Fourth Father by eris_of_imladris

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

It didn’t feel like home, not yet. Even though it had been a year
since he had last been in the place he considered home, even though he
and his brother had been told in no uncertain terms that they would
never be going back to Himring, even though he and his brother were
both still alive and fed and had a place to lay their heads at night.
It was still not home, for the frigid fortress where he grew up bore a
warmth this war camp failed to provide.

Elrond had a great deal of time to think about such things – useless
thinking, he could hear Maedhros say, but there was no choice now. It
had been decided by his cousin of sorts that he and Elros were too
young for war, and even their protests that they learned from
incredible teachers only made the older elves around them freeze, only
made their decision more certain. They were kept safe, but far away
from anything interesting, leaving all too much time to think. It had
proven too much for Elros, who had begged enough times that Gil-galad
had consented for him to join a trading mission to a nearby human
village.

Not Elrond, however. The twins could never leave the camp together.
There was danger still, from the forces that the entirety of the group
of hardened warriors knew but were afraid to name. Even hidden, they
loomed over the camp as a silent threat, a pair of monsters often
dreaded more than the orcs that seemed to assail them nearly
constantly. Their names alone could hush a raucous celebration after a
victory, turn a line of battle-wearied elves on alert, make the
sentries stand taller and lift their horns closer to their lips. The
mere threat of Maedhros and Maglor, the only surviving sons of Fëanor,
was a thought more terrifying to some than the tortures Maedhros had
endured in Angband.

To Elrond, the thought of them made his heart soar, for the brothers
were his fathers.

Not by birth, or he and Elros would have been kept as true prisoners,
rather than “honored guests” who were rarely given permission to
venture out of sight. Even this was a measure of caution, and he felt
the eyes of many elves on him, trying to see if he had “Fëanorian
tendencies.” All he had deduced from that was that the elves here saw
his foster fathers’ crimes, and not anything else. No context, no
depth.

It was how he had first seen them, as conquerors of his home. He even
recalled Elros standing between him and Maedhros, terrified of the
elf’s height and bloodied sword, but when he lowered his sword at
Elros’s charge, it had opened the way to many things that were not
supposed to have happened.

They had told him, in the beginning, that this would be his life once
they were gone. A glorified captive in the war camp of Gil-galad, High
King of the Noldor, a distant cousin who he was not quite sure exactly
how he was related to. Things were better than he had expected – he
was fed well, kept warm, safe. But he could never escape the looks
that followed him, the way others seemed to be watching him at all
times for even the smallest slip. Even the slightest mention of his
life in Himring seemed tantamount to treason to anyone but Elros, and
with his brother gone, there was no one to speak to.

Even the simple idea of missing his fathers could mean an end to his
life, a betrayal of everything Maedhros and Maglor did for him. So he
kept his mouth shut, and he watched, and he waited.

The clattering of hooves that heralded a guard brought him back to Gil-galad’s camp, and he
watched the armored guard quickly pass the guards at the entrance and
head for Gil-galad’s tent. The messenger rode fast, the horse’s dust
nearly obscuring the rider’s face. What could cause such urgency? The
bells had not been rung, no one lunged for their swords; it seemed
like a completely ordinary return from a patrol except for the speed
of the horse and the way he rode directly to the king’s war tent.
Elrond watched the blue and silver banner snap in the wind for only a
few moments before he indulged his curiosity, sliding down the tree
trunk and making his way to the place where his cousin planned the
war, climbing another tree to get a better view.

“I bring news of an attack on Eönwë’s camp by the sons of Fëanor,” the
messenger said, and Elrond’s breath caught in his throat. His fathers
had attacked… there was only one reason why they would do this, and
although they had not spoken of the matter before they left, Elrond
knew exactly what they had been looking for.

“Tell me what happened,” said a stern voice when no one else dared to
speak. Elrond recognized his cousin.

“Eönwë had come into possession of the two remaining silmarils, and
the sons of Fëanor besieged the camp, only to take the silmarils and
disappear into the night.”

“Do you fear an attack on this camp?” Elrond held his breath, part of
him hoping for the impossible reunion, the other part knowing that all
it would lead to was watching Maedhros and Maglor die at the hands of
Gil-galad and his kin.

“Not at all – in fact, the sons of Fëanor will never attack anyone ever again.”

“You said they escaped,” another voice interjected.

“They did, but they were followed – Eönwë sought proof that they could
do good, and he sent scouts to follow them.”

“I doubt they would succumb to misfortune on the road, unless they
lost their minds entirely,” another voice said, and the herald was
quick to clarify.

“The silmarils had been wrapped, and when they were unwrapped, a great
cry rose as both Maglor and Maedhros were burned by their light.”
Elrond gasped. Their names had been spoken. They were as good as dead.
But how could the silmarils have hurt them? They had spoken of their
father with nothing but love, and surely, his creation would never
harm his own sons…

“They died to the silmarils themselves?” asked a voice that Elrond
recognized as Gil-galad once more.

“Maglor’s fell to the ground, but Maedhros continued to hold his, and
– they were near the lava pits – and he… it is said that he threw
himself into the lava with the silmaril, and Maglor threw his into the
sea in response, walking away like a whipped dog, clutching one arm
with the other.”

The thump of Elrond falling to a lower branch and the slight welling
of blood in his hand was nothing next to the raw pain in his heart, a
pain that was completely and utterly denied by the shouts from inside
the tent. He heard one ellon shout for sweet wine, a rare treat for
celebrations, and the toasts flowed through his ears and meant
nothing, not anymore, not now that he had lost the only real parents
he ever knew.

When he had first met them, he never thought he would be able to
consider them as friends, let alone parents, but he soon learned that
an ellon renowned for cruelty could teach him the skills of a lord,
that an ellon with a bloody sword in his hand could sit at his bed and
keep him safe from nightmares that he always believed were true. The
two of them together were so much more than his mother who had chosen
a gem over him.

He wished he could embrace Maedhros then, help him as he had in the
past, but even he knew that there were days when his eyes would glaze
over and he would be in another world, and nothing could fix him, not
Maglor’s singing or Elros’s jokes or his own useless attempts at
healing. But on those days, he remembered, Maedhros did not do much at
all, so how could he have attacked a camp? The horrifying idea came
into his mind that he must have attacked the camp in sound mind and
trusted the silmaril as he trusted very few things. He must have held
the silmaril in his left hand, his one good hand, and the loss had
pushed him into a place where no amount of healing would have helped.

The image of Maglor was almost as scary. He was the calm one, the one
who always knew what to say and what to do, the one who had a solution
when everything was going wrong. If he had thrown his silmaril, if he
had walked away with burns that went unhealed, would he turn into
Maedhros? What would it take to push him over the edge, now that he no
longer had anything to fight for?

He yearned to escape then, to run to Maglor, to give him something to
live for, but Eönwë’s camp was far, and Maglor was better at hiding
than anyone he knew. He had no chance of finding him, especially with
Elros gone too. He barely even had a chance to leave the camp without
being noticed.

Sliding down the rest of the tree, he sat at the foot, eventually
daring to stand up and look into the opened flaps of the tent. Drink
flowed freely, smiles were rampant, and the lone questioner was soon
silenced.

“Is there no threat from Maglor still living?”

“Maglor is useless without Maedhros,” someone else added. “A weakling
without a rabid beast to guard it. If he is not dead by nightfall,
that would be a great surprise.”

“And thus ends the illustrious line of Fëanor,” laughed one of the
commanders, clinking his mug in the air with a grinning soldier.

If Elrond’s courage had matched Maedhros’ in that moment, he would say
that he would have been proud to be a true son of Maedhros or of
Maglor, but this could only lead to an “accidental” blade in his gut
in the night, and he had promised them he wouldn’t do anything stupid.
He had come only a few words short of swearing that he would not make
their mistakes, as he felt their final embrace.

He turned his head, looking for Gil-galad. How would he respond? The
simple fact that he had not stopped the revelry said enough, but his
acceptance of a slim flute filled with wine made Elrond shake with
rage, with hurt.

Maglor had tried, once their parting was inevitable, to convince
Elrond and Elros that Gil-galad was kind, thoughtful, understanding.
They tried, in halting language and many shared looks, to explain that
his line was known for both intelligence and kindness, and although
they had not met him personally, he should share these
characteristics. Clearly they had not seen him standing by as others
reveled in his pain. He was no better than the rest.

Elrond made his way out with no recollection of moving his feet,
blindly seeking a place far away from the laughter, the celebration of
yet another loss of his childhood. Say what they wished about the
Fëanorians, but he never heard Maglor or Maedhros speak ill of his
birth parents, no matter the rage or sadness in their eyes as they
beheld the bright new star in the night sky.

He sank down onto a bench, head falling forward onto his hands. He had
never felt more alone, and he thought of Elros, visiting a human
settlement with no idea of what was going on. The reasons for his
departure faded into the simple fact that there was no arm around him,
no one by his side, and he had never thought things would go this way.

A rustling of robes made him jerk his head up, only to stammer, “I am
loyal. I am, I truly am.” He cursed the hot tears pouring down his
face, branding him as a traitor.

“I know you are,” Gil-galad said, sitting beside him even as Elrond
jumped to his feet, eyes searching wildly, a cornered rabbit with no
means of escape. “Come, sit with me.”

“Why?” Elrond snapped, before sliding down onto the bench. “I
apologize… please do not kill me.”

“Kill you? Wherever did you get that idea?”

“You face no threat from… anyone at all if we die, and it might be
easier that way, for your rule.”

“A rather astute idea, but no, you are my family, and I am not a…” He
paused. “I do not intend to kill my family,” Gil-galad finally said.
“My father taught me to always respect family, and even though he has
departed this world, I will respect his wishes.”

“Your father was not a son of Fëanor,” Elrond whispered, afraid of the
dreaded word even now when it was no threat to anyone anymore.

“No, he was not, but they were his kin, and he loved them.”

“Who would love a… a kinslayer?” He hesitated over the word, which had
always been an insurmountable boundary.

“There is more to the sons of Fëanor than kinslaying, although many
only see their crimes.”

“Is it hard for you to say that?” Elrond blurted out. “I only mean…
when we first saw the new star in the sky, Maedhros and Maglor looked
like they had quite a lot to say, but they held their tongues for our
sakes, telling us that our parents were noble and valiant and had done
a great deed for the world.”

“The mere fact that you stand before me today proves that there is
more to them than the kinslayings, whatever the others say,” Gil-galad
said. “They could have left you both for dead, or killed you
themselves, but instead you stand before me healthy, educated as a
prince, and clearly with enough feeling towards them to mourn their
deaths.”

“I may have met them as kinslayers, but I knew them as kin first and
foremost,” he said.

“I do not doubt that,” Gil-galad said solemnly. He opened his mouth
once more, but a particularly loud shout from inside the tent silenced
him.

“But then they left me here with… I am sure things would be easier for
you if I was not here,” Elrond said. “Your soldiers would not be
worried, and you would have one fewer enemy to contend with.”

“You are no enemy of mine, Elrond,” Gil-galad replied, but he seemed
to be lost for words after, only to suddenly nod his head.

“I need to show you something,” Gil-galad said, leading Elrond to his
personal tent, away from the revelry. He had not expected to ever be
welcomed there, but Gil-galad seemed to pay his presence no mind,
rummaging through a drawer and bringing over a folded parchment. “I am
afraid I lost the original envelope with the seal,” he said, “but I
think you may know this handwriting.”

Elrond looked down at the smudged left margin and knew without reading
a single word. “Maedhros wrote this?” He glanced at the top of the
parchment, which was addressed to High King Ereinion Gil-galad, Lord
of the Noldor. “He wrote to you?”

“He did not simply abandon you with us,” Gil-galad replied. “He wanted
– no, needed – to know you would be safe, and more than that.” He
pointed down to a portion of the letter about halfway down, and
Elrond’s eyes brimmed with tears as he read about himself and his
brother, details that a kidnapper would not need to know.

“Elrond will ask many questions. Indulge his curiosity, particularly
in matters of battle strategy; he has a smart mind and wishes to help
both before and after a battle. Let him see to the wounded; even with
minimal training, he is skilled at improving morale,” Elrond read,
touched that Maedhros would have thought of their sessions in which he
tried everything he could think of to ease the pain in his missing
hand. “Elros learns with his hands. Let him see what you do, and hide
nothing from him, for he will always know…”

He stopped reading as tears threatened to spill from his eyes again.
“He wrote all of this about us?”

Gil-galad nodded as Elrond continued to skim the letter, running his
fingers over the misshapen letters that he knew and loved. Each word
brought back a flood of memories, and before long, he wept openly,
still reading the letter, aware of Gil-galad sitting silently beside
him as he unfolded the final bit of parchment.

“A final matter: These boys are not bound to the house of Fëanor or to
its fate. They have sworn no Oath, and they have never slain another
living being. They are children, innocent of all crimes, and should be
treated as such regardless of their upbringing with us.

I beg you, Gil-galad, one ellon to another, leaving all matters of
family aside – do not put the weight of our crimes on these boys, and
do not slay them for vengeance against the house of Fëanor. If you are
the just king the stories describe you to be, I know you will not harm
them.

May you lead your house to a better fate than ours.

Maedhros”

Elrond was silent for several long moments as he traced the letters of
the signature. “He begged…”

“From this letter alone, I know he loved you. Whatever else Maedhros
was, he loved you, and I am sure Maglor did as well.” The names
sounded strange on Gil-galad’s tongue, and yet, the simple mention of
the brothers made Elrond feel welcome as he had not since arriving at
the camp.

“And you do not mind?”

“I will admit it was disconcerting at first – I will not lie to you,”
he said when Elrond looked at him, alarm in his eyes. “But I do not
believe you are a threat, or that Maedhros would send you into the
camp as a killer. And with that said, I think I have been in the wrong
here.”

“You?” He had never questioned a king before. Yes, there had been a
time when Maedhros ruled the Noldor, but he was unkinged long before
their first meeting, and the initial fear came from something entirely
different. At least he had shown his feelings plainly. Gil-galad was
too calm, too serene for the middle of war.

“I let my assumptions decide how you and Elros would live your lives
here. It was unfair of me, and I apologize to you, cousin.” He paused
briefly, then asked, “Would you like to look over some of our tactical
decisions, or apprentice with one of the healers?”

“I cannot,” Elrond said solemnly. “It would frighten the soldiers. You
expect me to use a sword I do not have and slay you all in the night
for no reason at all.”

“There are those who may think like that, but I am not one of them,”
Gil-galad said. “And it has been unfair of me to expect others to
treat you fairly without setting a proper example.” He paused again,
then handed the letter to Elrond. “I know you can keep this safe for
me.”

“Thank you,” Elrond said, unable to say more.

“Come here,” Gil-galad stiffly extended his arms, just like Maedhros
had in the earlier days. Elrond hesitated.

His first father had loved a gem more than him. His second father had
fallen to a whirlwind of pain so severe that there was no escape. His
third lived still. He was no monster. He was an elf – defeated, true,
but he had not lost himself. Elrond could only pray that was true with
Gil-galad, a fourth father who he did not know if he could ever love.

“Do not let these gems destroy you as they have destroyed us,” he
remembered Maglor whispering in his ear, the last words he heard
before he felt Maedhros’ good hand ruffling his hair and the stampede
of hooves took him away. “Promise me you will live, and trust again.”

Elrond allowed himself to smile as he returned the embrace. And the
son of Maglor and Maedhros kept his word.