Enemies to Sons by eris_of_imladris

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First Son

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They remained a threat until a messenger rode into the camp nearly a year later, thundering hooves clattering. He jumped off his horse outside of Gil-galad’s war tent only to enter in a hurry and exclaim, “I bring news of an attack on Eönwë’s camp by the sons of Fëanor.”

He saw the frightened looks of his lieutenants, hardened soldiers afraid because of the simple reason that there seemed to be nothing Maedhros and Maglor wouldn’t do. His voice came first, when everyone else was still panicked: “Tell me what happened,” he said, because this would be necessary to determine any future actions.

“Eönwë had come into possession of the two remaining silmarils,” the messenger began, and a collective shiver ran up their spines. Were the Fëanorians bold and stupid enough to attack a Maia serving Manwë, of all the Valar to go after? He nodded to the messenger to continue. “The sons of Fëanor besieged the camp, only to take the silmarils and disappear into the night.”

The boys. They were Gil-galad’s first thought, and he shuddered to think of what they might report if they managed to reunite with the Fëanorians. They were never mistreated, but there was a difference between keeping someone as a hostage and treating them with kindness. Maybe the test was still to come, and maybe he had already failed. They had known no hunger or pain, but they had also known no love, and against his inner protest that he had to be cautious, guilt began to creep in.

“Do you fear an attack on this camp?” one of the lieutenants asked.

“Not at all – in fact, the sons of Fëanor will never attack anyone again,” the messenger replied, joy now fully evident in his voice, much to Gil-galad’s confusion.

“You said they escaped,” another soldier interjected.

“They did, but they were followed,” the messenger continued. Had Eönwë killed them, in the end? “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 soldier said, and Gil-galad briefly wondered if he should voice his concern that Eönwë was too soft and had let them go only to endanger the other remaining Noldor.

“The silmarils had been wrapped, and when they were unwrapped, a great cry rose as both Maglor and Maedhros were burned by their light,” the herald said, and Gil-galad’s breath caught in his throat. The only one he knew to have been burned by the silmarils was Morgoth himself, and he seemed to have a special level of evil that Gil-galad had never associated with anyone else, even the Fëanorians. With a jolt, he realized that he had at least set some standard for them as elves. The boys had not been raised by Morgoth and his valaraukar…

“They died to the silmarils themselves?” Gil-galad asked, knowing that if they had caused such damage to a Vala, they were unlikely to leave an elf alive.

“Maglor’s fell to the ground, but Maedhros continued to hold his, and…” the messenger paused, everyone seeming to hold their breath until his next words. “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.”

They were safe. At last, they were safe from one of the threats plaguing them, and the soldiers in the tent let out a joyous cry. And suddenly there was wine, and there was a glass pressed into his hand, and toasts and cheers. The people had little enough to be happy about that the neutralization of a threat was huge, and Gil-galad felt himself getting swept up into the sentiment, sipping wine as the soldiers commented on the likely-swift demise of Maglor and the end of Fëanor’s line. He supposed they had forgotten Celebrimbor, but that was easy to do, considering his lack of involvement with anything his line was hated for.

Suddenly, Gil-galad heard a thumping sound outside, and a small cry. Giving his excuses, he stepped into the night air only to see Elrond – he had reluctantly given Elros permission to visit an Edain village not long before – sitting on a nearby bench, head in his hands, trying as hard as he could not to cry.

Gil-galad instantly felt like a monster. He had been celebrating, and Elrond, a mere child, had been left outside – how much had he heard? – and he had heard nothing but joy at the deaths of the ones who had apparently treated him properly. The boy had shown little emotion in the year he spent in the war camp, but the Fëanorians’ deaths had affected him too deeply to hide. What else had he been hiding, Gil-galad wondered? And yet, he had no weapons, nothing but the tears running down his face and the startled jump to his feet when he realized Gil-galad had seen him.

“I am loyal, I am, I truly am,” Elrond blurted out, jumping to his feet, tears running down his face.

“I know you are,” Gil-galad replied, much to Elrond’s surprise. The boy looked at him like a hunted deer in its last moments of life, and as he sank into the bench, Gil-galad believed his story more than he ever had before. No one could act like this, especially not a child. He had been the adult here – the king, even – and everyone had taken his cues to mistreat this child because of his misfortune. He decided then and there that if things were salvageable, he would try everything he could to make both Elrond and Elros feel welcome, now that their inherent danger was gone.

“Come, sit with me,” he said as he sank onto the bench, patting the seat beside him.

Elrond sank down, quickly apologizing, and begging to not be killed. Did Elrond see him in the same way he saw Maedhros and Maglor? Were his actions not born of stubbornness but of fear? He had failed as a king if Elrond, his own cousin, truly felt this way.

“Kill you? Wherever did you get that idea?” he quickly dismissed Elrond’s fears, only for the boy to look at him with a surprised look on his face.

“You face no threat from… anyone at all if we die, and it might be easier for that way, for your rule.” The simple words were more open than the reticence he had come to expect from Elrond, and showed a more complex analysis of ruling than he had expected. He had been brought up by a former king, Gil-galad reminded himself, but it was still surprising. How much of himself had Elrond hidden to try to save his life?

“A rather astute idea,” Gil-galad began, but Elrond did not react to the praise. “But no, you are my family, and I am not a…” He nearly said kinslayer, but the tears in Elrond’s eyes made the word catch in his throat. He was mourning for a kinslayer, and there was no need to rehash his crimes that Elrond surely knew. “I do not intend to kill my family,” he finally said. “My father taught me to always respect family, and even though he has departed this world, I will respect his wishes,” Gil-galad rambled, hoping to evoke some kind of response.

“Your father was not a son of Fëanor,” Elrond whispered, almost too quietly for Gil-galad to hear over his attempts to control his loud breathing.

“No, he was not, but they were his kin, and he loved them,” Gil-galad said, almost as if realizing this for the first time. The feud had technically ended when Maedhros had surrendered the throne to Nolofinwë, risking his own life from the vengeance of his brothers to do what was right. Perhaps an elf like that, Gil-galad realized, might be the sort to take pity on children rather than kill them…

“Who would love a… a kinslayer?” Elrond asked hesitantly.

“There is more to the sons of Fëanor than kinslaying, although many only see their crimes,” Gil-galad replied, wondering if Elrond would recognize that he himself used to belong to this camp, and only the neutralized threat and Elrond’s reaction allowed him to even begin to think any differently.

“Is it hard for you to say that?” Elrond said suddenly, then blushed. “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.”

Gil-galad was shocked into silence for several long moments. Even with the Oath that had taken everything from them urging them forward, the two notorious kinslayers had held their tongues for the sake of a couple of children? Whatever they had said or done in private, the fact that Elrond knew nothing about any criticism of his parents meant that the feelings Maedhros had expressed towards them were true.

“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 thought aloud – and it did not just mean the mercy of sparing their lives. They were not alive but miserable, save for the misery they had found in Gil-galad’s camp. “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,” Elrond said more confidently.

“I do not doubt that,” Gil-galad said, and another celebratory shout from the tent only made him feel guiltier. He knew he needed to say something, do something to stop the revelry, but not now – his men needed the all-too-scarce joy, and Elrond needed… well, Elrond needed a father. Gil-galad was entirely sure he was not the one who Elrond wanted, but he listened as the boy spoke again.

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

“You are no enemy of mine, Elrond,” he said, unsure of how to convince him with anything more than empty words. His words were not what Elrond wanted, what he needed… and then he remembered.

The letter! The letter from Maedhros would surely mean more to Elrond, even if Gil-galad had summarily tossed it as soon as he decided to let the boys stay in the camp. He still remembered where it was, in a drawer, kept to be used as evidence. He had not expected to use it as evidence of love, but here he was.

“I need to show you something,” Gil-galad said, and he left the boy on the bench for the few moments it took him to rifle through the drawers and find the letter, almost in pristine condition.

He unfolded it, reading the words alongside Elrond. The respect for his title, he had noticed immediately, but where he had seen reason to be suspicious of Maedhros’ tone, he now saw caring for the boys, a desire to keep them safe. When he unfolded the bottom, he became surprised at the word “ellon,” knowing that Maedhros knew how to speak in the most proper Quenya, and was making a large overture towards an enemy, one he had entirely ignored in his earlier perusal.

Plus there was the year of good behavior, and the way Elrond and Elros spoke like princes, were educated and intelligent but never once tried to get their hands on weapons. Maedhros had spoken the truth, and now it was time for Gil-galad to tell the truth as well.

“He begged…” Elrond said as he ran his fingers over the signature.

“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 words felt strange on his tongue, but the facts were undeniable now. Maedhros and Maglor had loved the boys, and they had been loved in return, even after all their notorious deeds as kinslayers.

“And you do not mind?”

“I will admit it was disconcerting at first,” Gil-galad said, omitting the fact that up until this night, he had still been disconcerted by the thought that the boys may not be who they seemed to be, even when more and more evidence of their true identities piled up. “I will not lie to you, but I do not believe you are a threat, or that Maedhros would send you into the camp as a killer.” Voicing the theory, he noticed Elrond’s eyes grow wide. “And with that said, I think I have been in the wrong here.”

“You?” Elrond asked hesitantly.

“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.” Elrond let out the smallest smile at the word, and he began to see a way forward. It was strange to call him cousin, but now knowing that he was, there was more he could do, more he could trust him with. “Would you like to look over some of our tactical decisions, or apprentice with one of the healers?”

Elrond’s face lit up briefly before his eyes fell to the ground again. “I cannot – 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 replied, hoping Elrond would not question exactly how long he held this belief. “And it has been unfair of me to expect others to treat you fairly without setting a proper example.” An idea came into his head, and he reached out his hand with the letter from Maedhros still inside. “I know you can keep this safe for me.”

“Thank you,” Elrond said quietly, and he remained quiet, toying with the edges of the parchment. He was so quiet and lost, what would he need in a moment like this? Gil-galad thought back to his own moments of loss, recalling that when he had escaped from Nargothrond, all he had wanted was touch, the physical knowledge that someone cared about him.

“Come here,” Gil-galad decided, opening his arms. The boy looked unsure, hesitating for a long time before he got closer. He melted into the hug, and when he looked up at Gil-galad, there was a spark of hope in his eyes that he had not seen earlier.

The onset of a small smile let Gil-galad know that even without a wife or any sort of begetting, he had gained at least one new son that day.