a task. Particularly not when he recalled the likely state of his youngest brother’s room.

Maedhros was not the only one whose sleep was troubled more often than not, and Pityo had been uneasy about the trip to Sirion for several weeks before they set out. Whenever bouts of insomnia took him, his youngest brother had been apt to read, or paint, or any other activity that took his fancy, nonstop, until he either reached a state of exhaustion sufficient to allow him to find rest, or until one of his older brothers dosed him with something to achieve the same. He rarely troubled himself about tidying up during such manias.

There was nothing for it. Loathe though he was to admit it, he would have to trust one of the stewards to pack it all up and move it to some other empty space. He and his surviving brother could sort through it later.

Maedhros frowned. At the rate they were riding, they would reach the road on the morrow. At that point, he needed to be ready to dispatch his orders. Well-armed riders on fast horses could reach Amon Ereb in a few days, while the wagons would take a week at the least. Though they had pushed on even by night to put as much distance between themselves and Gil-galad’s forces as they could, neither his people nor their horses could keep this pace much longer.

He reached for pen and paper and began first to list everything out for himself, to ensure he overlooked nothing important. Though he had taken a hand in the upbringing of younger relatives in Aman, never before had he been so wholly responsible for any – they had always had a father of their own to see to their protection and comfort.

It was painful to think that this was likely the closest to fatherhood that he would ever come.

It was then that his eyes fell on little Elrond, trying once again to make progress in the improbably weighty history of the Noldor that someone had packed in the bag he’d had with him in the sea cave. Maedhros recognized the work, of course – he sometimes wondered what the royal historian Rumil, tutor to all the princes of the House of Finwë in turn, would think of his former charges could he but see them now. Rumil ought to have had the teaching of these children also…

He shook his head to clear such wishful thoughts from his mind. The children’s education was a worry for when he had them safely settled in at Amon Ereb. First he had to get them there, and ensure that all was ready for them.

Not just rooms and physical safety, he decided, watching the younger twin puzzle out a word in a chapter that was really not the sort of thing an elfling so young ought to be reading – though it was possible these children knew enough of orcs already not to be frightened by descriptions of the first time the Eldar had encountered them. He added another note to his list. The origins of the orc were not the only thing in his library he had no wish to explain to one so young.

Elros tried to keep his face calm, as his older cousin did, but it was difficult to do when they were finally on the road to Amon Ereb, their cousins’ fortress, where they would be living until Mother or Father returned. (His father was such a hazy concept Elros had difficulty believing he would ever truly return, but Maedhros made it a point to name both Elwing and Eärendil whenever the topic was raised.)

Up until now, they had not been on a road, but had cut across country, travelling without stopping. The grown elves were able to rest as they rode, while Elros, Elrond, and Glinwen slept in the wagon each night. During the day, he and Elrond were allowed to ride in front of their cousins for a time, and Glinwen with an elleth who had been looking after her. But if the scouts signaled anything out of the ordinary ahead, they had to go back into the wagon where they could be best protected.

Maedhros had promised that once they reached the road, they would all camp for the night each evening, and there might be a stream they could wash in tonight. He’d said that as if it were a treat – and possibly for Elrond it was – but Elros couldn’t really see the point.

Why bother washing when they were just going to get dirty again the next day? It would be one thing when they reached Amon Ereb, where they would probably go back to being inside much of the time. Being clean would make sense there. But now, outdoors constantly, riding through the wild? No one would stay clean, not even the grownups!

Riding through the wild was fun.

Despite the ominous whispers the twins had always heard from grownups about the dangers beyond the walls of the Havens, they had encountered no orcs, wolves, or even bad weather. And even if he wasn’t free to go explore everything right now, there were new things to see everywhere. Birds, trees, animals, flowers, and all of it so much more than they had ever gotten to see in Sirion. There was a whole world out here that Elros had never even dreamed could be so big.

Unfortunately, not only was this big world full of new things, there was a world of new words to go with it.

Their cousins were Noldor like Eärendil, so they spoke Quenya, not Sindarin as most folk in Sirion had. Aunt Lalwen had been meaning to teach them Quenya, and when Maedhros first started saying words in his own tongue, Elros had nearly cried because while he didn’t recognize the words, the sound of them was familiar and made him think of how he wouldn’t see his aunt again.

Fortunately, Maedhros hadn’t noticed he was on the verge of blubbing like a baby, but had carried on explaining to him how just as Makalaurë was Maglor in Sindarin, Aunt Lalwen and Aunt Galadriel both had different names in Quenya. Aunt Lalwen had been Irimë and Aunt Galadriel was Artanis.

Elros liked Lalwen’s Quenya name – while he didn’t understand what it meant, the sound of it was ripply and pretty, just like she had been, and he was sorry he wouldn’t get to call her by it. But Artanis didn’t sound much like Aunt Galadriel at all – much too prim and formal, like that counselor of Cousin Gil-galad’s that naneth’s older cousin Thranduil liked to make fun of so much.

He and his brother had Quenya names, too, Maedhros told him. Elros realized that made sense, because Maedhros and Makalaurë had known about them, known them by name even before the twins could introduce themselves. For their Quenya speaking cousins to know and talk about them, they must have Quenya names. But unlike their older cousins, whose Quenya and Sindarin names were quite different from each other, the twins’ names weren’t very different from what they were used to.

“Elerossë,” he whispered to himself. “Elerossë and Elerondo.”

What?

Elrond sounded a bit cranky, but that was probably because he disliked riding. He was looking forward to Amon Ereb mostly because it meant he wouldn’t have to sit a horse again until they had riding lessons. Elrond had only admitted that to Elros and Makalaurë though. While Elros now told his tall cousin most things that crossed his mind, he had decided after considerable thought that it was really up to Elrond if he wanted to share his private opinions with Maedhros.

I’m practicing Quenya words, Elros explained. I want to be able to talk to people!

That wasn’t words, that was our names, Elrond responded, sounding puzzled.

Yes, I know they’re our names. That makes them important words.

Makalaurë had told them at lunchtime that almost everyone at Amon Ereb would speak Quenya, just as most of the riders here did. Only a few, like Glinwen’s elleth knew more than a few words of Sindarin. It seemed Amon Ereb was the opposite of Sirion when it came to language, although Elros hoped that the Noldor didn’t object to Sindarin as strongly as the Sindar did to Quenya. Neither of the twins knew enough Quenya yet to have real conversations.

In any case, Elros had decided he should make sure to learn the most important words first so even if he couldn’t speak properly, he could at least make the grown elves around him understand any urgent needs. Food, water, bathroom, please, thank you, sorry, help, Makalaurë, and Elrond had seemed like good ones to start with. (Maedhros was already a Sindarin word, but apparently he answered only to that name. Elros wasn’t sure why, especially when everyone else seemed to have at least two names, but it meant one less word to learn so he wasn’t complaining.)

“Aloud, please, Elros,” Maedhros said mildly.

Elros hadn’t yet worked out how Maedhros was unfailingly able to tell when he was speaking silently to his twin – annoyingly, he usually didn’t catch Elrond at it. And if Makalaurë did, he never said anything.

Your face always goes a bit funny when you talk to me, that’s why, Elrond explained helpfully. When we get to Amon Ereb, we’ll find a mirror and I’ll show you. You can practice in front of the mirror until your face doesn’t give you away. Then he won’t know.

Elros glared at his brother. He had enough to learn as it was without adding yet another thing to the list of what he needed to practice.

“Elros?” Maedhros prompted.

“I was practicing words,” Elros said obediently – in this case, obedience had the fringe benefit of giving him an excuse to ignore Elrond, who was now silently laughing at him. When had Elrond figured out about the face thing anyway?

“Was Elrond practicing also?”

Elros sighed.

“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “He knows them already. He’s good at things like this.”

“Things like this?” Maedhros repeated, clearly not quite understanding.

“Words,” Elros explained. “Letters. Thinking.”

He paused. He’d never wanted to talk this over with Aunt Lalwen, who would have told him briskly that he was being silly, or Nana, who would have just laughed and kissed his worries away, but it had been bothering him for a while.

“Elrond’s a lot better at thinking than I am,” Elros admitted dejectedly. He didn’t want Maedhros to think he was stupid, but sooner or later, his older cousin was bound to notice for himself. After all- “Everyone says so.”

Maedhros looked a bit puzzled.

“Why should you not be just as good at thinking as your brother?” he asked. “You are twins, as alike as two peas in a pod.”

“We look alike,” Elros agreed patiently. “But we don’t think alike.”

“Most brothers don’t,” Maedhros replied, sounding amused. “Not even twins. In fact, it is good for you to have your own thoughts and Elrond his. Then you can discuss them with each other. You should be each other’s first and best counselors.”

Elros turned over that idea in his mind. He could see where that was sensible. The boat they made had definitely been better for his input, even if the original idea to try making it had been Elrond’s – though he’s still mystified as to how the grownups had decided it had been entirely his doing, with Elrond just along for the ride.

“I suppose,” he said. “But he’s still good at thinking, and I’m not, really.”

Maedhros snorted.

“You seem to think just fine when you put your mind to it,” he said drily. “Or do I need to remind you about your exploits with the pulley this morning?”

Elros sighed. He should have known better than to hope that had gone unnoticed. But he had watched the grown neri using the device to raise and lower the coverings on the wagon to adjust for wind and sun over the past ten days, and had wanted to see for himself how it worked. How was he to know that if you pulled too hard on the wrong section, it would tangle everything up? He’d done his best to put it back right, but it wasn’t quite the same when he’d finished as when he’d started.

“It seems to me,” Maedhros mused, “that you’ve gotten into the bad habit of letting Elrond do the thinking most of the time, and then blaming him for being better at it when really he just has more practice at it than you do.”

Elros was quite indignant at this idea, but before he could protest, Maedhros continued.

“Perhaps you better start practicing thinking, to catch up. Else what will you do the day you get yourself into a jam and Elrond isn’t right there to think your way out for you?”

The thought that he would ever be so far away from his twin that Elrond wouldn’t be able to help him is the most ridiculous thing Elros has ever heard. But Maedhros continued before he could protest.

“Not to mention, young prince, you may someday be called on to lead your people, and come that day, they will most certainly expect you to be able to think things through on your own.”

Elros blinked – and not solely because he hadn’t expected Maedhros to be so confident that he could be just as good at thinking as Elrond.

For all he knew that naneth was queen, it was rare for anyone to remind him that he was a prince. And he suddenly realized that if naneth went away for good, the way his grandparents all had, he wouldn’t be just a prince anymore. He’d be king.

It was a terrifying thought. All the kings he and his brother had ever been told about had died.

El? he asked urgently. Naneth will come back, right? Someday?

I expect so, Elrond replied, for once the one sounding puzzled. It might be years and years, though, from the way our cousins talk about it. Why?

“Out loud, please, Elros, when you’re in front of others,” Maedhros said, his tone one of slowly expiring patience.

“I don’t want to be king!” Elros wailed.

It wasn’t until many years later that he would realize how rare it was to see Maedhros laugh so – or understand why it was that he had.

Makalaurë breathed a sigh of relief as the gates of Amon Ereb came in sight at last – though he suspected he was not half as relieved as little Elrond, who was not a natural rider and still nowhere near as comfortable as his twin riding all the day long.

He was unsurprised when they rode into the courtyard to find a good many more elves than were strictly necessary waiting to help unload the wagon and lead the horses to the stables. They did all pitch in with their nominal tasks, but it was plain that most were there to catch a glimpse of the children their lords had brought home with them.

Elros took all the attention in his stride, but Makalaurë could feel Elrond huddle closer to him, ill at ease with so many unfamiliar eyes turned his way, kindly though they might be.

“Be of good cheer, little one,” Makalaurë told him reassuringly. “You’ll be inside soon, where it’s warm, and there will be a hot bath and a filling dinner ere long.”

Elrond nodded, though his expression looked rather dubious as Makalaurë swung down from the horse.

“Would you prefer to walk or be carried?” Makalaurë asked quietly as he lifted Elrond down, deciding it was best to leave the decision to the boy.

“I will walk,” came the resolute answer.

Makalaurë smiled. Even young princes had a sense of dignity.

Some of them, at least – for Elros didn’t walk so much as bounce up the stairs into the main hall, easily keeping pace with Maedhros’ much longer legs. Elrond walked sedately at Makalaurë’s side, his small hand linked trustingly in his older cousin’s as he took in his surroundings.

Carnastir’s stronghold was well built, and if it was less cheerful than the queen’s house in Sirion, it was by no means as grimly functional as Maedhros’ fortress at Himring had been. Originally envisioned as a retreat, not a front-line fortress, more care had been taken with the living quarters and common areas. Even now, after all their losses, it didn’t look too shabby. The library was still largely intact, and a few of the wall hangings were from the hands of his grandmother herself, carried all the way from Tirion.

Elrond paused at one such hanging that showed the Trees, delighted by the beauty of it, though Makalaurë doubted he understood its significance.

“This way, little one,” Makalaurë said, steering him toward the tower where he and his brothers had their rooms.

“You may choose what to do with Elrond,” Maedhros voice drifted down the stairs, “but this one sorely needs a bath before dinner.”

Makalaurë and Elrond both smiled at that, and Elrond snickered. Elros had started the morning by trying to climb a tree in pursuit of a squirrel, losing his footing halfway up, and landing in a sizable mud puddle. While he had been rinsed down in a nearby stream, protesting the entire time, he was still somewhat less than presentable.

“What about Glinwen?” Elrond asked. “Will she have a bath too?”

“Of course. But she will bathe with Nyellië and the other nissi,” Makalaurë pointed out. The girl might be young, but she was not as young as the twins – already old enough that it would be improper for her to bathe with grown neri.

Elrond nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer.

“Would you like to join your brother in the baths?” Makalaurë asked. “It would be as well to wash the dust of the road off before putting on your good clothes for dinner.”

“Why do I have to wear good clothes?” Elrond said, his small brow furrowing.

“We are having a feast tonight,” Makalaurë said, subtly infusing his voice with the exciting idea that this was a special occasion. “It will be your introduction to the folk of Amon Ereb. You should wear good clothes to make a good impression.”

Elrond looked thoughtful.

“Nana says first impressions are important,” he finally offered.

“She is quite right,” Makalaurë replied, relieved to find a point of commonality. How to speak to the children of their absent parents was one of several problems facing him and his brother. “Maedhros and I will also be wearing good things instead of our travel clothes. We shall all look like proper princes tonight.”

Of course, before they could look like proper princes, they had to convince Elros to stop diving in the bathing pools and doing fish impressions.

Even with only one hand, Maedhros proved to still be adept at managing to bathe both himself and a wriggling elfling who had no particular desire to get clean when playing was an option. He gave his younger brother a slightly exasperated look, as Elrond giggled his way through his bath at his twin’s antics – which only inspired Elros to redouble his efforts. Makalaurë, recalling all too well the bathtime wrestling matches during Tyelko’s childhood, was quite thankful he had charge of the calmer child.

When Maedhros was finally satisfied that Elros had been scrubbed clean of all mud, dust, and other forms of dirt- and managed to persuade the boy that it was now time to leave the bath he hadn’t wanted to get into in the first place- the two elflings were wrapped snugly in warm, fluffy towels.

Maedhros gave his younger brother a pointed look as he slipped off to his own room to dress himself, leaving Makalaurë to shepherd his young charges to the rooms that had been set aside for them.

The rooms had previously belonged to Pityo, but Maedhros had sent orders ahead to have them emptied and cleaned. Their retainers had seized the rare opportunity to redo the space. The only things that remained unchanged were the wall hangings in the sitting room, which had a night-time theme, celebrating Varda’s stars. The furniture was a mix of things that had been brought from Sirion for the boys and older pieces brought out of storage.

The sitting room had several chairs arranged by its fireplace, where a fire was already merrily crackling away, and a pair of writing desks, along with a small bookcase Makalaurë suspected would be filled in short order if Elrond had any say in it. There was a brightly painted chest that might even contain toys, though if it did not, Makalaurë was certain it would soon enough. They had carpenters and smiths among their followers who had little call to use their skills for less warlike purpose.

The bedroom now held a bed and a clothes press for each boy, along with hangings that must have been brought to Amon Ereb from Curvo’s dwelling in Himlad before it fell, for Makalaurë was sure they had originally been made for young Tyelperinquar. The woven rugs looked to be Sindarin made, and might have looked out of place to Noldorin eyes, but the boys seemed quite delighted by them.

“Look, Elrond, these are our own beds from home!” Elros exclaimed.

“Yes, I see. But the blankets are new,” Elrond replied, sounding intrigued as he traced the design on his.

Makalaurë looked, and repressed the twinge of pain.

Some thoughtful elf had managed to find some of the oldest chests in storage, unopened since Losgar. Pityo had never cared to use the matching bedclothes packed for them once his twin had perished. The peredhil twins seemed quite taken with the deep blue color and the silver stars. It was not inappropriate, for the motif was reminiscent of their father Eärendil’s device.

Opening the first clothes press, Makalaurë found that the twins’ wardrobes had been expanded. In addition to the clothes brought for the children from Sirion, most of which were clearly intended for indoor use, there were several outfits appropriate for outdoors pursuits, similar to what they had been wearing when first found. There were also a few more formal tunics, suitable for occasions such as the evening’s feast.

He decided that this being their introduction to the rest of Amon Ereb, the formal tunics in Nolofinwë’s colors were probably the best choice. To his relief, he found that there was a box on the high shelf containing a circlet sized for an elfling, silver with sapphire.

He was unsurprised to find that by the time he had set Elros’ outfit out for him, Elrond had managed to pick the matching items from his own clothes press, and correctly guessed that the shiny black boots were better suited for a formal dinner than the plain ones he had been wearing on the road.

Getting the pair dressed proved to be rather simple. Elros was inclined to cooperate, since it meant getting to the food faster, and the twins were old enough to need little help with the basics – it was only with the finer details, like braiding their hair and setting their circlets properly that they required adult assistance.

“Have I put my boots on right?” Elros asked fretfully as Makalaurë finished Elrond’s hair. “I think I got the laces wrong again.”

“I will check them in a moment,” Makalaurë replied soothingly. “But what do you mean again? You have been doing your laces properly every morning.”

“Do we have to wear circlets?” Elrond added piteously. “It’s uncomfortable!”

“Yes,” Maedhros answered firmly from the door. “You do. You told me yourself that you are princes of the Sindar and the Noldor. Princes, even young ones, wear circlets when they dress formally.”

Given that circlets had provoked complaints from nearly all of the young princes of the Noldor in turn, Makalaurë suspected that this was a question his older brother had fielded a good many times over the years.

Carnastir had hated his to the point of having tantrums every time he was required to wear one – and that had lasted well into his twenties. Turukano was too prim to protest in such an undignified manner, but had often managed to ‘lose’ his before or during state dinners. Ambarussa, Irissë, and Artanis were of an age and had made a game of hiding theirs. Ambarussa had been fond of dropping theirs in the frog pond in the gardens. One of Artanis’ had turned up on the roof of the palace when she was thirteen, while one of Irissë’s had only been found forty years later, when she’d finally confessed that she’d thrown it into one of her grandmother’s prize rosebushes.

Elrond sighed, but made no further protest as Maedhros straightened the circlet on his head and tucked a braid back into place.

“It looks very handsome on you, Elrond, so no sulky looks if you please,” Maedhros smiled. “As soon as Makalaurë is dressed, we can go down.”

---

When Makalaurë led the boys into the great hall a quarter of an hour later, both were on their best behavior. Maedhros had taken the opportunity while his brother was dressing to drill into Elros the importance of making a positive impression on the Noldor of Amon Ereb, most of whom would never have met a Sindarin prince before.

Rather unexpectedly, the usually irrepressible elfling was taking the responsibility of being Amon Ereb’s first experience of Sindar royalty quite seriously.

Elros and Elrond entered the hall at a sedate pace, nodding politely at any grown elves who greeted them and bestowing genuine smiles on those they already knew from the road. While neither one knew enough Quenya yet to understand the murmurs that rose up in their wake, Makalaurë could tell their retainers had taken the little ones straight to their hearts.

“Aren’t they sweet?”

“Such proper little princes!”

“Oh, look at his expression. Doesn’t he just remind you of Prince Turukano when he was small?”

“And we’re to have the teaching of them, just think!”

“Three children, can you believe it?”

Glinwen and Nyellië were already seated at the high table, with Glinwen given a place of honor between the twins. While that wasn’t a seating arrangement that would have occurred to Makalaurë, Nyellië had discovered that one of the girl’s few ‘duties’ had been to mind the two boys at formal occasions, so Maedhros had decided that sitting her with them would likely put all three children more at their ease than they would otherwise be – and possibly have a calming effect on Elros.

It seemed to work. Elros, for a wonder, managed to keep still and even look attentive as Maedhros spoke, thanking their followers for the good discipline they’d showed on the recent expedition, welcoming them back, and raising a glass to the fallen.

Both boys looked a bit uncertain as to whether or not they were meant to raise their glasses, which contained only apple juice rather than the white wine the adults were drinking. Makalaurë suppressed a smile when, after sneaking a glance at Glinwen, Elros raised his glass and his brother followed suit.

The rest of the hall was utterly charmed.

They were probably still more charmed when, several hours later, two princes of the House of Fëanor carried two princes of the House of Nolofinwë from the hall fast asleep.

Glinwen hadn’t tried to flee, not once.

Maybe that was shameful, but once the sons of Fëanor had taken charge of her – or had they taken her prisoner? She wasn’t really certain what exactly had happened, other than that she was against all expectation still alive.

At any rate, it hadn’t occurred to her that running would do any good. If they hadn’t killed her at once, she was probably safer with them than without them, with their soldiers sacking the city. She has never been told of Menegroth in any detail, but she knew enough.

She had helped the Kinslayers find the young princes, because once she’d seen Lady Lalwen dead, she’d feared they had been left alone. And she’d been right – Nellas had been among the dead as well. If she had not told them, Elros and Elrond might have been dead too by the time anyone arrived from Balar. If help had come at all…

And once the Kinslayers had them, she couldn’t well leave the little princes. Who knew what would become of the Queen’s sons left to the care of the golodhrim, even if they claimed to be kinsmen? She was supposed to stay with them, so they would have someone they knew with them. The Queen herself had asked her to do that. Glinwen could not fail her, not when it was her last command.

She still can’t quite reconcile the terrifying elves who had murdered so many of her people with the good-natured elves who treat her like something precious. Nyellië can’t have been part of the slaughter at Menegroth, can she? How does she know that Maedhros One Hand – the kindest of the names her people have for him – who has made certain that she is safe, warm, and fed every night since she first saw him, isn’t the same elf who killed her father?

But any time she started to judge them, to remind herself that no matter how kind they may be to her, it was likely only so as not to upset the young princes, to try to keep in mind that they are not friends, one thought brings her up short: she is no different or better than them.

She has killed, too.

She really, truly hadn’t meant to. Glinwen had never in her life so much as slapped another of her own kind, never tried to inflict injury on anyone. Grabbing the knife had been a moment of pure panic, all she had been able to think in that moment had been that she needed to get away from the grasp of the Kinslayer, needed to run. But what she meant didn’t change what she’d done.

She had only struck him the once, but as it turned out, once was all that was needed. She’d never seen so much blood before. She hadn’t known there was so much of it inside a person, or that it could all run out so very quickly.

Some might try to comfort her that it had been only a Kinslayer she killed, and that might be true, but he had drawn no weapon, offered her no violence. Worse still, the eyes that had looked at her in such surprise before the light in them dimmed and went out hadn’t been so different than the ones she saw when she looked in the mirror.

The only difference she’d found between him and her was that he’d been born somewhere on the far side of the Sea and she’d been born here. In the end, as far as she can tell, it hadn’t taken much to make either of them killers.

It was only later, on the road to Amon Ereb, that she had learned that he hadn’t been just some retainer of the sons of Fëanor, but their youngest brother. No one had told her. She’d overheard. The word the golodhrim used for brother wasn’t much different from the one she knew.

She was not sure how either of them can stand to look at her, much less ask after her comfort and welfare. From all she had heard of Kinslayers before they’d descended on Sirion, she would have expected them to kill her for her crime.

Instead they’d brought her with them. She hadn’t even known she was leaving Sirion – she had gone to sleep in her own bed and woke up in a wagon in the wild with a strange ellon handing her breakfast. Not long after, she’d recognized another ellon speaking to Prince Elrond – the one who had been wearing the blood-splattered armor the night before, who had loomed over her like a stormcloud, thunder in his voice and lightning in his eyes.

She’s still embarrassed to have shown her fear so clearly. Her prince had explained later that the man had only been trying to tell him to stop chewing on his lip just as Lady Lalwen always had. It was a bad habit. He’d meant it kindly.

It’s still strange to think of herself as being a ward of the Noldor. She’s not a hostage. Maglor had taken the time to explain to her that she was no prisoner, and if she wished, she was free to go, but they hoped she would stay with them. Oddly enough, she believed him – if only because he must know as well as she did that she had nowhere else to go.

Not only had Queen Elwing told her to go with Elros and Elrond, her people do not look kindly on kinslayers, and she has heard others say that the laegrim shunned them entirely. But from the moment she’d put an arm around her shoulders and walked her to her own room, Nyellië has taken care of her.

Glinwen did not call Nyellië ‘aunt’ or ‘mother’, for hers died in Menegroth and just after, and she cannot imagine they would be pleased at her calling one of the Noldor by those names. She has never known living family, so she does not know if this is what a sister might be like. She did know that Nyellië was very sweet, and so clearly happy to have someone to treat as a younger kinswoman in this place where she is otherwise alone.

The language had been a problem. Glinwen knew only a few words of the Noldorin tongue, mostly from overhearing Lady Lalwen and Lady Idril before she’d left them seeking the West. Nyellië knew more of what the Noldor called Sindarin than most of the golodhrim, but still not enough to explain everything.

Fortunately, the young princes needed to learn, too. So Glinwen joined them daily in their sitting room or the library as they learned Quenya. At first she had expected to be an afterthought in those lessons, but either Maedhros, Maglor, or the princes’ tutor Varilon included her as a matter of course.

She was slowly beginning to understand more of what the adults around her were saying, enough to realize that while she is no princess, the elves of Amon Ereb are just as delighted with her as they are with the twins. Many of the words she has learnt are pet names for children, for they are what she hears most often. To the folk of Amon Ereb, she is herincë, winë, vinyamë, wencë, satarcë, and a whole host of other names. (Indeed, unless the princes are about, she has learned that anything that ends –cë almost certainly means her.)

Even without her understanding their words, there were many little gestures that showed she was welcome. The ladies who make the bread for the entire fortress were happy to show her the secrets of their art, though they were quick enough to chase any ellon who poked his nose into their domain away. The kennel master had given her a puppy for her own just as he had for the young princes, and the stable master has explained, via Maglor’s translation, that whenever she feels ready, he has a horse with the right temper for a beginner to ride.

And Nyellië, of course, was happy to have Glinwen sit in the forge with her for hours on end.

Glinwen can’t understand even half of what the elleth says to her at those times, but she knew Nyellië liked having her there, so she went when she had nothing else to fill her time. She listened, she watched, and she was learning.
Nyellië may sharpen swords and repair armor and make arrowheads, but Glinwen could see her heart wished for more peaceful crafts – like the pans she was crafting for some special occasion that Glinwen has not quite understood, which will make cakes shaped like stars, or the jewelry that she mends when an older ellon comes to her looking distraught, holding a treasured piece in shaking hands.

And she has begun to understand that it is not only her people who have lost many to death. It was not just the tears over jewelry. It was the faraway look so many would get, as the adults in Sirion did when they remembered those they had known in Doriath or Nargothrond or Gondolin. It was the way one adult would suddenly put a hand on the shoulder of another after they spoke – she might not understand the words, but Glinwen could still hear the pain or bitterness in them.

And she can see with her eyes. The fortress and its surrounding support buildings are too large for the number who call it home. What must have once been a thriving village at the foot of the hill is more than half empty. Even the gatehouse guarding the approach has more rooms than occupants. There are more swords in the armory than elves to wield them. (She understands all too well why she and the princes are all being taught how to use them.)

It has occurred to her to wonder what it means for the future, if the numbers of the Fëanorians are dwindling so. How long would it be before the day came when they were too few, and could no longer hold against the Enemy?

And in that question, she found an answer, grim though it was – the reason the twins are so welcome here, the reason they would take in a girl who had killed one of their lords. For the kinslayers, this stolen time with someone else’s children was the best they could hope for anymore. And it will be fleeting – possibly even shorter than the princes’ childhoods – for they are cursed in both the eyes of their kind and the powers in the West. So they have seized on this brief, happy moment amid the darkness and death, and will hold it dear for as long as they can.

Elwing could see that her husband was nervous. Truth be told, she was as well.

The storms had finally abated, as abruptly as if someone had blown them out as one would a candle. The color of the water had changed, suddenly bluer and clearer as it calmed. The wind turned to a soft and gentle breeze. The very air around them smelled sweeter.

They all understood what it meant. The islets they could see in the distance behind them were the boundary between the mortal lands and the immortal. It was as she had suspected – with the Silmaril on board, their ship was being granted passage where all others had been denied.

They were finally drawing near to the place she had heard so much about from the Noldor over the years.

Elvenhome.

The land that only one of her people – her own great-grandfather – had ever beheld.

He had seen it by the light of the fabled Trees. She would see it by the light of sun, moon, and stars – the only light she has ever known. For all the Noldor have always spoken of it as the land of all elves, she cannot quite convince herself that it can ever be hers as it was theirs.

She was a daughter of Menegroth, a child of forest and living rock and starlight. She has never known a world untouched by the Enemy’s shadow. For all she is descended from an ainu, she has never seen a Vala nor desired to either.

She does not need to be told that she has nothing in common with the elves born to Treelight and protected by the ones that had sung the world into being, so safe and secure that the loss of that light had been a cataclysm for which they had no comparison.

She still did not understand their willingness to chase the Enemy across the Sea, daring even the Ice, when they’d had such safety. Had they not understood what it was they were giving up, or what it was they proposed to fight? If she could bring her sons here, to a place she would know they were safe, where their children could be born safe and never know the fear and danger of the Hither Shores, there was nothing in the world that would persuade her to leave it, or allow them to leave it.

She has never understood Fëanor’s love of his jewels, but his lack of love for his sons she understood even less. Now that she has actually stood face to face with what was left of them, she occasionally wonders which had been the worse deed- the father swearing his sons to his mad Oath, or taking them across the Sea in pursuit of an Enemy so far beyond their power to vanquish.

She will bring her sons here, if the Valar permit it. She will bid all her people come here, should the Powers allow it. The forests of Ennor are beautiful, but there must be forests somewhere in the Immortal Lands just as beautiful, and her people have bled enough.

She glanced over at her husband.

“Surely you’re not finally feeling nerves now?” she teased Eärendil gently. “You stand shortly before the goal you set yourself when we were but children!”

“It was one thing to dream,” he replied, unexpectedly serious. “It is another to stand here in the light of day.”

It is my mother’s home, he added silently. But it is not mine, nor a place I expect to find any I know.

“Your mother may be here,” she whispered.

He did not answer, not even with osanwë, but she could feel that he was less optimistic on that score than she was. All others had failed to find the way West, why should Idril have been any different? Even Vingilotë had faced fierce storms. And they had carried no mortal with them. Idril had sailed in the hope against hope that in the Uttermost West there might be at least a surcease of pain for Tuor until the time came when they must be parted. Or perhaps she had dared hope for more? If Luthien could lay down her immortality, might not a mortal be granted the life of the Eldar, a balancing of the scales of sorts?

Idril was a child at the time of the Exile, my love. She committed no crime in being carried away from Aman by her parents. Surely she does not fall under the Ban.

Elwing was not so sure how true that was, but she would not have her beloved brood on the thought of his mother being struck down. She knew Idril’s history well enough, and she could not hold it against a child not yet of age that she went with her parents when commanded. The Valar have always seemed rather capricious to her, but even Galadriel, no acolyte of the Powers, did not hold them to be cruel.

He nodded, but that was the best he could manage.

It was not heartening to Elwing to realize that Eärendil was as unsettled as she was at the prospect of finally setting foot on the immortal shores.

But it was too late to change their course now. Having come this far, there was no option but to see it through. Their sons’ lives depended on it. Her peoples’ lives depended on it. With that motivation, Elwing would brave far worse than the land of light.

As day wore into night, they passed by several small islands. After dark, they sighted one large enough that they nearly put in, thinking it the mainland, until one of the older elves said he thought it might be Tol Eressëa. So they carried on, and as dawn broke, they saw that he had been right.

The sun shone on shores that sparkled, and reflected off of white tiled buildings that seemed to catch and magnify its rays. It lit docks grander by far than those of Sirion or Balar, and touched the graceful tower that rose above the harbor with every hue of the rainbow.

Elwing had thought the Noldor foolish before now, and she knew they had lived in a style grander than even Menegroth at its height, but seeing Alqualondë for the first time, her very breath was taken away.

“They left this to come die in Ennor?” she whispered in disbelief.

Eärendil smiled at her sadly.

“I suppose they did,” he answered. “It is rather difficult to compass, isn’t it?”

They were not sure enough of their welcome – or the rules of the harbor of her long-sundered kin – to put in at one of the docks, no matter how impressive and inviting they might look. Instead, Eärendil chose to drop anchor in the roads, in a spot he judged to be clear of the main route in and out of the harbor.
Elwing was not about to be left to wait aboard while he went ashore, so after the pinnace was lowered, she was the first to climb down.

She would have pulled an oar if necessary to justify her presence, but there were more than enough willing men among her husband’s mariners, and she wasn’t sure how much real help she would have been in any case. She could barely keep her hands from shaking.

What if the Valar did consider them to be violating the Ban – even though neither of them had been born at the time it was decreed, and she was not of the Noldor?

Worse, what if they were like some of the Noldor and thought it was only males who counted – what if they judged her husband mortal, despite his elven mother?

It would not occur to her until much later that they might have applied the same logic to herself.

When at last they reached the hallowed shore, Eärendil leapt out first.

“Remain here, and do not set foot out of the boat,” he commanded. “It may yet be that the wrath of the Valar will fall upon us, and I would take any peril on myself alone. I will dare it for the sake of the Two Kindreds, but I wish to know you are safe.”

Elwing snorted.

She’d once heard one of the edain visiting Sirion remark “may as well hang for the sheep as for the fleece.” The man had needed to explain himself to his bemused listeners, as elves did not hang anyone no matter the crime, but she rather thought it might be appropriate here. Staying in the pinnace was hardly going to save her if the Valar decided they had violated the Ban, particularly not when it had been her idea that got them there in the first place.

Besides, her husband might speak for Men, and for the Noldor, but he couldn’t speak for her people. And if she was going to die for being here, she wanted to at least talk to her sundered kin before she did!

“You swore to me when we married that our paths would never be sundered,” she replied, in a tone he had learned already as a boy meant that further argument was useless. “Where you go, I go. If that takes me into danger, so be it.”

Because I certainly know nothing of danger after facing down your cousin Maedhros wearing a Silmaril!

He bowed politely, probably to cover a very unprincely and un-Noldo laugh, and offered a hand to help her from the boat.

The water felt no different to her bare feet than the waves on the beach at Sirion, and she almost giggled at the unexpected normalcy of it.

Hand in hand they made their way toward the center of town. Few people were in the streets so early – those who were abroad at this hour were those who had reason to be, and most of them moved briskly, only registering the strangeness of the couple after they had already passed them by.

When they came to the main square, her husband embraced her.

“You would still be parted from me?” she asked, knowing all too well that he feared what lay before them.

“Beloved,” he began, all reason and concern, “that we have not been struck down yet does not mean that the Valar may not be wroth with us. It takes only one to carry a message. I could bear their anger though they were all like to Morgoth so long as I know you safe.”

“Why should I be safer here than with you?” she protested. “I know none here!”

“You will be among kin here,” Eärendil pointed out. “Olwë the king is brother to your grandfather Thingol – would he shun his brother’s descendant who comes to him in need?”

When Thingol was so angry at the harm done his brother’s people that he banned our very tongue?

He had her there, the smug Noldo.

He grinned as he caught her irritation, the boyish smile that had captivated her from their first meeting.

“Stay, my love. Charm the Teleri with your tales of the mortal lands. I will find a way to move the Valar to action.”

“So long as your way does not involve you being turned into a smear on the floor,” she grumbled, holding him tightly.
He pressed his forehead to hers, looking into her eyes.

One way or another, we will be reunited, beloved, he told her. This I promise you. Whether ours is to be the fate of Beren and Luthien, or Turgon and Elenwë, I will find you. Always.

If we must take examples from our family trees, I find I prefer Finarfin and Eärwen, she replied tartly. He came back to her. And they lived!

“We hope so,” Eärendil said gently. “That was only supposition, for even Galadriel could not be certain how he was received on his return.”

“We have always hoped,” she said firmly. “Go.”

She watched him as he took the road that led inland – his innate sense of the sea telling him without needing to ask which one it was – and did not turn until he was out of sight.

It was only then that she realized that a small knot of onlookers had gathered by the fountain, clearly trying to work out who and what she might be.

She glanced down, ruing for the first time that she had chosen to dress simply, as she would have among her own people on a normal day. If the Lindar were used to the finery of the Noldor, she would cut no impressive figure in her simple tunic and leggings (which all the amanyar she had ever met found scandalous on an elleth in any case) and lack of shoes. Hardly the thing to convince what may prove to be skeptical long-sundered kin that she was a scion of Thingol and Melian.

And yet- if her husband could brave the Valar in all their splendor and might, she couldn’t shy away from a few curious Lindar.

She took a deep breath and approached them.

“Well met, kinsfolk. I am Elwing…”

She hesitated for a moment.

She has been used to describing herself as Elwing of the Sindar to the amanyar, for that was how the Light Elves in Ennor had known her people. But her kin here would not recognize that name- they had all been Lindar when they parted. Eglain would not be politic, for she no longer blamed the ones who left, not knowing what they had come to and comparing it to what became of what they had left behind. Doriath they would not know either, and in any case, Doriath was no more.

“… of the people of Elu,” she finished, hoping they had not noticed the slight pause. “I am seeking my kinsman Olue, can you tell me where I might find him?”

Elrond giggled as the dust settled from the explosion.

Alyamë the baker had her hands on her hips, but he could see she was trying not to laugh.

Elros was completely coated in flour. He rather resembled a startled snowy owl as he blinked in surprise, tiny white specks drifting off his eyelashes as he did.

“I did not intend it to do that…” he muttered, a much smaller avalanche of flour falling from him at the movement.

He shook his head like a dog just out of the water, sending up a small cloud, but even so, his usually midnight dark hair was a streaky grey.

“Next time, young prince, wait for someone taller to get the flour down for you,” Alyamë suggested merrily.

Elros looked up at the shelf, and then down at his new covering of flour, as well as the thick white layer covering the countertop in front of him, his stepstool, and the floor.

“Oh, dear. I suppose there’s nothing for it,” Lerien said with mock regret. “We’ll just have to pop him in the oven with the rest of the bread!”

Elros looked horrified for a split second before he burst out laughing, any lingering unhappiness at his misadventure dispelled.

“I’m not bread dough!” he giggled as Lerien tickled him.

“No, but you are a right mess, little mischief,” Alyamë sighed. “Just wait until your f-“

“Prince Maedhros will not be pleased if he finds you looking like this,” Lerien cut in firmly, with a pointed look at Alyamë.

Elrond stood out of the way and watched as the two women did their best to clean up his twin.

It was not the first time in the last few months one of the folk of Amon Ereb had almost referred to Makalaurë or Maedhros as ‘your father’. (Most usually at Elros, but occasionally to Elrond as well.) They often seemed embarrassed by the slip, but he could not see the harm in it.

He knew his cousins were not his father. Everyone knew that. The twins were learning to write their names, so it was hard to miss that they were Eärendilion, not Makalaurion or Nelyafinwion. But their cousins were doing all the things his father should have been there to do.

Since coming to Amon Ereb, he and Elros had a lot more of what Pelendur the captain of the guard termed ‘structure’. Elrond wasn’t entirely sure what Pelendur meant by that, because he’d thought structure was another word for building. But he did know that rather than being left to their own devices for much of the time as they had been in Sirion, he and Elros nearly always had things to do now. And if their cousins weren’t always right there while Elrond and Elros were doing those things, they had definitely arranged for the twins to do them.

This afternoon, they were having their cookery lesson – the ladies of the kitchens had decided to teach them how to make one of the simpler cakes commonly served as an after-dinner treat. Usually their cookery lessons were more practical – Elrond could now make toast, omelet, and baked apple on his own. Well, as on his own as a six-year-old was allowed to be in the kitchens – there was always at least one person watching to be sure he was in no danger.

Elrond also knew in theory of more complicated dishes, like roast chicken, steak and mushroom pie, and venison stew, but the cooks insisted he had plenty of time to master them himself. For now, they were pleased that he knew the basic rules of the kitchens, and was learning important skills like measuring, chopping, peeling, and patience. Elros had a lot of trouble with the last one, but it seemed fairly important in many recipes.

Lack of patience was what had led to his twin’s current state – rather than wait, Elros had climbed from his stepstool onto countertop to tug the flour sack down from its shelf as soon as Lerien mentioned flour in the list of what they would need for the cakes. Elrond, who had been fetching the eggs, had been far enough away not to put himself or the egg tray in danger.

“Maedhros- mmf!” Elros’ words were cut off by the scrubdown he was getting from the two cooks, starting with his flour-covered face. He spluttered as they rubbed at his face with first a dry rag, then a damp one until Elrond could see normal colored skin showing beneath the white coating.

“Maedhros never comes down here during our lessons,” Elros said indignantly when he could get a word in, and ducking to get away from the two nissi. “So how’s he going to see me?”

“Never is an overestimate, little one,” came an unexpected voice. “Rarely would be more accurate.”

Elrond turned to find his tall red-headed cousin was, against all expectation, standing in the doorway. He had the look that tried to be stern but wanted to laugh nearly as much as Elrond did at the sight of his flour-covered twin.

“I see I will only be borrowing one of the young princes from you, ladies,” Maedhros continued, speaking to the cooks. “There are riders approaching from the west, and I had thought this might be an opportunity for them to begin learning about diplomacy, but as only one of them is presentable…”

“I can be presentable!” Elros howled in protest, abruptly giving up any resistance to the efforts to clean him up.

“Not without a bath and complete change of clothes,” Maedhros replied with a shake of his head. “Particularly since I see you forgot about your apron again.”

Elrond couldn’t help the snicker that escaped him at Elros’ indignant, I can feel flour down my underpants, what is an apron supposed to have done for that?

“My prince, an apron would hardly have made a difference,” Lerien said reprovingly, sounding all for the world as if Maedhros were here for a lesson just as the twins were.

“Perhaps not,” Maedhros said, lips twitching again as if he wanted to laugh. “All the same, I’m only going to take young Elrond. I will send someone down to collect Elros – and you are not to give them trouble about the bath you sorely need, young one.”

“Yes, cousin,” Elros said dejectedly.

“Cheer up, my hasty one,” Alyamë said briskly. “As you and the pans are both already well-floured, we may as well finish the cake before sending you off to your bath.”

Elros’ face lost its tragic look, though he still looked slightly disappointed to be missing out.

I will tell you everything I see, Elrond promised silently. And explain what diplomacy is as soon as I find out.

“Come, Elrond,” Maedhros said, holding out his hand.

Maedhros’ long legs meant he was harder to keep up with than Makalaurë, and he seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, so Elrond was unsurprised when his cousin swung him up into his arms before they reached the stairs.

“Who are the riders?” Elrond asked, reasoning that if he was going to meet them, he should know who they were.

“I am not sure yet,” Maedhros replied. “They were still too far away to see their banner when the watch sent word.”

Elrond frowned, for he felt certain his cousin at least had some idea who they might be. He would hardly be allowed to accompany Maedhros to meet folk who might be do them harm.

Maedhros snorted softly, one of those noises he made where others might have laughed.

“I am confident they are elves, little one. You are right that I would not take you to any dangerous meeting. If I thought there was a chance of harm to you, you would stay up here in the main fortress, with my best guards between you and any danger.”

Since Maedhros no longer needed to limit his speed to accommodate Elrond’s little legs, they swiftly reached the twins’ room.

“You should change,” Maedhros said as he strode to clothes press, and examined its contents critically. “I think we may forgo the dreaded circlet, but this would be more appropriate.”

Elrond looked at what his older cousin had chosen. It was an outdoors outfit, and one he had not gotten to wear yet, for it was meant for if they had to go on any journeys. It had what his cousins said was his father’s crest picked out on the chest of the leather surcoat rather than the eight-pointed star that everyone else in Amon Ereb wore, but it otherwise looked like a smaller version of what Maedhros himself was wearing, right down to the belt – although his had no sheath for a dagger as his older cousin’s had. He was still too young for that.

Elrond pulled the outfit on over his leggings and undertunic, and then looked to Maedhros for guidance as to whether his normal boots or his shiny boots were more appropriate.

“The everyday boots will do,” Maedhros nodded, then pointed at the mirror after Elrond had pulled them on. “Check your hair.”

“You can see whether or not it is acceptable,” Elrond pointed out, eager to go.

“Yes, I can, but you should get in the habit of checking it for yourself,” Maedhros said patiently. “I will not always be there to check it for you.”

His cousins had once had cross words over Maedhros’ habit of mentioning that the adults around them might not always be there. Elrond, though he had at first found it a little unsettling, now found it reassuring in a way. He had expected other grownups to always be there, like Nana and Aunt Lalwen, and it had been extremely upsetting when they suddenly weren’t. Maedhros’ matter of fact approach to the uncertainty of life in Beleriand seemed honest by comparison. And as Maedhros had pointed out to Makalaurë, the important thing was that he knew his older cousins would keep him safe.

“My hair is presentable,” Elrond announced, after looking in the glass to confirm it.

“Very good,” Maedhros said, gesturing that they could now get under way.

He led the way down to the courtyard, where Elrond found that a groom had Maedhros’ horse waiting.

“Worry not, young Elrond,” Maedhros smiled. “We are only going as far as the guardhouse. We will meet our guests there.”

To the groom, he added, “Please find Varilon and ask him to collect Elros from the kitchens at the end of the hour.”

Though Elrond was now learning to ride, the journey down to the guardhouse was not one he could safely make on his pony, for though as neatly finished as any other aspect of Amon Ereb, the path down from the main fortress was steep. As yet, he had only mastered walking on level ground, and always under the watchful eye of Roquendil, the Master of the Horse.

They could have gone on foot, but Elrond knew that would take longer.

“Who do you guess we are going to meet?” Elrond asked as they passed out of the tunnel below the watch tower and came into the guardhouse courtyard.

“I no longer guess,” Maedhros replied. “For I can see their banner now. Once I have spoken to the watch, I will take you up onto the wall so that you may see it also. They are bringing word from our cousin Artanaro.”

“Who is Artanaro?” Elrond said, puzzled. He didn’t actually have many cousins, so to have one he hadn’t heard of was unusual.

“You probably know him as Gil-galad, for I believe that is his Sindarin name,” Maedhros explained patiently.

“Oh, yes,” Elrond exclaimed, wondering why under the stars Maedhros hadn’t just called him Gil-galad in the first place. “He sent us the pretty windows for our birthday.”

“You mean begetting day,” Maedhros said in the tone he used when he was correcting them without thinking. His eyes were focused on something off in the distance.

“No,” Elrond shook his head, certain that he had spoken correctly the first time. “We don’t have a begetting day.”

He knew most elves had begetting days, but Nana had always celebrated the day of their birth.

“Everyone has a begetting day.”

Elrond was surprised to hear that for once it was his cousin who sounded puzzled. Usually it was himself or his twin.

“Maybe Nana didn’t know when ours was,” he shrugged, unconcerned. As long as there was a day celebrated, did it really matter what it was called? But as long as his cousin had brought up the subject, he should make sure Maedhros knew when it was… “Our birthday is at the end of Coirë.”

“Hail, my princes,” called a voice from the archway of the guardhouse.

Pelendur, the captain of the guard, was there.

“Hello, Pelendur,” Elrond said politely, surprised again at seeing him there. He was fairly sure Pelendur was normally inspecting the armory or leading the grown elves in drills at this time of day, for it was close to the hour when he gave the twins and Glinwen lessons on how to use a sword or bow, how to defend themselves if they had no such weapon, and how to judge whether or not unknown quendi or atani were likely to be friends or foes before it could come to a fight.

“What news?” Maedhros asked.

“It will be another hour at least before they reach us,” Pelendur replied. “It is a small party, I make it two court officials and less than a dozen guards.”

“That isn’t very many,” Elrond said dubiously, having already learned that to travel safely over long distances meant to travel with a large party, complete with scouts and guards.

“Well spotted, young prince,” Pelendur agreed, looking pleased that Elrond had understood this. “They probably counted on speed being a better defense than numbers.”

“How is speed a defense?” Elrond asked curiously.

“You have two choices when there are enemies about,” Pelendur explained. “You can fight them, or you can run. Outrunning them is a form of defense.”

“Just not a very permanent one,” Maedhros snorted. “Come, Elrond. We will go up the gate tower, and I will show you Gil-galad’s banner before I explain to you what behavior I expect when the messengers arrive.”

“Behavior to make a good impression?” Elrond predicted.

"Indeed," Maedhros agreed.

Note: For anyone curious, I've been picturing something along the lines of Burg Hohenzollern when I think about Amon Ereb - a hilltop castle with a commanding view and multiple levels any enemy would have to assault to take it. Hope the writing is clear enough without having to look up photos!

Elros tried not to be too out of sorts as his tutor Varilon herded him toward the baths.

True, he had gotten to make cake for the first time this afternoon, which neither he or his brother had never done before, and Elrond had not. But he would very much have liked to go with Elrond and Maedhros to learn diplomacy, whatever that was. And meet whoever was coming, which sounded interesting even if diplomacy turned out to be boring.

It wasn’t that he’d meant to dump flour all over himself, the countertop, the floor, and everything in between. He just hadn’t expected the flour sack to be so heavy, was all. It looked so light when Lerien lifted it, and she was smaller and wispier than the nissi who worked in the forges or with the draft horses. He would have been more cautious approaching something they lifted, for he well knew they could lift more than he could.

He was probably lucky he’d gotten to learn about cakes. That had sounded like the cooks trying to console him about missing out on what Elrond was getting to do.

At least he’d learned something this afternoon. That seemed to be quite important to Maedhros, that both he and his brother learned something new in the schoolroom and out of it every day. They were usually asked at dinner what they’d learned that day – and not always by their cousins, either.

Their days here were very different from what they’d been in Sirion. Life at Amon Ereb was busy.

Makalaurë had helped them to make their beds the first morning, but the next morning he had shown them how they would be expected to do it from then on. They had help from the grownups only on days when the bedding was changed – mostly because they were too small to change the duvet covers on their own. (Elros had tried. He’d gotten himself hopelessly tangled. Maedhros had asked him in bemusement how he’d ended up inside the cover instead of the duvet.)

Either Makalaurë or Maedhros supervised their dressing, though aside from telling them if it would be an indoor or outdoor day, they generally left the choice of what to wear to the twins. Some days Elros and Elrond agreed on what they would wear, and matched all day long. Other days there was no agreement and each wore a different outfit. Their cousins never seemed to mind either way.

The twins had quickly learned that when it came to ‘getting dressed’ tasks they needed help with, Maedhros could do boot laces with only one hand, but brushing and braiding their hair was always Makalaurë’s responsibility. Elrond had attempted his own braids one morning while Makalaurë was still working on Elros, but discovered that even with two hands, it was not as easy as his cousin made it look. It was rare for Elrond to have such trouble with something, so Elros was in no particular hurry to try braiding if it was so complicated that Elrond found it a challenge.

They ate breakfast with their cousins in the small hall unless it was a special day like Midwinter, when everything had been festive and all meals were served in the great hall.

Then Glinwen would join them for lessons in the library or the schoolroom for several hours – in the library if it was a day Maedhros or Makalaurë was teaching them, the schoolroom if it was a Varilon day. (At first, they had lessons in their sitting room for those days. But the view from the windows, not to mention the nearby toy chests, offered too many distractions, so Varilon had gotten permission to turn an unused room into a proper schoolroom. Elros had not liked the change until he discovered Varilon could do things that might be messy in the schoolroom, like when he showed them how crystals formed.)

Lunch varied – sometimes in the small hall, sometimes in the great hall, occasionally even in their own sitting room. Then in the afternoon there would be lessons of the non-schoolroom sort, riding or archery or how to take proper care of animals or any number of things. With spring approaching, Maedhros had promised that once the weather improved, some days they would also get to go outside the fortress, to visit the village and begin learning more about the land around Amon Ereb.

Once the afternoon lessons concluded, they usually had a few hours of playtime before dinner. Their cousins had brought their toys from home for them, but quite a few had been added, particularly once Maedhros discovered they liked building things. Their block set had more than doubled in size, and the woodworkers frequently passed them new pieces to add to it. They could build much finer and more detailed cities now, and if they wanted to, had all the pieces they needed to recreate Amon Ereb itself in miniature. Even better, it was generally easy to persuade Makalaurë and Maedhros to join them in the construction!

On clear days they were allowed to play outside in the courtyard, but on wet or snowy days, they had to stay inside – not as much of a hardship here as it had been in Sirion, for they had free run of the main fortress so long as they stayed off the walls and observed proper courtesies like not entering private rooms, disturbing adults at their tasks, or touching things that did not belong to them. Most of what was in the storerooms, for example. No matter how fascinating the many chests were…

They’d only poked into the storerooms the once, because Maedhros had given them a scolding – Elrond in particular, making Maedhros the first person in the twins’ experience to correctly determine when it had been Elrond at fault – and told them that when they were older, they could have responsibility for all those chests if they liked, but right now their contents would do better without sticky fingerprints from elflings who didn’t remember to wash their hands after the snack the kitchens should not have let them have.

Dinner might be just them and their cousins, ‘family dinner’, but it might also be in the great hall, where they would be expected to sit at the high table and use their good manners. Elros quite liked great hall nights, except for the rare occasions Makalaurë decided that formal dress was necessary. The fancy tunics and shiny boots he did not mind, but he privately thought the circlet might have been an invention of the Enemy.

He knew better than to protest it, though, after Elrond had gotten nowhere with that tack. He had also given up on hiding his. Elros had been amazed to discover that their cousins were quite good at finding hidden circlets. They didn’t even comment on what he thought were very creative hiding places, just plopped the stupid thing right back on his head and clipped it into place.

After dinner was bathtime (assuming it hadn’t been necessary before dinner, which for Elros it often was) and then storytime. While the twins sometimes asked for stories from books, most often whichever cousin put them to bed simply told them a tale from his own head with no need for it to be written out.

Remembering what Maedhros had said earlier, Elros did not give Varilon trouble about the bath. Well, not much – it would have been awfully boring to take a bath as quickly as Varilon thought was possible. But he did get out the second time he was asked, and got dressed immediately, and didn’t fuss when Varilon pulled when brushing his hair. (Varilon was not nearly as good as Makalaurë at hair.)

He was somewhat disappointed to discover that it was family dinner tonight, for he’d been looking forward to telling people in the great hall that he’d helped make the cakes. He got to tell Makalaurë, but it was not quite the same – especially since he suspected Makalaurë already knew.

“Cheer up, young one, it is not the last time you will get to make the cakes,” Maedhros told him as he dished out a more generous portion of baked leek and less ham than Elros would have liked. “Next time you do, we will dine at the high table and you can tell the entire hall if you like. Now, what did you learn from Varilon today?”

“We learned about the Noldor coming to Beleriand from Aman,” Elrond answered, looking entirely too pleased about the leeks. The cheese it’s baked with is really good, Elros.

“Elros?” Makalaurë prompted. Their cousins had decided that letting Elrond talk for both of them was not enough – they wanted to hear each of them say what they learned.

“Burning ships is a bad idea,” Elros answered at once.

Makalaurë coughed, as if the wine he’d been drinking hadn’t agreed with him.

Don’t say the thing about checking the ships first, Elrond reminded him urgently, while apparently focused entirely on eating his dinner. Varilon said you shouldn’t.

I know, I didn’t forget! Elros retorted, making sure to shove a heaping forkful of cheesy leeks into his mouth to cover that he wasn’t speaking out loud.

“Indeed,” Maedhros agreed. “Sadly, Atar thought otherwise. Slightly smaller bites, please, Elros. I shouldn’t like to see you choke.”

Elrond looked up from his own plate, interested at their cousins’ reactions.

“You thought burning the ships was a bad idea, too?” Elros asked, before Elrond could finish chewing.

“I thought it would be wiser to bring all our forces across at once,” Maedhros said. “To do that, we needed ships.”

“Why didn’t everyone do what you said?” Elros demanded.

“Maedhros was not in charge at the time,” Makalaurë answered. “And our father was not inclined to listen to his counsel.”

Both twins exchanged doubtful looks. They knew their cousins’ father was dead, but they hadn’t gotten to the part of the history of the Noldor where that happened yet. (Elros was rather looking forward to it. Uncle Fëanaro didn’t sound very nice even before the burning of the ships.)

“What did you learn this afternoon, besides how to make a large mess?” Maedhros asked, before either of the twins could ask about their uncle and why he hadn’t listened.

“How to make cakes, of course!” Elros replied at once. “And that flour is heavier than you’d think for something so light.”

He was slightly annoyed that both his cousins looked like they were trying not to laugh. Flour looked fluffy and snowy, but when you put a lot of it in one place…

“I learned about diplomacy,” said Elrond, sounding as though he wasn’t entirely sure exactly what he had learned.

“Do I get to learn about diplomacy?” Elros asked, looking to Maedhros hopefully.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” his cousin answered thoughtfully, with a look at Makalaurë that Elros didn’t understand. “But only if you first show me you can keep yourself out of mischief.”

With that potential reward, Elros managed to go to bed without protest, listen patiently to the bedtime story even though it was more an Elrond sort of story, with not much happening – something about trees and light, but as usual, it had no happy ending when Elros asked what happened next after Makalaurë finished.

It confused him greatly, because he’d heard some of the stories the atani who visited Sirion to trade told their children, and people in those stories always lived happily ever after. The stories the elves told almost never ended with everyone living happily ever after, even though you would think they should, since elves weren’t meant to die like atani did. (There was one story that ended with the king and queen living happily ever after, but Elros could tell that even Makalaurë thought the Vanyar were a bit boring and had only told it so Elros wouldn’t think the elves had no stories that didn’t end with someone dying or going away for a very long time.)

It was no comfort that Maedhros had been just as puzzled when he asked about the stories.

“I suppose the atani tell stories of the way they want the world to be,” he had said with a shrug. “Elves tell stories about the way the world is.”

Elros waited until the lights were out and their cousins had left, believing them well on the way to sleep, before he tried his brother. They had quickly discovered that Maedhros couldn’t tell if they talked to each other in their heads once the lights were out!

Well? he asked. What was diplomacy like? And what is it?

I am not entirely sure, Elrond replied, sounding a bit confused. Maedhros had me stand with him when he greeted the messengers cousin Gil-galad sent, and I got to say 'welcome' as well. Oh, and before they were in the room he told me to observe them. They looked like normal folk to me, except the one who actually carried the letter – he was dressed fancier than the others. I suppose he must be the one Pelendur called a court official.

So what happened? Elros prompted, expecting something dramatic.

The court official returned our greeting and then handed over the letter from Gil-galad. Maedhros told our guards to prepare rooms for Gil-galad’s messenger and guards – except he had a fancy word for them, ret-in-you - in the guardhouse and make them comfortable, and said they would have his reply on the morrow. Then they bowed and the guards took them to wherever they’ll stay, I guess. We rode back up, and Maedhros asked me questions about what I’d observed. He wanted to know if I recognized any of the guards or the messenger, and if we’d been to Balar before, and what I thought about the messenger’s manners.

Elros snickered.

It wasn’t as odd a question as you think, Elrond added. Their manners weren’t very good. Their greeting was… not what it should have been. They were not polite as people were to Naneth when she was being Queen. Maedhros is a prince, and the lord of Amon Ereb, so they should treat him as politely, I would have thought, since he is the one in charge here.

Queen is more important than prince, Elros pointed out.

Yes, I know, but prince is not nothing. And don’t our cousins tell us it is important to be polite to everyone?

That was true, and Elros had been scolded often enough for being surly when he was out of sorts about baths or not getting to run outside to play during lessons that he knew their cousins sincerely meant it. They expected the twins to treat everyone at Amon Ereb courteously, and being out of sorts or tired was not an acceptable excuse for bad manners.

It would have been nicer if Gil-galad had sent someone we knew, he told Elrond. Then maybe Maedhros would let us send a message of our own back. But he probably will say that we don’t write well enough to show people we don’t know our letters yet.

Elrond’s tengwar were not as neat and elegant as Varilon or Makalaurë’s, but they generally found his progress praiseworthy. (Maedhros had told them his handwriting was not a good example for them to follow, since he had to learn to write again as an adult, for the hand he didn’t have had been his writing hand. Elros was so horrified at the thought of having to go through all this bother a second time that he had firmly resolved that should he ever have to lose a hand, he’d make sure it wasn’t the one he wrote with.) Elros’ tengwar were still so sloppy that the adults often pronounced themselves unable to tell the difference between many of them.

You would write much better if you would not let yourself be distracted so often, Elrond said encouragingly. Anyway, I might be able to write a letter good enough to send, if someone will help me spell out words. You could sign your name at the end. You do that well enough, I think. It is the one word no one ever complains about on your slate.

What would you write? Elros asked. Do you really think Maedhros would let us? I thought he would say we can’t ask for special favors from elves we don’t know.

I don’t see why he would say no, Elrond replied. After all, they rode all this way to bring a letter, and they’re going to take a reply back. They can carry two letters as easily as one. Ours wouldn’t be a very big letter, or heavy enough to be a bother. We should at least tell Gil-galad hello, Nana always wrote something in her letters for us, but I do not think Maedhros would know that.

If I am very careful and practice tomorrow without complaining, Elros decided, then Maedhros might be more likely to say yes.

There was no reply from Elrond, so Elros repeated himself.

Don’t you think? he added.

It is worth trying, Elrond agreed, sounding sleepy.

What diplomacy do you think Maedhros will let us try tomorrow? Elros asked, wondering if it would be more standing and observing, or if diplomacy got more exciting.

There was no reply.

Elros sighed, and tried to settle down enough to sleep. No matter how curious he was, he wouldn’t find out anything else until the morning at least. And he’d already learned that morning didn’t come any faster if you stayed awake.

Maedhros sighed to himself as his council filed into the chamber they usually met in when the occasion called for it.
It hadn’t been unexpected.

Maedhros had known better than to hope that the Sindar would give up hope of recovering their princes so easily, much less that the Noldor on Balar would not want Eärendil’s sons well away from the Dispossessed before the Oath could rear its ugly head again.

The only surprise was that the demand had been so long in coming – and that it was such a lowly delegation that had been sent.

He would have understood it if the junior functionary sent to him was someone who could actually recognize the boys, but little Elrond had said it was no one he knew – and anyone who hadn’t seen children of their age recently enough for Elrond to recall him wasn’t anyone who could count on recognizing whether or not the children before him were the right ones.

Then again, perhaps the court on Balar expected him to do as he understood some of the moratani did and kill the messenger.

He had already read the letter, and sent orders down to the guardhouse that the courier and his escort were to be kept comfortable but not allowed beyond their own rooms until he sent for them later in the day. They could hardly complain when they’d been given spacious guest quarters, including a common room, and had food sent down from the great hall for them at dinner.

Besides, he had already allowed them more than they’d expected – a glimpse of one of the peredhil twins. He’d meant to take both boys with him to greet the messenger yesterday, but Elros had managed to turn what should have been a simple lesson in the kitchen into a minor disaster, so taking him hadn’t been an option.

He would need to make sure the couriers saw both boys at the same time before they departed, lest the absence of Elros – or only seeing them separately – spark a rumor that one was dead.

He passed the letter to his brother, whose eyes flicked back and forth quickly, mouth occasionally pursing as he read – knowing Makalaurë, the pinched looks were occasioned by the awkward and inelegant phrasing as much as by the demand to have the children returned.

No, ‘surrendered’. As though they were spoils of war or vanquished foes instead of little boys.

He chuckled inwardly at the thought that his brother had most certainly taken exception to that line.

The boys in question were currently well-occupied, with Varilon teaching them their family tree from Finwë on – hopefully giving them something other than Fëanaro to think on. Were it not for the pressing business of dealing with Gil-galad, he would have taken today’s lesson himself, for it sounded as if the twins had reached the point where they needed to have the ‘yes, Uncle Fëanaro was quite crazy’ conversation he had known would eventually be necessary.

Given Elrond’s natural affinity for stories and lore, genealogy should keep him occupied the entire day. He would probably have to be convinced that riding practice after lunch was necessary. Elros, on the other hand, would likely lose interest and ask to go play with his puppy by mid-morning. But he did enjoy stories, so hopefully it would be a few hours at least before he tried his tutor’s patience.

Maedhros had looked in on the schoolroom briefly before coming to the council chamber. All three children had been listening raptly to Varilon, who had instructions to remember to speak of Irimë and the Arafinwions, Findarato and Artanis in particular, rather than focusing only on Nolofinwë’s line.

He was not sure what to make of the lack of demand for Glinwen’s return. Perhaps the lords of Balar thought the girl dead. He certainly hoped that was all it was, and made a mental note to mention her by name in his reply.

He had briefly toyed with the notion of sending the girl back with Gil-galad’s couriers, for while no one could argue his competency in raising young Noldor, he would be the first to admit his ignorance when it came to what a young Sinda should be taught. He had just as quickly discarded the idea as impractical for several reasons, first and foremost being the child’s safety. He wouldn’t send an elfling with an escort of less than twice the number that had ridden hence from the mouths of Sirion.

The environs of Amon Ereb were still safe, for his patrols kept it free of orcs. But the Andram was not, and raiding parties could descend swiftly, spotting prey from their lairs in the hills long before any scout could recognize the danger. If they were mounted on wolves, only skilled riders would be able to outrun them. Glinwen was as yet no more a rider than Elrond.

When Makalaurë finished reading the letter to himself, he read it out loud, in a neutral voice, that all present would know its contents. There were a few moments of silence after he finished, as the other neri in the room absorbed what they had heard and considered their responses.

“What say you, my lords?” Maedhros asked.

Not that he didn’t already know how he wished to answer, but he wanted to hear the thoughts of his loyal counselors and captains.

“I say it’s a ridiculous demand,” Pelendur snapped. “Yes, we got the children here safely enough, but that was with a quarter of our total strength on the move with them. How does Gil-Galad expect us to ensure their safety all the way back to Arvenien? Or does he propose sending a ship to the eastern side of the bay to collect them?”

“Even then, it would hardly be any better,” Roquendil pointed out, his brow furrowed as he considered options. “The danger would be the same no matter the end destination, for we either secure the road or risk the forest. This is the worst time of the year to travel, with winter waning. There can be a blizzard one day with everything melting and turning the land to a mire the next. There is ice on Gelion yet, but not necessarily strong enough for sleds, so we cannot use the river to speed the journey. And we have no scouts left that know the forest well...”

“You talk of the manner of giving them up,” Handelon interrupted. “Speak first of whether or not we should!”

“This is not about whether or not we like the children,” Tercender sighed. “It is plain enough that we would all rather have them stay.”

“No, speak freely,” Maedhros ordered. “I would hear your reasoning. Particularly if there is more to your thought than how sorry we would be to bid them farewell.”

“I think I follow Handelon,” Pelendur said slowly. “It would be one thing to return the children to their own parents. But the girl is an orphan with no remaining kin, and Eärendil has not been seen on these shores in some years. Had he returned, either he would have written himself, or the lords of Balar would have made sure to tell us of his return, for we would be clearly in the wrong to keep the boys from their father.”

“Are we less in the wrong to keep them from Gil-galad?” Makalaurë asked, still in his neutral council voice, which gave away nothing of his own thoughts.

“With all respect, my princes, I say yes,” Handelon said. “And I doubt I speak for myself only in that.”

When he saw the expectant looks on both his lords’ faces, he continued.

“It would be one thing to hand them over at the command of a Noldor king,” he explained. “But this Gil-galad is Noldo by birth only, and scarce more than a child himself, not even of age yet. Had he been raised by his father, among other Noldor as he ought to have been, I would not object. But he was not. He has been surrounded by Sindar and Falathrim all his life, and knows little of our ways. He has not even mastered our tongue - he writes a letter his father would have blushed for in a thirty-year-old!”

“You are saying that you do not trust him with the young princes?”

Pelendur snorted.

“Forgive me, my prince,” he said, “but I for one do not. Should the worst happen and you and your brother fall, I will look to those boys upstairs before I look to this so-called Noldoran on Balar. If it’s a choice between a child and a child, I’d rather one of these children. At least I know they’ll not condemn me on sight. And you’re teaching them better sense than Gil-galad has shown so far.”

“They have the better claim in any case,” someone muttered.

“Itarillë did not proclaim herself High Queen,” Maedhros pointed out, looking around trying to identify who had spoken. “Nor have we ever had a ruling Queen.”

“That does not mean her son’s claim was forfeit,” Handelon argued.

“Aye, better her blood, even diluted with atani and Sindar, than some untried pup who cannot even speak to us in our own words,” declared Tercender. “Itarillë took it on herself to save what could be saved from Ondolindë. Her atan fought in defense of the Noldor. Her son seeks to aid the free peoples, even if I doubt he’ll succeed. What has that boy on Balar ever done? Run away? Hidden on an island and relied on Ulmo to protect his people for him?”

“It was to Nolofinwë you ceded your right, my prince,” Handelon added. “Not to Findarato. As such, I do not see how any of the house of Arafinwë may claim the crown while the line of Nolofinwë survives in Endorë.”

Maedhros frowned. If it had been only one of his lords speaking so, he might have ignored it. But looking around his Council, he saw looks and murmurs of agreement on all sides.

“It’s plain enough we can’t keep the young princes here forever, my prince,” Pelendur said. “But you could at least keep them long enough to train them properly. They’re quick learners – look how far they’ve come with the language in but a few months. Let them stay and learn how to be princes and kings from those who know what they’re about. Amon Ereb is in no imminent danger. You are their kin, and have as much right to them as the king on Balar.”

“The king on Balar will certainly disagree, and we would be hard put to win an argument of who is closer kin. Not to mention the Sindar may be moved to attack us for withholding their princes,” Makalaurë pointed out.

“Their king, you mean,” Maedhros corrected. “The letter is clear enough that Queen Elwing has not been seen any more than her husband has. By my lights, that means the boy I had to fish out of the fountain in my courtyard this morning is a king.”

Handelon laughed, while most of the other lords did their best to suppress grins. Maedhros caught at least one quiet ‘long live King Elros.’

“The king on Balar won’t thank you for pointing that out.”

“The king on Balar is unlikely to thank me no matter what I do,” Maedhros snorted.

“Nor is he likely to be pleased that we are holding a boy who can claim the kingship of both the Noldor and the Sindar,” Makalaurë shrugged.

One king, Maedhros thought suddenly, feeling both amazement and a touch of bitterness at the thought. One king for both peoples. Is that not what we have needed all these years, a leader both sides would follow? And now that it may be too late, we have one.

“It is not the Sindar I am concerned with,” Pelendur said dismissively. “I notice their lords have not written to you. We are discussing a purely Noldorin matter. You may have abdicated your crown, but you are still the boys’ elder kinsman and by our laws, have every right to assume guardianship of your orphaned cousins.”

Maedhros glanced at his brother, who gave a subtle nod.

“I thank you, my lords. You have given me much to think on. I must now reflect on how best to answer King Gil-galad.”

There was a round of polite bows as the others took their leave, until only Makalaurë remained.

“Well?” Maedhros asked. “You studied the law just as I did.”

“Then you know as well as I do that Pelendur has the right of it,” Makalaurë answered ruefully. “Gil-galad would have been wiser to make the case that he is closer kin to the boys, for I believe there is a double relation between them, through his mother as well as his father. But even so, you are the eldest of the House of Finwë on these shores, and if we were to judge according to our laws, that and having the boys already settled here would surely settle the matter in our favor.”

“According to what impartial judge?”

“Yes, well,” Makalaurë sniffed. “There are no judges in this case, are there? It comes down to whatever you decide.”

“Wonderful,” Maedhros said sardonically. “My decisions always end well.”

His brother sighed.

“I cannot say that mine have gone much better. At any rate, I see it thus: the boy has written to you as the High King of the Noldor. He made no mention of the Sindar beyond Celeborn and Oropher’s demand to know that their young kinsman are well. Again, had he claimed to speak for both peoples, or to be acting in accordance with Queen Elwing’s wishes, he would have strengthened his position. Nor did he have Artanis write in support of his claim – and she would certainly have produced a more compelling argument, possibly even testimony as to what Queen Elwing intended for her sons. Gil-galad is young, and not very well advised, it would seem. I believe he means well, but I would not entrust him with children.”

Maedhros sighed at the unfortunate accuracy of his brother’s comment. If the boy king’s advisors could not guide him better than this, it did not bode well for the education of Eärendil’s sons if they were sent to Balar. And they would need the best education they could get – for even if one recognized Gil-Galad as the Noldoran, Elros was the Sindaran, with poor little Elrond his brother's heir at least until they came of age.

“You had already decided, had you not?” Makalaurë asked shrewdly.

“In truth, no,” Maedhros replied quietly. “I knew what I wanted to do, but what I have wanted to do and what duty has demanded I do rarely coincide. And I did not suspect that so many of our folk felt no allegiance to Artaresto’s son, or that they would transfer their loyalties to the twins before they would look to him.”

“And now that you know?”

“Now that I know, my duty and my wishes for once align,” Maedhros said. “The boys will go to Balar – when they are older. They shall remain here as long as it is safe for us to keep them. We will not ‘surrender’ them until we have taught them all we can. When that day comes, we will send young Gil-galad not just the twins, but the surety that all the Noldor will stand behind him in the fight against the Enemy.”

Makalaurë fought down a wave of nervousness.

He’d been High King of the Noldor, fought in battles so horrible he didn’t like to think on them, and lived with the Oath for long enough that he sometimes had trouble recalling his life before it. Yet he was irrationally nervous about taking two boys of six in to dinner.

He understood his older brother’s reasoning, of course.

Thanks to Elros’ kitchen mishap yesterday, the messenger and guards sent from Balar had seen only one of Elwing’s sons. Given that the Doom of the Noldor had promised treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, it would not take much for the lords around Gil-galad to worry that one twin had died – and once they had such an idea in their heads, it would be hard to dislodge.

So, much as he would rather not have had them inside the main fortress, Maedhros had decided there was little choice but to invite the messenger and several of his guard to dinner.

That, unfortunately, meant dinner this evening would be formal. And that meant the usual protests.

“Why do we have to wear circlets?”

“Because you are princes of the Noldor and the Sindar, and princes wear circlets when they dress formally,” Makalaurë rattled off. The explanation was practically rote by now, and he did not miss a beat braiding Elrond’s hair as he gave it.
At least there had been no attempts to hide them tonight – Elros, the usual culprit, was far too focused on getting to see diplomacy to dare it this evening.

“We never had to wear circlets when we dined at the high table with Nana,” Elros pointed out crossly. “She wore a circlet, but we didn’t have to.”

“That may be,” Makalaurë replied. “But unfortunately, your naneth is not here, which makes you two the highest ranking Sindarin royalty here – and that means you have to wear your circlet. Otherwise it is quite insulting to the messenger.”

Elros’ face was still screwed up into a frown that Makalaurë was starting to suspect was an inheritance from Thingol himself, but he cocked his head to one side thoughtfully.

“Is this part of diplomacy?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yes, it is,” Makalaurë replied, seizing on the topic the boy had been so curious about with some relief. “Diplomacy is how we manage relations between peoples. When a messenger is sent, you must deal with the messenger as if you are dealing with the lord or king who sent him. Would you refuse to wear your circlet if Gil-galad were here?”

“We don’t have to wear circlets for cousins!” Elrond interjected.

“Yes, but the messenger did not come from Cousin Gil-galad,” Makalaurë explained, stressing cousin. “He was sent by King Gil-galad.”

He hoped he was not confusing the boys with the distinction, but he had heard them talk before about Nana when she was Nana and Nana when she was Queen, so he hoped they would be able to understand the same was true for their cousin.

“Very well,” Elros sighed. “But we will be allowed to ask about our letter if we wear them, right?”

Makalaurë smiled.

To his surprise, rather than run around outside on a rare sunny day, the twins had asked to spend their free time after their riding lesson with him, so he could help Elrond (and Elros) spell words as they wrote a letter of their own to Gil-galad.

Elrond’s contribution was quite well-written for one so young, and reflected how much his vocabulary had been expanding in Maedhros’ company. His handwriting was still that of a child, but Makalaurë thought it quite promising.

Elros had written only a single paragraph after Elrond had finished, though it was doubtful that anyone other than himself and his twin would be able to read most of it. Makalaurë had showered the boy with praise all the same, for he had been at great pains to put forth his best work. The tengwar were far clearer than his usual efforts, and the words ‘horse’, ‘cousin’, ‘riding’, ‘love’ and ‘Elros’ were all quite legible.

“Yes, if you are well-behaved, including wearing your circlets as you should, there is no reason you will not be able to ask the messenger if he will take your letter back also.”

He did not tell the boys that the answer was a foregone conclusion. Gil-galad would probably clap the messenger into whatever passed for a prison on Balar if the fool confessed to having refused to bear a letter from the ‘captive’ princes.

“There, Elrond.”

The younger twin checked his appearance in the mirror, and then looked expectantly at Makalaurë.

“We can go down now?”

“Yes, I think so. Now remember, boys – best behavior tonight. If you misbehave, Gil-galad’s messenger is liable to tell him you’re learning all sorts of bad behavior here.”

“We’re learning lots of things, but not bad behavior,” Elros said blithely.

“I am glad to hear it,” Makalaurë said as they proceeded to the stairs. “Because good behavior is generally required for diplomacy.”

Elros sighed.

“I think diplomacy is not so interesting as I thought it would be,” he announced.

But he slipped his hand into his cousin’s all the same, and began to cheerfully speculate on what dinner might be, hopefully naming several of his favorite dishes.

Makalaurë was unsurprised to feel a second little hand creep into his own as well. When they reached the level of the great hall, however, he tried to withdraw his hands. It would be better for the boys to be seen walking in on their own.

Elros did not seem to mind, and continued merrily on his way, not even waiting for his brother, as he caught sight of the kennel master just inside the door and wanted to ask how the puppies did – all of them in general and his in particular.

But Elrond frowned and refused to let go.

“You are a prince, little one,” he reminded him softly. Usually that was enough to keep both boys from naughtiness in front of the entire hall.

“Yes, I am,” Elrond agreed with a small smile. “A prince of the Sindar and the Noldor. Which means that King Gil-galad’s messenger can’t say it is not right if I want to walk in with you, because he will be Noldor like you and Maedhros and will not know what the Sindar think is proper.”

Makalaurë caught the impish gleam in the boy’s eye.

“Glinwen will know,” he pointed out, hoping that this last ditch appeal to a somewhat dubious higher authority might work.

“She won’t tell,” Elrond said airily. “She likes it here too, you know. And she’s worried you’ll send her away.”

“Very well, little one, you win,” he sighed.

They entered the hall together, and Makalaurë was relieved to see that Elros had at least kept his conversation brief before moving on, and was mostly making his way directly to the high table. (It was unthinkable by now that the more outgoing twin wouldn’t stop to talk to at least half a dozen people on the way to his seat, but his cousins were both hoping that tonight he might choose to make the royal messenger one of them.)

Elrond smiled, but steered a course toward his seat without stopping to converse. Makalaurë thought he was very like young Turukano, and would likely have met with his grandmother Anairë’s approval for his calm demeanor and model deportment.

When they reached the table, there was a momentary standoff as the twins discovered that Glinwen, who normally sat between them, had been displaced in favor of Gil-galad’s messenger. She and Nyellië had moved several places down, and would sit to Makalaurë’s left. Elros was not pleased by the change.

“That is where Glinwen sits!” he protested, sounding somewhat scandalized that she had been moved.

“Guests are traditionally given a place of honor, young one,” Maedhros pointed out.

He had already been in the hall, stuck as he was in the role of the good host.

“And as Gildor has two sides, we thought it best to put him between the pair of you,” Maedhros continued. “Otherwise I would be hearing complaints from at least one of you two about the great injustice of your brother getting to sit next to the guest while you did not.”

Elros was silent for a moment, and Makalaurë saw Elrond not quite chew on his lip before both twins nodded and took their seats with no further fuss.

“Hello, Gildor,” Elros said cheerfully. “Was it a very long journey from Balar?”

The hapless messenger looked rather flummoxed by the nonchalant question.

Elrond was slightly more restrained.

“Greetings Gildor,” Elrond told him politely. “I am pleased to see you looking refreshed after your journey.”

Makalaurë hadn’t told him that was the appropriate phrase, so he could only suppose it had come from Maedhros.
It was perhaps as well that the first course arrived just then – and that Elros, for once, did not protest at salad.

Elros kept up a steady stream of chatter throughout the meal, to the point where Makalaurë wasn’t sure whether to be relieved that it entirely prevented Gildor from engaging himself or his brother in conversation, amused, or sorry for the hapless courier, for Elros had never met an elf who was not a friend and cheerfully told him about puppies, ponies, making snow stars in the courtyard, and learning to slide on ice in between quiet injunctions from Maedhros to please remember to chew, rather than try to swallow his food whole to avoid the ban on talking with one’s mouth full.

Makalaurë was relieved that both boys showed their usual hearty appetite without being in such a hurry over their food as to appear as though they did not usually eat well. He would be happy when the courier was gone again, for having to think so much about something as simple as children eating dinner was tiring.

Glinwen, too, was eating well, and even exclaimed in delight at the fennel and carrot soup – a particular favorite of hers that was not often served.

The twins bided their time, waiting until they were being led from the table to prepare for bed. It was somewhat earlier than they usually left the hall, but Maedhros preferred not to have either one falling asleep at table before guests, charming though most of Amon Ereb usually found it, and Elrond had already climbed quietly into Makalaurë’s lap – generally a sign that he was tired and would soon fall asleep.

“Please, Master Gildor, would you do us a favor?” asked Elrond asked as he stood to leave.

The bemused courier was hardly in a position to say no.

“Of course, young Elrond, if it is in my power.”

“Would you carry a letter to our cousin Gil-galad for us please?”

“Only,” Elros added hastily, “it is a letter to our cousin Gil-galad, not the king Gil-galad.”

Several elves nearby covered their mouths at this emphatic distinction, to be sure the elflings did not think they were being laughed at. Makalaurë tried not to sigh, for this was not what he’d had in mind earlier.

“We thought perhaps since you are going back to Balar, you would not mind,” Elrond explained at his most polite, “for it is not a very big letter.”

“It would be my honor,” Gildor assured them, receiving the letter with a bow. “I will deliver it into your cousin’s hands at the first opportunity.”

“Thank you, Gildor,” both boys chorused.

“Will you also give him hugs for us?” Elros asked urgently. “Like this!”

He demonstrated with a particularly enthusiastic example, which might be uncomfortably strong if reproduced faithfully by the nearly grown ner Gil-galad had sent to them.

“Varilon will take you upstairs, boys,” Makalaurë told them quietly. “I will be up shortly to tell you a story and tuck you in.”

The twins nodded, and gave both Glinwen and Maedhros more normal good night hugs before they departed.
Makalaurë gave an internal sigh of relief. They had managed to get through Elros’ first experience of ‘diplomacy’ without incident, and hopefully to satisfy the party from Balar that both boys were healthy and well-treated.

He found Gildor regarding him thoughtfully.

“Did you wish to read the letter, my lord?” he asked courteously.

“That is hardly necessary,” Makalaurë replied easily. “I served as the boys’ dictionary as they wrote. Though other than that, the message is entirely of their own making, for they asked to write.”

“Elros even gave up the opportunity to play outside to take part,” Maedhros added, “which is a rare concession for him. They must be quite fond of Gil-galad.”

“As to that, I could not say, my lords,” Gildor responded, putting the letter carefully into a pocket in his tunic. “He has visited Sirion, but I was not among those who accompanied him, so I have not seen him with the children.”

Makalaurë couldn’t help agreeing with his brother that it was odd indeed for the King on Balar to send a messenger who did not know the children, who could have no basis for comparison to their normal behavior.

“If you wish to have words with Glinwen,” Maedhros said smoothly, covering any lack of response, “there is a comfortable room just off the hall where you might speak to her. She is not so young as the boys, but she is still tender enough in her years that Nyellië will also take her off to bed soon if she does not ask to be excused.”

The girl would not sit on adult’s lap as the twins would, but she was old enough to be embarrassed to fall asleep at table.

“Yes, please, if you would be so kind, my lords,” Gildor replied.

At a nod from Maedhros, Nyellië spoke in the girl’s ear, and introduced her politely to the courier before a steward led the two of them to the small room that often served as a place for those coming in from the first night watch to warm and refresh themselves.

“You have no concerns about what the girl may say?” Makalaurë asked, keeping his words quiet enough that the courier’s guards, seated at the first table below the high table, would not catch them.

His brother was far too practiced a politician for the suggestion to have been whim or chance.
Maedhros shrugged.

“I have more concerns about what the Sindar would think were we to appear to be keeping the girl away from him,” he explained. “She is happy enough here, and has not at any point asked to leave.”

“And if she asks now?” Makalaurë asked, less at ease with this development, for the messenger was to depart at first light – too early for the twins to say farewell if Glinwen was determined to go with them.

“If she does, I will have to insist on adding to the number of guards,” Maedhros said, apparently unconcerned. “But I do not think she will. She is a loyal little soul, and it would take more than this for her to desert the boys.”

“I hope you are right,” Makalaurë said, rising from the table.

He would have to find out the outcome later, for while Elrond might well fall asleep waiting, he could only delay storytime for so long before Varilon would be plagued by an impatient little scamp eager to hear the promised story of the three princes who got stuck in a tree while playing hide and go seek.

He would enlighten the twins when they were older that one of those mischievous little princes was their own great-grandfather. At least, he hoped he would.

“The party sent to treat with the Fëanorions has returned.”

Gil-galad nodded curtly. He knew better than to raise his hopes. Had the Fëanorions had been willing to return his baby cousins, there was no reason the twins could not have made the journey back to Balar with Gildor and his guards.
Erestor would have told him at once were that the case.

“Thank you. Please inform my council that I will be with them directly,” he replied.

He needed to compose himself before he faced them. Especially if the lords of the Sindar were present, as they were all but certain to be.

The influx of refugees from Sirion had swelled the population of Balar – not a bad thing in itself, but it made day to day life more tense. Sirion had been home to both Sindar and Noldor, composed as it was of survivors of Gondolin, Menegroth, and Nargothrond. But in Sirion, the Sindar had had the upper hand. Not only were they more numerous, their Queen was among them. Eärendil might have been styled Lord of Sirion by the Noldor, but the Sindar had looked to his wife.

The Noldor had technically had princes among them, but none they could call king or queen. Idril may have been a princess of Gondolin and the daughter of the High King, but she had been reluctant to claim royal authority after the city fell. First and foremost, she had feared for her son’s safety. Morgoth’s malice had already threatened his life as a mere child. That threat would only grow as he neared maturity. She would draw no attention to herself and her family by claiming royal authority.

There had also been the political considerations. Idril, had she insisted on maintaining the royal status she inherited from her father, would not have been claiming authority over the Noldor of Sirion alone. The Noldor had never before had a Queen ruling in her own right, let alone a High Queen. There were also those who would grumble about following a nis who had married one of the Aftercomers. So she had not pursued her claim, and the High Kingship had passed from the House of Fingolfin to the House of Finarfin. That left her son Eärendil a mere lord, though many Noldor continued to regard him as a prince.

At the moment, Gil-galad heartily wished Idril had chosen otherwise. He would have happily been just another lord loyally carrying out his Queen or King’s commands. Particularly since, as he was not yet officially of age, it would have meant he had remarkably few decisions to make. Galadriel would probably have been his guardian, and he could think of few people more competent to be in charge of… well, everything, really.

Instead, he found himself at least nominally in charge, stuck with the thankless task of keeping what was left of the Noldor and Sindar from tearing each other apart with their constant recriminations and airing of old grievances while simultaneously trying to find some way to make his Silmaril-obsessed Fëanorion cousins yield their hostages when everyone concerned knew perfectly well he didn’t have anything of like value to trade for them and could not pose any serious threat to their faraway hilltop stronghold.

The only bright side was that he probably had it a bit easier than Idril or Eärendil would have when it came to keeping the Sindar in line. He may be High King of the Noldor, but his mother had been a lady of Menegroth – one of those who had accompanied her brother Oropher and cousin Celeborn to meet the Noldor when they were newly arrived in Ennor.

It was not until he was older that he had realized that the pretty tale his father had told him as a child of falling in love with his mother at first sight was most likely just that – a pretty tale. At best, it was Artaresto’s truth, but Gil-Galad was fairly sure it had not been love on Merelin’s part. Not at first, at least, and perhaps not ever.

It would explain much about his parents’ marriage. It might also explain why his mother had not fought harder to remain with his father and sister when he had been sent to Cirdan for safety as a child.

In the end, it had been a fateful choice – Merelin’s presence had saved her son when the Falas had fallen in the wake of the Nirnaeth, though at the cost of her own life. He had been wracked by guilt after the destruction of his father’s kingdom, when he learned of Finduilas’ fate. Could their mother have saved her if she had stayed with her daughter rather than going with her son? He would much rather have burned than live with the knowledge that his beautiful, kind-hearted older sister had been speared to a tree for the sport of the glamhoth.

Finduilas would have made a good queen. His sister had been far better than he was at dealing with people. She would have had everyone on Balar dancing to her tune with a few well-placed smiles and cleverly chosen words.

For him, it was all a battle. The surviving Noldor lords thought him an untrained pup, at best a lesser scion of greater kings. He wears Ereinion as though the epessë were a badge of honor instead of an insult, holding his head up as proudly as Finwë himself so that they can all see he is above their mockery.

As for the Sindar… Well, it depended on which Sindar, what day of the week, how wind was blowing, and who else was in the room.

Here on Balar, the relative numbers of Sindar and Noldor were far more even than they had been on the mainland. But the Noldor had the advantage, for while a few Noldor had arrived among the refugees from Sirion, most on the island were warriors, either sent by Finrod’s command to aid in the fortification and defense of Eglarest and Brithombar, or those who had won through to Cirdan’s lands after battles elsewhere. And, of course, the Noldor were the ones with their King among them.

Cirdan’s Falathrim held themselves neutral in most quarrels between the two groups, and for that small mercy Gil-galad was sincerely grateful.

After the destruction of Sirion, the death of Queen Elwing, and little King Elros the hostage of the Kinslayers, the Sindar were exhausted, heartsick, angry, and prone to take any slight by a Noldo – real or perceived – in the worst light possible. Any command from the mouth of the Noldaran was challenged as a matter of form. At least Oropher and Celeborn could be counted on to ensure that Sindarin insolence did not get too out of hand. Noldaran or not, he was still their kinsman.

His first impression of his uncle had been that Oropher was surprised to see it was his nephew who ruled on Balar. Thankfully, with a stern look from Erestor to aid him, Gil-galad had remembered that sarcasm to one’s elder kinsman was neither polite nor kingly and bit back his first impulse – had Oropher not listened to anything Celeborn or Galadriel had told him?

It was only later, in private, without the eyes of the refugees and the court on them, that Oropher had embraced him like a lost child and told him how much he resembled his mother.

Since then, he has tried extra hard to live up to what a good king should be. He did not want Oropher to think his beloved little sister had sacrificed her life to save a weakling or a coward. Unfortunately, with the Sindar and Noldor constantly butting heads and the matter of Elwing’s twins hanging over everything, he wasn’t sure even Finwë or Thingol could have acquitted themselves very well.

With so little in the way of kin, and few advisors he trusted fully other than Cirdan and Galadriel, he leaned on the ‘brothers’ he’d grown up with – Erestor and Gildor. Raised together first at the Falas and then on Balar, none of them have kin to call their own and lacking what all other elflings around them had, formed their own little family.

He’s relieved to hear that Gildor has come back alive – he hadn’t wanted to let him go, but Gildor had insisted, asking who else he would task with such an errand. He’d won with that, and he knew it, for precious few of the Noldor and virtually none of the Sindar could be relied on to keep their cool in the face of provocation by the Kinslayers. Except for Galadriel, of course, but he knew perfectly well that Celeborn didn’t want her to go. He hadn’t wanted her to go, either.

Gil-galad wondered idly how best to handle his council this time. It’s a certainty that both the Sindar and Noldor will be outraged by Maedhros’ refusal to hand over the children. That at least they would agree on, if nothing else.

He sighed, and scooped his circlet up from the desk where he’d tossed it earlier. Erestor wouldn’t breathe a word about how unregal the King often looked in private, but every vulture in his court would gossip for a week if he showed himself in public with so much as a hair out of place.

Crown set, hair in order, royal robes properly draped about his body (and damnably heavy – how in Arda had the Noldor managed to move in Tirion, where he knew perfectly well their clothing had been even more elaborate and formal than it was here in Ennor?) he set his face in a practiced neutral expression and made his way to the council room.

---

The Council went even worse than he had expected.

It had started on a surprisingly positive note, for Gildor and his guard not only caught a glimpse of Elrond on their reception – dressed like a miniature Maedhros, the indignant guards had reported – but had also been invited to dine with the Fëanorions in the main hall of Amon Ereb, and so laid eyes on both twins at the high table. (Gil-galad was apparently the only one who found it reassuring that Elrond nearly fell asleep on Maglor’s lap and that Elros’ table manners sounded much improved.)

Everything had pretty much gone straight to Angband as soon as the answer to his demand for the twins had been read out.

The sole bright point in the letter was that it spoke of three children, not two – Elwing’s young handmaiden Glinwen, thought to have perished with the queen, was also at Amon Ereb. But the Fëanorions had no more intention of surrendering her than they had of returning the twins.

Maedhros had ever so politely declined to deliver ‘his young kinsmen, so cruelly abandoned’ to any but their own father, helpfully listing a good many reasons why the twins remaining in his care was the most sensible course of action.

That one phrase alone had been enough to set off the Sindarin lords, even without the explosive allegation that Elwing had taken her own life rather than surrender her Silmaril. Gil-Galad wondered if his Fëanorion cousin had known just how inflammatory the wording of his letter had been. He could almost picture the man with an evil smirk on his face as he committed the words to paper.

Nor did it help that the Kinslayers had seen fit to point out that the boys were princes of the Noldor. Gil-Galad suspected that the only thing restraining the eldest son of Fëanor from openly doubting they would be raised properly on Balar was that he had no wish to insult Galadriel – who, though she had refrained from speaking so far, looked rather angry.

The pointedly polite sniping between the Noldor and Sindar segments of his Council was reaching fever pitch. Even Erestor – who, though an orphan, was most likely a child of mixed heritage just as the king he had always looked on as a younger brother – was beginning to look strained.

Gil-Galad sighed.

Perhaps it was time to point out, as tactfully as he could, that Elros wasn’t just the King of the Sindar, but the High Prince of the Noldor as well.

Gil-galad had no children, nor did he particularly want to bring any into the world even assuming he found a willing partner once he came of age. Not with Morgoth ready to assault what remained of the elves at any moment.

As long as he remained childless, Elwing’s and Eärendil’s twins were not only his young cousins, they were his heirs – the last descendants of Finwë on the Hither Shores. (Aside from Celebrimbor, who would probably either die of horror on the spot or decamp to Ossiriand posthaste if anyone asked him to take the crown. He could rarely even be persuaded to attend Council meetings. Though given how this was going, that was probably a sign of intelligence on his part. Gil-galad would be only too happy to trade places with him right now.)

So no matter what the Fëanorions thought, he had a strong interest in seeing the boys – both the one who might be so unlucky as to follow him as High King as well as his brother – raised as befit their station, and educated to lead their people. Both of them.

When the Council finally finished venting their outrage, Gil-galad dismissed them with relief. Erestor stood by the door, silently encouraging stragglers to take their leave.

Gildor, unsurprisingly, hung back.

Unfortunately, he was not the only one. Galadriel, Celeborn, and Oropher lingered as well, though Gil-galad heartily wished them all elsewhere – he’d already had enough for one day of hearing what he should do, ought to have done, or how best to proceed from here. Gildor and his companions were back alive and unharmed, and the children sounded well, was that not enough for one evening?

The sideways glance Gildor gave their audience suggested he too had hoped they would leave.

“Well, nephew?” Galadriel asked, her mood shifting from irritated to amused, as though she had caught the pair of them in some elfling mischief.

Gildor did sigh at that.

“I was charged by the twins to give a letter to you,” he told Gil-galad.

“Why did you not mention this sooner?” demanded Oropher, some heat in his voice. “The Council should have been informed.”

“Because I was told expressly it was a letter to their cousin, not to the king,” Gildor replied, eyes twinkling.

With his silver hair and grey eyes, it was impossible to tell whether Gildor was Noldor, Sindarin, or mixed. All the same, Gil-galad knew Finrod’s adopted son did not have nearly as much patience for the surviving princes of Doriath as he himself was expected to show.

Gildor handed him the letter with a flourish, and a look that said there was more which he would tell privately, when the others finally left them alone.

Gil-galad made swift work of the envelope and opened the folded sheet within. It was a fair enough letter for a pair of not quite seven year olds – though he could not make out most of the part Elros had written. Some guesswork based on the few readable words gave him the information that Elros was learning to ride and had a horse – or more likely, at his size, a pony.

Elrond’s far more legible section was actually surprisingly polished for one so young, and Gil-galad hated himself for wondering if it had been dictated to the little boy.

“How came you by this, Gildor?” he asked.

“The children asked me if I would bring you a letter – after dinner, just before they were sent to bed, as a special favor, and I do believe they planned out when best to ask, the little rascals.”

“They were told to write?” Celeborn broke in.

“Maglor would have it that it was the twins’ own idea, and made much of the fact that Elros voluntarily gave up his playtime to write. Though he did admit to having spelled out a good many words for Elrond.”

“Both boys are writing?” Galadriel said in some surprise, scanning the paper over his shoulder. “That is quite new. They had done no more than begin learning tinco parma calma quessë with Lalwen.”

It was as well that Gil-galad was a quick reader, for the older elves all wanted to peruse the letter for themselves, and it was taken from his hands despite his somewhat cranky reminder that it had been sent to him.

Gildor waited until the ‘grownups’ had departed, and it was just him, Gil-galad, and Erestor left before he grinned.

“I was not about to do this in front of them,” he said with a grin, “but the letter was not the only thing I was asked to bring you from the twins.”

“Oh?”

Gildor gave his royal brother a bone-cracking hug.

“You shall have to imagine it times two,” he said merrily, “for there is only one of me.”

“Are they happy?”

The question slipped out before he could stop it, but the twins had been such cheerful little things the one time he had visited Sirion that he doesn’t like to think of them unhappy. If they were, he didn’t care how impractical it was, he would get them back somehow.

Gildor paused.

“They will not like to hear it,” he said pensively, and Gil-galad understood that he meant not only his Council in general, but the kinfolk who have made off with his letter in particular, “but yes, I think they are.”

Gil-galad sighed. This would cause no end of trouble, he knew, particularly with the Sindar. But unless they intended to raise an army of their own…

“Then they stay where they are,” he said softly.

She does not know how long she has been waiting here. It could have been any span between a heartbeat and forever. Time had no meaning for her, not when it was only a way to measure how long she has been sundered from those she loves.

Namo’s halls are barred to her, for they were intended for the Children, and entrance for others is restricted to those who serve the Doomsman. That place is not for her – the wayward one who alone of all her kindred had given her heart and bound her fëa to one of the Children.

The maiar and even the Valar know what love is, and have bonds that the children would understand as marriage and kinship, though they beget no offspring, for they are born of their Father’s thought alone. She is the only one of them who knows what it is to give form and spirit to a child of one’s own – a Child.

So it is that she is the only one of them to know the pain of loss as the Children do.

For her kind, once bound to one another, can no more conceive of not knowing that their mate exists, of holding a piece of their spirit as their own always, their souls resonating with one another in the Song, than the Children can conceive of existing with such an assurance. Even were their mate to be cast out beyond Arda and prevented from return, an ainu would still Be, and some part of them would always know their mate, no matter the distance between them. They cannot be kept from each other any more than their thoughts and actions can be kept from their Father.

Those that had sung the world into being do not know what it is to feel a part of themselves suddenly vanish, to feel their spirit wither and to seek for that which is missing beyond their touch or reach; they have never known what it is for that resonance to suddenly fall silent, stopped as though it had fallen out of the Song. They do not understand the crushing, overpowering burden of Not or Never.

They cannot understand grief as she does, the sensation of suddenly being so much less and alone that even now there are times that she cannot breathe for it and needs to focus all that she is on simply continuing to Be. For the first time, she can realize, however dimly, how Miriel Þerindë felt before her fëa sought Mandos.

She forces herself to carry on, in her darkest, most painful moments, for her beloved Elu. For the day will come when he will walk from the Halls again, alive. He will not be as he was before – before Luthien’s choice, before the steel entered his heart and emptied his eyes, before his spirit fled his broken hroä, leaving her alone and bereft, powerless for all her power. But he will return to the living world someday, and he will need her there when he does lest this emptiness that threatens to consume her become his burden as well.

And she forces herself to do it as a lesson, that she may speak of this to her kind. For if they had truly understood loss as the Children experienced it, perhaps all might have been different.

How could they possibly have known how torn Finwë must have felt when they made him choose, much less the soul-deep sensation of wrongness, the tangible disquiet of missing something vital, that Fëanaro had carried within his fiery spirit from his youngest days? Having never known such a state of being, how could they have hoped to diagnose the malaise before Melkor nursed it to its terrible crisis?

It was no doubt some time before she noticed that someone was calling her name. They may even have called her by her original name, the one her kindred had known her by before she had bound herself to Elu. But she had not heard, mired as she was in her grief.

“Melian.”

That name she still responded to.

“Melian, my dear one.”

But when she looked up, it was not her Elu, nor even Namo, who stood before her and called.

There was a ripple through Yavanna’s being that the Children might have called a sigh.

“Dearest, I do not understand why you do this,” she said softly. “Surely it cannot help to keep watch here, knowing he is just beyond your reach. It has not diminished your grief that I have seen, only made it worse.”

“I will wait as long as I have to,” Melian replied firmly, certain she had expressed this before sometime in the eternity between her arrival here after Elu’s death and whenever now was.

“Namo has told you it will not return him to life any faster,” Yavanna said patiently. “His spirit cannot reach you here, and must heal in its own time. Vana has begged you often to go rather to those gardens you once walked in days gone by, that Estë might do what she can for you.”

They may have had this conversation before, or perhaps they have been having it the entire time. It did not much matter. Though it was also a lesson of a sort for the ainur – for the Valar are not accustomed to having to repeat themselves, nor to such baffling stubbornness or incomprehensible singlemindedness in one of their kindred.

“Has she? If so, then I have surely answered that for some hurts there can be no healing. My husband is dead, and even though he may return, our daughter never will.”

“Yes,” Yavanna agreed. “You have said this. And we have sought to understand, my dear. Yet in observing the Children, it is rare to see one bereaved forsake all company of kin and kind. Surely if they do not behave thus, it is not right for you to do so.”

“I will do as seems best to me,” Melian answered, wishing only that her kinswoman would leave her to her grief.

“Will you not even go to your granddaughter?” Yavanna asked sadly. “She has no closer kin here to greet her, nor will she find any in this land who understand life on the far shores as she has known it. Olwë’s people do what they can for her, but you of all of us know best how hard it is for one of the Children to be so alone.”

Granddaughter.

“What granddaughter?”

They are the first words she has spoken unrelated to her vigil, indeed, the first that show any continued awareness of the rest of Eä beyond the Halls that hold her husband’s fëa and the Walls that separate her from her daughter forever.

“The daughter of your daughter’s son,” Yavanna explained, in a voice more suited to charming flowers from the barren earth than convincing a grieving maia to abandon her long wait.

Melian needed a long moment to call even her daughter’s son to her mind, for fair though he had been to the eyes of the Children, she had known from the moment she beheld him that he too would follow his parents – a mortal, born of mortals, who would walk in Arda for a brief season only.

She had already known her daughter’s time ran short, and had not been able to give of her heart freely to her grandson. She had seen him but seldom, for Luthien and her husband had retreated to Tol Galen for the days allotted to them.

But if his daughter had been permitted Valinor…

It had been some time since she moved, or wanted to, but she found to her own surprise that she did remember how. Her body was no longer a solid thing of flesh and bone as it had been on the Hither Shores, and not anchored to the mortal plane, she can come and go as she likes. It is just that until now, she had not wished even to try.

The journey from outside the Halls to the harbor of the Lindar is but the span of a thought, and once there she needs no guide to tell her where to find her daughter’s grandchild.

The little one sat in the hall of Elu’s brother Olwë, smaller than Melian would have believed any scion of Thingol could possibly be, fragile as a bird. But this little bird behaved as one caught in a cage, seeking for that beyond its reach. For every time her eyes strayed to the sea, looking back to the mortal lands, following that faintest of threads Melian could see binding her yet to those shores, the next moment she would look inland, toward Tirion and Valimar, following the connection – stronger by far – to her own mate.

Elwing’s mate might be beyond her own sight, but not that of an ainu. He would have been easy enough to see even without the light of the Silmaril illuminating him. A stranger was he, and yet one of the Noldor returning home. Though not only Noldo – Melian, having given birth to a Child, could read that at a glance.

And now Melian understood why it was that Yavanna so urgently wished her to stir herself. For both young Elwing and her husband were half-elven – half mortal, half eldar, poised between two worlds – and Manwë was inclined to judge them as those who have entered lands barred to them, rather than as elves who have come where they have every right to be. Neither of them had even been born when the Doom was pronounced, and if Elu’s people had been banned for lingering rather than abandon their king…

Melian needed to be able to speak for them if no other would, both her granddaughter and her husband’s people. If her kin think she has been difficult up until now, just try to declare her great-granddaughter a mortal and her life forfeit, or one of the Eglath subject to the Doom of the Noldor.

And they had something in common, Melian saw, now that she Looked, herself and this fragile granddaughter she was about to meet for the first time- a long wait stretched before them both, laced with grief that might break a stronger Child than even one of Thingol’s line. No one understood the pain a child’s choice could bring as Melian did, and she foresaw that soon enough, Elwing Dioriel would know that pain as well.

If she could wrap her arms around her daughter’s granddaughter and protect her from that, she would. But knowing what the Song portends does not allow her to avoid it. Sometimes, it does not even let her cushion the blow.

She did not even realize the change that sudden foresight had wrought until she noticed the Lindar were bowing to her – bowing, as none had since she forsook Menegroth. She had, out of habit, assumed the form the Iathrim were used to seeing her in, and nightingales followed her as ever they had.

“My lady, you honor us with your presence,” Olwë murmured. “Though you are not familiar to our eyes, I bid you welcome. Is there some reason you have come among us?”

He recognized her not, but how could he? They have never met before now, for Olwë had departed long before she and her beloved emerged from the forest. Even once her husband had died, she had never stood in his presence, never until now ventured forth into the lands of Aman where the Children walked. That her husband had a brother here had not pierced the haze of her loss.

“Surely she has come to see your newly arrived kinswoman, husband,” Queen Súyelírë murmured softly, recognizing Melian no more than her husband had. “Word of her tale has spread quickly among our people and beyond. Were the Noldor and Vanyar not occupied with the festival of the stars at Valimar, your halls would be filled to bursting with the curious.”

“I have come to see my granddaughter,” Melian announced, her voice ringing through the respectful silence in the hall. “And to be a comfort to her if I may.”

Elwing’s eyes, when they turned to her, held all the awe and hope of the rising sun. And in the warmth of that regard, Melian felt some frozen region of her own spirit begin to thaw, though she had never noticed the frost.

One of the best things about life at Amon Ereb was the stories. Elrond and Elros were in complete agreement about that.

As long as they had behaved themselves and not been sent to bed early for misbehaving (which was rare), Makalaurë would tell them a bedtime story. And his stories were better than even the best ones Aunt Lalwen had told. Better still, sometimes he would sing them, and then they wouldn’t just hear his words, they’d see the story.

Those nights were very special, because after the song, they would invariably have wonderful dreams. The forest of Oromë was Elros’ favorite – a forest one could walk or ride in without worrying about orcs or wargs or anything dark, and if it was not a hunt, the animals might talk to you. Elrond liked that one, but he liked the one with the beach better, a beach that didn’t have plain old sand like Sirion had, but sparkling sand like millions of tiny jewels in every color, and paths marked out by pearls. He would have liked to try building a city using that sand!

Some of the tales Makalaurë told them were surely made up, but some of them were real, and Elrond liked those ones the best, like the tale of the prince who fell in love with the blacksmith’s daughter. Maedhros – who was the authority on such matters, because the twins had already learned that when he was in a poetic mood, Makalaurë didn’t necessarily speak literally – said that one was real, as was the one about the prince who climbed a mountain to bring his lady love flowers that grew only there to prove his devotion.

The two princes were brothers, and Makalaurë said there was also a story about their younger brother winning the heart of the swan princess who lived in a beautiful kingdom by the sea, but they would need Aunt Galadriel to tell that story, for she knew it better than he did. Elrond had been somewhat disappointed, because who knew when Aunt Galadriel would visit. (If there was a pattern to her comings and goings, Elrond had yet to find it. But he filed the thought away for whenever she appeared in Amon Ereb.)

Makalaurë wasn’t the only one who told stories. Every elf in the fortress had stories to tell, and the twins made an excellent audience, willing to listen raptly to all of them. They had never been to Tirion, yet after only half a year at Amon Ereb, they could give a reasonably accurate description of the city. Elrond was beginning to feel that if set down in the middle of it, he and his brother would probably have found themselves quite at home as much as they’d heard about it, from the King’s House to the smith’s quarter to the outlying lands stewarded by those Noldor who had learned from Yavanna.

There were stories in the schoolroom, too. Those ones were called history, and they were all real. Some of it was terribly dull – did it really matter how many measures of what were needed to feed how many elves and who had first worked that out, much less when? But much of it had to do with their kin, from how the elves had wakened by Cuivienen, and the Noldor had left Beleriand on the Journey only to return after the death of the Two Trees and murder of King Finwë, and everything that had happened in Beleriand since the rising of the sun.

Some of it was terribly remote. Finwë Noldaran must have been very brave, Elrond and his brother had agreed, to not only go with Oromë to the West, but also to stand up to Morgoth. But his being their grandmother’s great-grandfather made him seem very long ago and far away, even before the part where he had been killed. Elu Thingol, their mother’s great-grandfather seemed scarcely more real, not when he had died before their mother had come to Menegroth as a baby.

Kings, it seemed, died quite often. Finwë, Nolofinwë, Turukano, Thingol, Dior – and those were just the ones directly related to them, grandfathers and great-grandfathers and so on. Turukano’s older brother Findekano had also been king for a while, until he had died fighting balrogs in the horrible Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Aunt Galadriel’s older brother Findarato was another dead king, killed by werewolves and Sauron. His nephew Artaresto had been king after him, and he had died too, in Nargothrond.

And, of course, there were also Laiquendi kings unrelated to them like Denethor, who had died right here at Amon Ereb, but that had been before the fortress was built on the hilltop. (Makalaurë had told them that the whispers they had heard that Denethor’s fëa still defended the hill were ‘superstition’ and that it was better for Denethor himself if he was not here anymore.)

“Maedhros,” Elros said hesitantly one evening at dinner, after yet another day’s history lesson involving a dead king, “are there any kings who didn’t die?”

Elrond was relieved it was Elros who asked the obvious question, but they’d both been wondering. Tonight being a family dinner meant they could ask such questions without worry about what others would think. Makalaurë and Maedhros always answered any question put to them, even if it was just to say they didn’t know. But that didn’t mean others in the Great Hall might not laugh or look reproving, depending on the question. Elrond still squirmed whenever he thought of the reaction to his confusion about how a tree could give light when he knew from his lessons with Varilon that trees needed light to live.

Maedhros looked somewhat surprised.

“Of course there are,” he replied. “King Olwë of the Teleri did not die.”

“That you know of,” Elrond pointed out quietly. “He stayed in Aman, along with King Ingwë of the Vanyar. They were alive when you left, but anything might have happened after that.”

“I very much doubt that they have died,” Maedhros said patiently. “Aman is also known as the Undying Lands for a reason.”

Elrond tried not to chew at his lip. There was an obvious flaw in Maedhros’ logic, but he wasn’t sure he should point it out. Besides, he was hard pressed to justify thinking anything could possibly have happened to Ingwë– aside from Queen Indis, who didn’t strictly count since she had been married Finwë Noldaran, nothing interesting ever happened to the Vanyar.

“But you said both your grandparents died there,” Elros protested. “Queen Míriel Þerindë went to Lorien and never returned, and King Finwë was killed by Morgoth in Formenos!”

That was not nice, Elrond warned his brother silently. We don’t like thinking of our grandparents because they’re all dead, and we never met any of them. It will be worse for Maedhros and Makalaurë, because they actually knew theirs.

They never knew Queen Míriel, she died when Prince Fëanaro was littler than us! Elros retorted unrepentantly. And anyway, Maedhros and Makalaurë are different than us - they still have two living grandparents. But that’s probably because Mahtan isn’t a king.

Good. You should ask them about Mahtan and – and his wife. We don’t even know her name. Then they can talk about grandparents who aren’t dead. It would be nice to hear about kin that didn’t have bad things happen to them.

“Aloud, please, boys,” Maedhros reminded them.

Elrond blinked. Maedhros didn’t generally catch him, even if he still usually knew when Elros was using what the Noldor called osanwë.

“It is no great leap to guess that you are speaking silently when I can see plainly that Elros is,” Maedhros told him with a sigh. “Your brother does not generally hold conversations with himself.”

Elrond blushed. He would have to get Elros to practice more diligently so he wouldn’t be caught as easily.

“You are correct, Elros, that my father’s parents both died in Aman,” Maedhros continued. “But those were very unusual events. That is part of what made them so shocking to the Amanyar. Elrond, you are right to be skeptical that I am speaking of absolute knowledge that Olwë and Ingwë yet live, but from what I know of Aman, I would be immensely surprised to hear that they did not.”

Elrond frowned.

“I am afraid that is the best I can say on the subject,” Maedhros added. “I cannot return to verify their continued survival. But you are wise to bear in mind the limits of my information. I hope you will remember to do so with others as well.”

Elrond was pleased by that, for Maedhros’ words made it sound like he had done something good in noticing that Maedhros couldn’t know whether or not the kings of the Teleri and Vanyar still lived.

After hearing about so many deceased kings in their lessons, Nana going away didn’t seem quite so remarkable anymore. Except…

“Maedhros, are you sure Nana is not dead? She was queen, and that’s just the feminine word for king. Makalaurë wasn’t being poetical when he said she was gone, was he?”

He’d managed to truly startle Maedhros with that one, he saw. Oddly enough, that was reassuring.

“I was there when your mother leapt into the sea, young one,” Maedhros said, his voice gone somewhat gruff. “It looked to me very much like Ulmo saved her, and I don’t suppose he took a hand in the matter only to let her die later. If he was content to let her die, she would not have come back up from the water.”

“Oh,” Elrond said, immensely relieved. “That’s all right, then.”

“Poetical?” Maedhros prompted, raising an eyebrow at his younger brother.

Elrond squirmed a bit. It sounded rather as if he might have gotten Makalaurë in trouble.

“Sometimes when he is making up songs or being inspired, Makalaurë doesn’t speak plainly,” Elros said blithely. “Usually we can tell, but we had only just met you when he said Nana had ‘gone away’ so we might not have realized if he was using… silime?”

Elros scrunched up his face, trying to remember how the word was meant to go.

“Simile,” Elrond offered quickly, before either of their cousins could correct him. “But isn’t that the one that uses like or as? Euphonie is the one where you say something that sounds nice instead of the plain thing that isn’t so nice.”

They had lessons with Makalaurë that covered everything one could possibly want to know about proper speech and writing- at least from the Noldorin point of view.  Makalaurë had been fretting about the need to engage a Sindarin tutor if one could be found, so that the twins would learn their mother’s tongue as proficiently as their father’s. (The only other fluent speaker of Sindarin in the fortress was Glinwen, who being only an adolescent herself, had yet to master the finer points of the language.)

“Very close, Elrond,” Makalaurë smiled. “But you’ll find euphony is a pleasing sound. Euphemism is the one you meant.”

The Noldor have a word for everything!  was Elros’ exasperated commentary. And that’s another one we’ll have to remember, because if it isn’t necessary for speaking or writing, it’s sure to be important for music.

You like music, Elrond reminded him, so it should be an easy one to remember. Eu-pho-ny. It sounds musical.

“I wasn’t using euphemism,” Makalaurë continued. “But you were both already quite upset as it was, so trying to explain what exactly had happened with your mother did not seem like the best plan. Especially not when we needed to bring you somewhere safe as quickly as possible.”

“Oh,” Elros said simply, satisfied by the explanation. “Do you suppose she’ll ever come back?”

Both twins looked back to Maedhros, who frowned.

“It seems unlikely,” he said.

Elros scowled.

“I still don’t want to be king,” he said in a dire tone. “It is not a good idea.”

“Maedhros,” Elrond said, casting about for a distraction, “was your father king after Finwë? We’ve learned about Finwë and Nolofinwë, but we never learned about what happened between Formenos and Beleriand.”

Elrond could tell at once by the startled look on Makalaurë’s face that this hadn’t been as good a topic as he had hoped. Maedhros looked almost nervous – except that couldn’t be possible, because it was Maedhros and Maedhros was never nervous, so clearly Elrond had misinterpreted.

“You are right, Elrond, we haven’t. I suppose we had better rectify that. I will take your history lesson tomorrow, and you will learn about the short reigns of King Fëanaro and King Nelyafinwë.”

Maedhros shuffled the notes in front of him nervously.

He had hoped to defer this discussion, to put it off for as long as possible. But the boys had asked, and he would not prevaricate. They wanted to know who had been king between Finwë and Nolofinwë, and he would tell them.

Elros and Elrond already know a little about Fëanor. Varilon had begun the history of the Noldor in Beleriand with the burning of the ships, so having a talk about how Uncle Fëanor had not been quite in his right mind had been unavoidable.

It was safe to say his father was not a favorite of the twins. While they were somewhat disposed to make allowances for one their guardians had described to them as ‘unwell’, Elros disapproved of his blatant abuse of ships (not to mention the appalling detail of not checking that everyone was safely off of them first) while Elrond was flatly baffled by anyone deciding that more help to fight the Enemy was ever not a good thing.

So Maedhros did not look forward to the fuller explanation of his father’s deeds that would be required today. He frankly dreaded having to explain his own. The children may well hate both of them once they hear of the Oath.

He looked up at the sound of the door to the schoolroom opening.

Makalaurë was herding the twins in – and only the twins.

“No Glinwen today?” Maedhros asked with a frown.

He would just as soon have a neutral witness to the fact that he was not attempting to conceal any of their crimes from his young kinsmen. And while Glinwen may not know the full history of the Fëanorions, as a daughter of Doriath, she knew enough.

“No,” Makalaurë replied quietly. “I thought it better to let her go with Nyellië for the morning.”

Maedhros shot his brother a half-hearted glare, but turned his attention to the twins, who were sitting in their usual places expectantly. Elros looked eager, but Elrond, the more sensitive of the two was already picking up on the undercurrent of tension.

“Today we will speak of the history of the Noldor from the death of King Finwë in Formenos to the crowning of King Nolofinwë in Mithrim,” he began. “But to understand the history, first we must talk about the family of King Finwë.”

“We learned that already,” Elros said eagerly. “King Finwë married Queen Míriel, also called Þerindë for her great skill, and their son was Prince Curufinwë Fëanaro. Queen Míriel was so tired after his birth that she went to the garden of Lórien to be healed, but she died instead. So King Finwë married again, Queen Indis who was the sister of King Ingwë of the Vanyar, and their children were Princess Findis whose mothername I don’t remember and Prince Arafinwë Ingoldo who stayed in Tirion, and Prince Nolofinwë Arakano and Princess Irimë Lalwen who came to Beleriand.”

Maedhros smiled. Elrond was the more natural scholar of the two, but Elros did pay attention to who was kin, and was plainly proud to show what he had learned.

“Quite right, Elros,” he said. “But there are few details we need to add to that story of who is who, and there is also a bit more to the story of Prince Arafinwë remaining in Aman.”

He had the twins’ undivided attention.

“First, Makalaurë and I have both spoken to you of Queen Indis, who was your forefather Nolofinwë’s mother. What do you remember of what we have told you about her?”

“She is of the Vanyar,” Elros replied promptly. “She is golden-haired like our father and his mother, and Finwë loved her very much.”

“She is said to be very beautiful,” Elrond offered, looking somewhat irritated that Elros had already taken so many of the obvious points. “And she liked gardens.”

The last point might seem somewhat an afterthought, but Maedhros thought it important to try to tell the children something of the people their kin were, rather than just their role in the history of the Noldor.

“She did,” he agreed. “She turned the palace gardens into one of the wonders of Tirion. And while she was beautiful, hers was a rare beauty reflected in both her hröa and her fëa, and I think it is that which drew Finwë to her, for she was remarkably kind to all and her heart was full of love for her kin, even those who troubled her greatly.”

“Why would anyone trouble her?” Elrond asked, his small brows drawing together. “She was the Queen, and kind to all.”

“Prince Fëanaro was not happy that his father had married again, and always saw in Queen Indis a reminder that Queen Míriel had been replaced.”

“But Queen Míriel was dead,” Elros protested. “And she did not want to come back.”

That last part sounded somewhat uncertain, for in the twins’ experience, death was a one-way journey. The idea that the dead would someday be returned to life from the Halls of Awaiting was a hazy theory they didn’t fully credit, especially not compared to the finality of death in Beleriand that they knew far too much of.

“But Queen Indis loved Prince Fëanaro, didn’t she?” was Elrond’s question. “You said she loved all her kin.”

“She did. She treated Prince Fëanaro no different than her own sons, though he refused to see it so.”

Had he not been keeping a careful eye on the twins to gauge their reactions, he might have missed Elrond subtly shifting his chair closer to his brother – a sure sign that one or both boys were upset.

“But why would he do that?” Elros asked in confusion. “His mother would not come back, so Queen Indis was doing for him what a mother should do.”

This was a problem Maedhros had not foreseen in this lesson, he realized. His father’s behavior was unlikely to make any sense whatsoever to a pair of children raised until recently in a Sindarin environment, where the definition of kin was wider and it was not unusual for others to step into the role of parent or sibling in the place of someone who had died.

 “I am afraid you would have to ask my father that,” Maedhros said. “I do not properly understand it myself.”

He understood his father’s loyalty to the mother who had brought him into the world, but he did not understand his animosity toward Indis, who had only ever been concerned for the well-being of her kin, and so far as Maedhros could tell, the son and grandsons of her dear friend Míriel were kin to Indis as surely as if they’d been her own blood.

“But you liked her?” Elrond asked uncertainly.

“I loved her,” Maedhros answered without hesistation. “She was part of my family all my life, and even if my father would not allow me to call her grandmother, she still seemed like one to me. And to my brothers.”

A chuckle from the back of the room drew their attention.

“I believe she was actually Tyelko’s favorite grandmother,” Makalaurë put in. “It was unwise for anyone to insult her in his hearing.”

Anyone save their father, of course.  But anyone less would be facing the worst of their little brother’s temper. Not that Maedhros expected that would be much of a recommendation to the twins, who had known which sons of Fëanor died at Menegroth before they ever set eyes on their kinslaying cousins.

“Celegorm liked people?” Elros said dubiously, as skeptical as if Makalaurë had confessed that elves could actually fly despite all previous warnings that they could not.

“Tyelkormo,” Maedhros replied with a slight emphasis to remind them that they were to use Noldorin names for Noldorin elves, “liked and even loved a great many people. Just because someone has done bad things does not mean that they are wholly evil, or that they cannot love.”

Elros was doing his best to hide that he was talking to his brother silently, and Maedhros dearly hoped that whatever Elrond was saying was a reminder that Tyelko had been his brother, as loved by him and Makalaurë as the twins were by each other.

Elrond, surprisingly, had nothing to say aloud.

“To return to Prince Fëanaro, I think he loved Queen Indis in a way, but he would not let himself show it, because he felt it would be disloyal to Queen Míriel. His brothers and sisters he loved, though. He was a good brother to them, at least while they were small.”

“What happened when they were not small anymore?” Elros asked suspiciously.

“When they were both grown, he quarreled often with his brother Prince Nolofinwë, who was very like him in both looks and interests.”

“All brothers quarrel from time to time,” Elrond said sagely. “You and Makalaurë argue sometimes, and Elros and I do too.”

Makalaurë’s amused raised eyebrow from behind the twins told Maedhros he was on his own for this one.

“That is true,” he replied. “But none of us have ever taken a sword to our brother, have we?”

You did threaten it once or twice, Makalaurë reminded him helpfully. Though only ever to Tyelko…

Maedhros couldn’t very well glare at his brother without the twins seeing.

Only when he was so twisted by anger at Luthien and her mortal husband that he was suggesting absolute mad ideas like attacking them without warning, he retorted, keeping his expression bland.

“He used a sword on his brother?” Elros squeaked.

Both twins’ eyes were huge.

“He held a sword to his brother,” Makalaurë clarified. “He did not actually harm him. And this was in Aman, where neither of them had ever seen what sword wounds looked like, or known a time when swords were used in earnest. Aman was very different from Beleriand. Here to hold a sword to another is to threaten death. I do not think my father meant that he would kill his brother.”

Elrond’s chair was once again inching closer to his twin. The pair were close enough to touch now without leaning.

“And Prince Fëanaro was punished for lifting a sword against his brother,” Maedhros said reassuringly.

“What did his father say?” Elrond asked nervously.

A good deal that Father ignored, Makalaurë commented drily.

“His father was not the one who punished him,” Maedhros replied. “The Valar were the ones who handed down punishment, for they knew what swords were for much better than most elves of Aman did, and they did not wait to see what King Finwë would do. They banished Prince Fëanaro from Tirion for twelve years, and said he might come back after that time if others would speak for him.”

“His brother would speak for him, wouldn’t he?” Elros demanded.

“Of course!” Maedhros reassured him, for it was clear that the twins were distressed at the idea the punishment could be extended indefinitely. “Prince Nolofinwë said so immediately, as soon as the punishment had been announced. And Queen Indis was not happy to have the prince sent away, though she did not say so publicly. But the Valar had spoken, and so Prince Fëanaro left Tirion and went north to his house in Formenos.”

“Did he have to go by himself?” asked Elrond.

As shocked as the twins might be by the idea of the sword, and as much as they disliked Fëanaro in general, the little one still sounded troubled at the idea of him being sent off by himself for so long.

“No, all seven of us went with him,” Maedhros replied.

“But you hadn’t done anything wrong!” Elros protested.

“Had you done anything wrong when you volunteered to help your brother clean out the kennels last week?” Maedhros asked, remembering an incident in which the older twin had refused to let the younger one take a punishment alone.

The somewhat guilty look in the boy’s eye said plainly that the honest answer to that question was ‘yes’. Maedhros tried not to sigh. It was somewhat irritating to have a good example spoiled, but if he was honest…

“Well, perhaps my brothers and I had done something wrong. After all, we had not managed to convince my father that his quarrels with his brother were hurting many people other than himself and our uncle Nolofinwë,” Maedhros said slowly. “And in any case, it was not easy to stay in Tirion either – if we stayed, everyone would think we were picking our uncle or our mother over our father.”

Both twins frowned.

“Your mother did not go?” Elros asked slowly.

Maedhros would have given much to know what exactly the twins were thinking.

“No, our mother was angry with our father, for she felt he was very wrong to behave as he did, and he would not listen to her when she tried to explain to him how it looked to her eyes. So she remained in Tirion.”

Elrond now looked troubled, but Elros was scowling.

“I still do not like Uncle Fëanaro,” he announced crossly. “He does not think and makes everyone unhappy.”

Elrond was quiet, but that was not necessarily reassuring. Elros let the world know when he was upset, but Elrond tended retreat inward. And they had not yet come to the worst part.

“King Finwë went to Formenos to share the punishment also,” Maedhros continued. “For he felt keenly that his failings had also led to his sons’ behavior.”

Elrond’s frown deepened.

“But then who was in charge in Tirion? It would have been Queen Indis or Prince Nolofinwë, wouldn’t it? And that would only upset Prince Fëanaro more, if he didn’t like Queen Indis and hadn’t made up with his brother yet. He’d think it wasn’t fair.”

Maedhros blinked at that unexpected insight. If a boy of seven could see that so plainly, how had his grandfather missed it?

“Prince Nolofinwë was in charge in Tirion,” he replied slowly. “For Queen Indis felt it was important that a Noldo rule the Noldor. And yes, that did upset Prince Fëanaro.”

“Did you and your brothers miss the rest of your family?” Elros asked unexpectedly, glancing at Elrond out of the corner of his eye.

“Very much,” Maedhros replied. “We missed our mother, and our aunts and uncles, and all our cousins. Because our father was being punished, they could not come to visit, even though they missed us also. And there was very little to cheer us up.”

“There was Tyelperinquar,” Makalaurë corrected. “He is our nephew, our brother Curufinwë’s son, and was born the year after Father was sent to Formenos.”

Elros certainly said something silently to his twin, but the relieved smile on Elrond’s face left Maedhros uninclined to rebuke him for it.

Hopefully the twins were comparing themselves to Tyelpë, which would be fairly accurate. Their nephew had been the sole bright spot in Formenos, the darling of the entire fortress, and his rare visits to his other grandparents in Tirion left nearly everyone in a sour or sulky mood, Curvo and Fëanaro most of all.

Both boys looked expectantly to Maedhros to continue the lesson.

“We had been five years in Formenos when the Valar commanded Father to attend a festival at Taniquetil and be reconciled with our uncle Nolofinwë. Father insisted the rest of us remain at Formenos, for we had not been commanded to go.  We were disappointed, but we used the time well all the same. Curufinwë and his wife took Tyelpë to visit her parents in Tirion, and Tyelkormo took Ambarussa hunting.”

Elrond and Elros smiled, for they were fond of any mention of their twin cousins, if somewhat disappointed that they had never met them. (They had been very upset by Umbarto’s death, but did not know that Amras had died the very day Maedhros and Makalaurë found the pair of them in their cave. Maedhros would cheerfully surrender his remaining hand before admitting Glinwen’s involvement in his death to the twins.)

“I was writing letters to my cousin in Tirion,” Maedhros continued, trying not to think on Findekano, lest he lose his composure. “What were you doing, Kano?”

“I was in the hills below the fortress, composing a new song,” Makalaurë said sadly. “I still remember how the first part was to go, but I have had the heart to finish it.”

“So we were all involved in our own pursuits when a sudden darkness fell on the land, beyond merely the dimness so far from the Trees,” Maedhros continued. “I do not speak for my brothers, but I was afraid, for the darkness was different from any I had known, and I could see no stars above, which had never happened before that I could remember.”

“It was not just darkness,” Makalaurë added. “Fear was part of it, for even if we could not see them, we could still feel the ill intent of Morgoth and his ally Ungoliant as they destroyed the light around them.”

The twins’ eyes were huge, for while the darkness of night or of interior rooms was not unknown or frightening to them, Makalaurë’s invocation of the Enemy made an impression.

“But Grandfather – King Finwë, remember – was not afraid, and he stood firm at the door to the main house, and when Morgoth tried to enter, he forbade him, and Morgoth killed him for it. Then Morgoth stole Father’s jewels, which held the unmarred light of the Trees, and fled.”

The twins were now hand in hand, and Maedhros noted with concern that Elrond’s eyes looked a bit watery.

“Are you boys all right?” he asked. “If the tale is too upsetting, we can stop for the day. You need not learn all the history of the Noldor today.”

“We are fine,” Elros replied after a moment, though his voice was not as confident as usual. “You told us we would learn about King Fëanaro today, and we want to hear it.”