The Truth Shall Set You Free by Vicki_Turner

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The Truth Shall Set you Free

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Disclaimer: I am simply borrowing the work of Tolkien. The people, places, characters, are not mine.

The Truth Shall Set You Free
By Vicki Turner

A rough shake awoke him from sleep. Before the young elfling could protest being torn away from his soft bed, a quilted blanket engulfed him and muffled any sounds. A few feet away another family servant likewise wrapped his brother.

“Quickly!” The familiar voice of his mother put the elfling at ease despite her panicked tone. He watched her fly across the room, flinging clothing, blankets, bottles, toys; whatever was easily accessible into a bag. She tossed the supplies to one of the servants and hastily led them from the spacious nursery.

The singing of swords reverberated in the palace halls and the crackle of turbulent fires drifted through arched windows and around the barricaded doors. From the royal chambers, through the council chambers and down the servant quarters, the agonizing screams outside emphasized the mother’s constant appeal for haste. The elfling burrowed his head into the servant’s shoulder, his tears soaking the cotton cloth.

At the private and hidden servant entrance behind the kitchen, the small company stopped. The elfling’s mother grabbed his brother from the other servant. She kissed his forehead and rubbed his back, trying to quiet the sobbing boy.

“Be brave, my love,” she whispered and hesitantly returned him to the servant.

She then reached out towards the elfling and he leapt into her arms.

“Have courage, my son,” She kissed the tears off his cheek, “Whatever happens remember that I loved you.”

The elfling nodded his head solemnly. Perhaps he possessed a measure of foresight even at such a tender age or perhaps he instinctively adopted his mother’s demeanor. Whatever the reason, he struggled to regain control of his emotions.

“I love you, Nanneth,” He replied and his mother’s composed façade nearly collapsed.

“Oh, Elrond, Elros!” Elwing sobbed, “Take care of each other.”

The nurse reluctantly prided Elrond from her lady and Elwing quickly wiped her eyes.

“Now flee!” She ordered the servants, “Don’t let the Fearnorions touch my children! I must end this.”

The creaky old servant door swung open and blurred by tears, Elrond watched the beautiful swaying fabrics of his mother’s dress disappear as she quickly retreated up the stairs. Once outside, the pungent smell of innocent blood penetrated Elrond’s nostrils and the two faithful servants joined the mass exodus fleeing Sirion. However, the Feanorions commenced another attack and scattered the crowd. Soon Elrond and Elros found themselves shoved under the tarp of a fallen horse-drawn wagon. The wounded horse neighed desperately and the silhouette of the caretakers guarding the hiding place darkened the already shady burrow.

Elrond focused upon the identical face of his brother. Soothing swirls of silver locked with his own grey eyes. The depth of their fraternal connection drowned out the surrounding world. He forgot the smoke sky and the panicked flight. The intense silence of the brother’s bond muted the roaring laughter of all-consuming flames. Devastating destruction wracked Sirion, but the two elflings peacefully concentrated on remaining ignorant.

However, the two comforting shadows upon the wagon’s canvas were replaced by an ominous silhouette and crimson blood dripped through the wagon tarp. Suddenly a razor sharp sword carved the canvas open, revealing the two elflings to an enraged soldier. He raised his blade to cut down the helpless children, but the elflings’ identical faces stayed his hand and invoked unwanted memories. The taught bond between Elrond and Elros immediately broke and the two fled blindly.

They ran over collapsed buildings, weaved between abandoned carts, and glided over cobblestone roads. Their footprints left a bloody trail caused by numerous scarlet puddles and the continuous trickle of open wounds. In the distance, on the highest hill, the palace glistened in the sun, rising above the columns of smoke and still free from the waves of fire; a lighthouse, it beckoned to the disoriented elflings and they answered.

The twins had ascended halfway up the hill when the threat of steel to their unprotected throats halted their progress. The soldier had recovered his scattered thoughts enough to pursue the elflings and over take them. He was fairly tall and extraordinarily lean, but his slight frame boasted hard tested muscles and once lyrical hands had mastered the melody of deadly steel. His soft features were hardened in the midst of battle and his blood stained armor gleamed terrifyingly in the smoke-hazed sun.

Elros desperately pushed against the hilt of his sword and bolted down the hill. Elrond dropped to the ground and rolled sideways. The warrior quickly spun around and snatched Elros by the arm and twisting it behind his back, pulled the boy to his body. His sword laid precariously under Elros’ chin as Elrond sprung to his feet a few yards away, barely out of the soldier’s reach. However, his twin’s predicament kept Elrond firmly rooted there.

Elrond’s eyes never left the form of his brother, but Elros’ gaze settled to the crest of the cliff where the Silmaril radiated at his mother’s breast. A warrior with hair like the devastating flames below advanced upon her. Elrond did not see the tears in his mother’s eyes, only the pained expression of his brother. He did not hear the rustling fabric as Elwing threw herself off the cliff, only the blood-curdling scream of his brother. And he did not see the enraged approach of Maehdros, only the lowering of Maglor’s blade.

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Elrond leaned back into his chair and sighed contently. He dabbed the ink stained quill on a cloth before resting it upon the splendid oak writing table. The finished ten-page essay, concerning the refraction of light and the properties of various colors, was scattered all over the desk, but satisfyingly finished. The young elf was anxious for Maglor to read the report. The meager pages contained nothing the musician, lore master, and slightly devoted scholar didn’t know, but it was information Maglor had refused to divulge to Elrond. Though at first frustrated, after two months of research and experiments, Elrond realized uncovering knowledge without outside assistance was especially rewarding.

However, Maglor would not return to the forest and his secluded cabin until late that night. Yesterday, Maglor had served on a patrol -a necessary inconvenience of leadership. Today, he was visiting those who lived in the town and strengthening his connections to the people -a necessary inconvenience of lordship. The famed, introverted musician would be in no mood to read a dry, scientific paper until Arien was well on her voyage across the sky the following morning. Therefore Elrond tidied the multiple papers and opened the top right drawer of the desk. He carefully placed the report in the empty draw and gently shut it.

Suddenly, old hinges squealed as the simple wood door flung open. Elros ambled into their shared bedroom with sweat dripping off his nose, leaving a trickling trail across the floor. He pulled his mud coated deerskin boots off and tossed them into the corner. Mud splattered on the wall, the dresser, the bookshelf, and anything in the near vicinity. Elrond shut his eyes and momentarily mourned the loss of his clean room and for the precious hours he spent laboring yesterday morning.

“You smell like orc,” Elrond stated.

Elros merely grunted in reply and discarded his soiled training tunic before flopping unto his unmade bed sheets. His muscles throbbed, and his heart still raced, but the pleasure of exercise flowed through his body.

Elrond spun his chair around and rested his elbows on the back of it. He shook his head with fain disgust.

“Maglor is gone for the day, and Maedhros’ monthly visit is not for another fortnight; we don’t have to follow our training schedule,” Elrond said.

“I happen to enjoy the sword,” Elros retorted, “Need I remind you Maglor is gone for the day, and our tutor is visiting his widowed sister for at least another fortnight; we don’t need to work on our studies.”

“I happen to enjoy learning, unlike some orcish brutes,” Elrond laughed as Elros attempted to catapult a pillow at him. However, Elrond quickly scooted out of the chair and the pillow landed harmlessly on the floor next to desk.

Still chuckling, Elrond meandered over to the crowded bookshelf and retrieved his favorite volume. It was bound with red leather and Elrond tenderly flipped through the worn pages. In the front of the book his eyes gazed over the familiar script of Maedhros, beautiful and precise. The handwriting appeared more fitting for whimsical poetry then the detailed description of medicinal herbs and their properties. Three quarters through the book however, the penmanship changed. The strokes were shaky and childlike but slowly gaining strength. Finally Maedhros script reemerged as elegant as ever, if only slightly titled to the left. Elrond gently returned the book to the shelf and unconsciously rubbed his right hand, sparking a thought in his twin’s mind.

“I wonder when Maedhros will permit us to go on patrol,” Elros said. His gangly adolescent limbs hung over the child size bed, “My skill with the double handed sword is equivalent to any other soldier.”

“You’ve never spared with any besides Maedhros, Maglor and me,” Elrond reminded.

Elros rolled his eyes, “Still! We’ve been to town, we’ve seen the soldiers; we’re larger than half those boys who’ve hunted orcs for years.”

“Larger, but not older.”

“What does age have to do with wielding a sword or shooting an arrow?” Elros questioned, “Maedhros says our skills have increased more rapidly than he’s ever seen. Even your scholarly hands can shoot a bulls eyes and swipe a blade well enough to nip Maglor.”

“Then let’s ask Maglor to take us hunting next time. If we reasonably explain ourselves he’ll-“

“Maglor?” Elros threw his head back and laughed, “You know Maglor doesn’t do anything without Maedhros’ permission and Maedhros will never let us go on patrol!”

Elrond crossed the room and gingerly sat down next to his sulking brother who lay sprawled across the bed. “That’s not true,” Elrond tried to reason, “Maedhros said we could once we come of age. We are still elflings…”

“But that’s just it!” Elros sat up, fists clenched and veins protruding from his neck, “We are not elflings. We are not even elves!”

Elrond raised a single incredulously eyebrow. Elros sighed.

“Alright, alright,” Elros relented, “But we are not entirely elven,” He sighed, “Who are we, Elrond?”

“What?” Elrond chuckled, “Well, you are an obviously an orc!” He pushed his twin into the swirl of tangled bed shirts.

“No, I’m serious,” Elros protested, “If we had to introduce ourselves to someone who had no idea who we are, what would you say?”

Elrond threw up his hands and obliged his twin this game. “I’d say that we are Elrond and Elros Maglorion, nephews of Maedhros, developing scholars and warriors in training.”

Momentary silence.

“Sons of Maglor?” Elros voice was barely above a whispered.

“Yes,” Elrond stood and returned to the writing desk. The Feanorions had constructed the desk for them several years ago, commemorating the twentieth year the twins lived under their care. Elrond picked up the quill he had laid aside earlier and twirled it between his fingers.

“Maglor opened his house to us,” he continued, “He feds us, buys our clothing, study supplies and furniture. Even Maedhros delights in giving us gifts and teaching us weaponry. Maglor also sacrifices his instrumental practices to supervise our weapons training. You should be grateful for that.”

Elrond paused. He set the quill down and slowly opened the top right drawer. He took out his prized essay and examined it with a smile.

“Maglor taught us to read, to write. He taught me to think for myself and uncover hidden truth through intellect and not lectures.”

He gently laid the paper upon the polished oak desk.

“Maglor sung us to sleep when we awoke with nightmares. He patiently guided our untrained hands over taut harps strings. He even encourages our awful singing, despite the fact I know he cringes when he thinks we cannot see.”

Elrond turned back and faced Elros’ bed.

“Maglor has shown infinite kindness by adopting us.”

“With whose consent?”

“Elros!”

Elrond cast a worried glance at the slightly ajar bedroom door; paranoid he’d see the shadow of Maglor slumped over, wounded by the Elros’ insolence. The window was also glaringly open and Elrond feared that an enraged Maedhros, happening to visit unexpectedly (a notorious habit) had overheard. He half expected to hear the Feanorions’ voices, both dejected and infuriated; however, the west wind whispering through the forest was the sole reply to Elros’ outburst.

“How can you be so ungrateful?” Elrond demanded.

With the soft bed sheet linen under his hands and the beautiful furniture dispersed about the room, Elros could not met his brother’s eyes. “I am grateful. I appreciate what Maglor and Maedhros have provided. We have everything we could ever need.”

Elros pushed himself off his bed and meandered to the dresser. The corners were rounded with Noldor precision and a tall mirror adorned the top. The third drawer hung agar and Elros scrounged for a clean under-tunic. Then he slowly donned a silver tunic with crystalline embroidery and pinned back his raven hair. His fingers glided over miscellaneous jewelry and adornments. Brushing over a gem-stoned pendulant, Elros hesitated. He cupped the jewelry in his hand, but didn’t put it on. The large jewels boasted colors of the house of Feanor, accented with minuscule specks of tawny. The necklace was one in a set of two whose jewels used to sing harmonious on the chests of amber haired twins. Maglor had gifted these pendants to Elrond and Elros only five years ago. The craftsmanship was still exquisite and no one dared deny its beauty, but Elros thought the pendulant felt anomalous when he wore it. Elrond, however, wore his every day.

Elros turned the pendulant around in his hand. There had been a time he also wore it every day. There had been a time he wore it throughout the night. It was then the nightmares, nightmares Elros believed he had long outgrown, returned. Visions of flames, smoke, blood and steel. Maglor’s face twisted into something near unrecognizable and Maedhros unfailingly rational eyes clouded by hate and madness. Elros would awake screaming, drenched in sweat. At breakfast, he could barely look at the brothers, let alone in the eye. Elros finally stopped wearing the jewel to bed. Death and fury enveloped that pendulant and he could not protect his subconscious from their invasion during sleep. Elrond also experienced these dreams, but not to the same extent. Maglor maintained the dreams were horrid inventions of their imagination and Elrond believed him. Elros knew there was more.

“Do you remember Mother?”

Elrond started at his twin’s question. He placed the essay he had begun to reread back into the right drawer and leaned against the sturdy desk. Closing his eyes, Elrond searched the far reaches of memory. Did he remember his mother? He knew she was beautiful, but he could not remember that. A hazy image of her face emerged in his mind’s eye, but with no definite features. He knew she said she loved him, but Elrond tried to recall the sound of her voice, and that too was in vain. Her scent… aye, he remember how she smelt. The aroma of salt had been infused into her being. What the young elf couldn’t remember was the endless days and countless nights she stood on the shore with her two beloved sons, awaiting their father’s return.

“A little,” Elrond opened his eyes.

“I remember her a lot,” Elros thrust the pendulant, crafted by the very hands that crafted the Silmaril, onto the dresser top. He gripped the furniture’s smooth sides, “I see her my dreams. Her face, her eyes, the way her dress fluttered in the wind,” His knuckles were white and his voice hoarse, “I wish I didn’t.”

With his eyes closed tightly Elros saw that haunting day. The desperate voice of his mother echoed in his head. He remembered the cliff and how her saddened eyes caught sight of her captive sons. Pain seized his heart, as it had then, when he remembered his mother throwing herself off the cliff. She chose to abandon her sons to cursed and crazed elves.

“We shouldn’t be orphans.”

“Well, we are,” Elrond’s patience with his twin’s ramble had deteriorated. “Stop pitying yourself. Yes, we have no mother or father, but we have Maglor and Maedhros-“

“Who do you think is responsible for that?!” Elros spun around and Elrond was taken back by his fury.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you that naive?”

“What are you talking about…”

“You claim to be a scholar but you are a fool, Elrond! You know nothing of importance. You sing Maglor’s praises but ignore the fact he caused us to be orphaned. Don’t you hear the rumors when we visit town? Are we adopted, or held captive? The only reason Maedhros doesn’t murder us is that he still hopes to ransom us for their precious jewel. “

“You can’t know that.” Elrond’s counter was near a whisper.

“You chose not to know! The Feanorions are consumed by their oath to retrieve the Silmarils- to the point of death. How do you think you received that pendulant around your neck, obviously made for another set of twins? Cannot you not recall Maglor’s youngest brothers died at Sirion or do you stick your head in a bucket every time we visit town?”

Slowly fragmented past experiences began to weave a logical picture in Elrond’s mind. The whispers that hovered over the boys at town now made sense. Elrond had never paid them any heed before. Suddenly, he wondered if he should have.

“Why? Why are we their prisoners? Why us?” Elros punched the wall. His fist returned with a crimson trickle flowing down his knuckles. “I hate Maedhros.” He growled, “I hate Maglor. You love them and I hate you!”

The old wooden bedroom door collided against the wall and swung back unhinged. Elrond stared blankly across the now empty room, his brother’s words continuously ringing in his head:

I hate you.

Elrond tried to feel angry. He desperately longed for the numbness of rage. However, there was only pain.

A subconscious, ethereal connection had existed between the twins, growing stronger as they grew older. Now Elrond was paralyzed by a gaping hole in his spirit as Elros withdrew his presence. They had squabbles like any other siblings, but the connection had always remained, but not now. Elros had abandoned him.

At least, that’s what Elrond felt and a tide of despair swept over him. Mindlessly, he staggered over to the bookshelf and grabbed the red leather book. His eyes scanned the writing, hoping to find comfort in their familiar and unchanging facts. At least these properties of various herbs would always be true, yet he had once thought his everlasting tie with Elros was fact. Obviously he was mistaken. Why did Elros hate him? What changed?

“Truth changed,” Elrond muttered. The twins’ perceptions of reality had diverged and Elros reacted accordingly.

“You know nothing of importance.” Elros’ words came back to him and Elrond shamefully admitted he was right. Yes, Elrond knew advanced scientific concepts, application of herbs, and warfare techniques, but he was oblivious to whom his father and mother were. He didn’t know their names. He didn’t know what they had accomplished. He didn’t know how they died! Likewise, he didn’t even know the history of the house of Feanor; a family he claimed to belong to. Elrond realized he didn’t know who he was.

He returned the volume to the shelf, suddenly perturbed that Maedhros wrote it. Elrond needed to know the truth. His own twin, the complement of soul and only secure fixture throughout his life, hated him because he was ignorant.

“Never again,” Elrond swore to himself, “I will never be so deceived.”

The broken room door opened once more and Elrond entered the hallway. The floorboards creaked defiantly as he approached Maglor’s room. The famed musician and reciter of lore once penned a lengthy volume detailing the history of the House of Feanor. Maglor had stowed it away in his room. A room forbidden to the twins.

Elrond opened the door and entered.

As the moon usurped the sun, Elrond sat for hours at his desk. His eyes scanned hundreds of pages and read thousands of words. The shocking and appalling information had Elrond reading long after his eyes screamed fatigue.

A quarter past the midnight hour, Elrond heard footsteps in the hall. In the scarce candlelight he looked at Elros who stood in their doorway. The young elf unconsciously shifted weight from one foot to another, unaccustomed to this tension with his brother. In the meager light, tearstains, contrasting Elros’ still dirt covered cheeks, were barely visible.

“A messenger arrived while I was outside. He said Maglor’s patrol faced unforeseen circumstances and would be delayed several days.” Elros stated.

Elrond nodded and Elros slowly entered the room. The feather bed bent and gently accommodated Elros as he sat. His elbows rested upon his knees and with interwoven fingers he placed his chin on his fists. An oppressive silence hung between the brothers until Elros finally broke it.

“I’m sorry, Elrond. Those things I said, I don’t really mean them. You are my twin and I love you. I don’t know what I got into me. What I said, it wasn’t true.”

“No,” Elrond interrupted, “It was true. It’s I who should be apologizing. You were right; I was a fool, Elros. A fool. The Feanorions… I’ve been reading, learning the story of Maglor and Maedhros and, in the process, our family. Our grandfather, our uncles, our mother, they all perished by Feanorion hands. Our father, Earendil, braves an impossible journey to Valinor to beg the help of the Valar against Morgoth while the sons of Feanor have killed their own kin for a jewel, multiple times and without remorse.”

Elros eyes went wide. He knew their caretakers had committed horrendous deeds, but he never fully reconciled those stories with the benign faces he knew. To hear those rumors confirmed… His stomach twisted in revolt.

“To fight, to live under the command of a Feanorion, it would betray those who had died,” Elrond continued, “I will never be of the house of Feanor.”

“I will never be anything like the Feanorions,” Elros declared and the connection, though fainter then before, returned between the twins.

Elrond smiled.

“So when do we flee this place?” Elros asked, the subconscious agreement to leave already made between the twins.

“First light.” Elrond stood from his desk and grabbed the pillow Elros had chucked at him earlier, “So you better sleep while you can, you stupid orc!” Elrond threw the pillow at the unsuspecting elf.

Elros laughed and collapsed backwards onto his soft mattress. Elrond similarly flopped upon his own bed. Both eagerly welcomed the promise of spirit restoring sleep and a new dawn. Tomorrow, they would be free from the shackles of Maedhros and Maglor; they would no longer be tied to Feanor’s legacy. Where they would go, what they would eat, and who would take them in, was completely unknown; however, they would simply be Elrond and Elros, two twin brothers. For now, they were perfectly content with that.

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Chapter End Notes

For now, this is a stand alone. I do have ideas for the more chapters, but the likely hood they will be written in slim. I hope you enjoyed this, though, and more might be coming at a later date. However, I label this:

~Fin