Once Upon A Time And Long Ago by AdmirableMonster

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A Vision of Beauty

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Elros and Elrond followed Olórin up a steep and winding pathway set into the side of a tall mountain. The path itself was made of artfully laid stones, none of which quite matched in shape, but all of them too smooth underfoot to be anything like natural. Lining it on both sides were shiny black posts, intricately carved, with red lanterns set on the tops, shielded from the warm and playful wind by squares of paper set about the candles. It was like nothing Elros had ever seen or imagined.

Above them, trees whispered amongst themselves, and soft birdsong sounded all about. Elros thought he recognized a nightingale’s song, and the soft hooting of an owl, but all the rest were unfamiliar.

After a steep climb, they came in sight of a huge building rising up from the rock. Built of some light-colored wood and covered in huge white climbing flowers, it was truly beautiful, but Elros could not help but stare, wondering how you might defend such a home. A single torch and surely it would all go up at once?

They stood in the palatial doorway, large enough to be a room in and of itself, and Elros stared out at a swarm of little golden lights, winking lazily on and off, like stars—or eyes. “What are those?” he asked quietly.

“Fireflies,” Olórin told him. “Tiny insects. Those are mating signals.”

“Fireflies,” whispered Elros. Knowing they were nothing to be frightened of, he could not help but warm to their beauty. Elrond, though leaning against him sleepily now, seemed to feel the same.

Olórin had not knocked upon the door, and it made Elros wonder why they were standing and waiting here, but after they had waited for only a little while, the door opened. Olórin said a few low, rapid words in Quenya to the servant who had opened it, and Elros swallowed nervously, pulling Elrond closer to him.

Then they were ushered inside the house, and Elros found himself staring about stupidly, as if he could not help himself. There was carpet—real, thick, new carpet along the hallway, and the huge windows had their curtains drawn open to make it seem as if they were still outside, the silvery light streaming in. Once again, he had to pause to stop himself from thinking how easy it would be to smash in that window, tear down the curtains, put this place to the torch…

There were plants, he saw, hanging from the ceiling in pots; long, trailing, fern-like plants that swept the place with green. There were cushions in the windows, and three scattered books had been left lying across them.

“It’s good to see you, Olórin,” said a deep voice in Quenya. “Nanwe said you had brought some visitors with you?”

Elros turned, carrying his half-asleep twin with him, and once again found himself staring in confusion, because the face that looked back at him—though the skin was paler than his own, and the cheeks more filled out—the Elf standing in the hallway in a rich green robe belted across with a golden sash was certainly less coltish and more grown than either of the twins, but he could have been their elder brother or their father who stood there. The same dark eyes and thin eyebrows, the same mobile lips—what Elros strongly suspected was the same dawning expression of bewildered surprise.

“I found them coming from Tol Eressea,” Olórin said mildly. “You may be able to see why I brought them to you.”

“Yes,” agreed the other Elf, sounding slightly faint. “Do you know—” He looked at Elros and Elrond. “Ah, they’re weary,” he said, and his voice, too, was kind. “Olórin, will you confer with me about this once I have found them a place to sleep?”

Olórin smiled and shrugged in a way Elros suspected would be very irritating if he had more than an inkling of what was going on. “I cannot tell you much more than I already have,” he said cheerfully.

The tall Elf sighed. “Why am I not surprised,” he muttered. “Well, come along then.” He held out a hand to Elros and Elrond. “I am Arakáno Nolofinwë, the lord of this house. What are your names?”

Elros flatly stared at him. As they had left the beach, Elrond had said he would come up with something. He was better at make-believe than Elros was, despite the fact that Elros was the one who spent more time with their expert liar of a father. But he had not said anything, and now he was almost drooling onto Elros’s shoulder and certainly not in any position to come up with a useful set of names. Elros scrambled, trying to assemble some idea—any idea—and say it, in Quenya, with his brother’s weight upon his arm and his thoughts swirling wildly round. “We—we are,” he began. Twins—brothers—lost—“I am Huor, and this is my brother Húrin,” he blurted in confusion.

He thought the other Elf might be confused as well, but he covered it smoothly. “Welcome to my house, then, Huor and Húrin. Follow me, I will take you to one of our guest rooms.”

Dumbly, Elros trailed after him, half-carrying Elrond. They went up several more richly-carpeted stairways, past more hanging plants, and past a series of paintings done in almost eye-searingly bright colors. Elros paused for an instant to stare longingly at a portrait of a dark-skinned Elleth cuddling three children. They all looked so happy.

“Ah, I’m afraid that is one of my poor efforts,” Nolofinwë said, pausing as well. “I was trying out the style that Anairë was trained in, but she is far more skilled than I.”

“It’s beautiful,” Elros whispered. “Is that her? Is she—” Don’t ask if she’s alive. Don’t—

“You’ll meet her tomorrow,” Nolofinwë said, his voice fond. “And the children, though they are not so small, now.”

He led them a few passages further, pausing in front of a door covered with a thick, soft tapestry, on which was woven a bright geometrical pattern. “Here, I think this should be big enough for both of you.” He opened the door, and Elros followed him inside, half-stumbling as he saw the room they were to be given. The curtains were open, and all was illuminated with that odd, bright silvery light.

It was immense. The ceiling was so high that Elros half-expected it to vanish into mist like a mountaintop. The bed was big enough for at least five. Here, too, there were plants, so many it seemed like a veritable forest. It looked so like a dream Elros nearly pinched himself.

“I hope you will be comfortable,” Nolofinwë said. “I don’t want to keep you from your rest, but there’s a bathroom through that door if you want to clean yourselves, and we’ll send some food up tomorrow morning. Will that work?”

“Um,” said Elros, forcing a numb voice to function. “Thank you. Yes. We’ll be all right. Thank you.”

He waited until Nolofinwë had left them, and then he dragged Elrond over to the bed, pulling off his boots, belt, and outer tunic. He wished there were something to be done other than dirty the sheets, but he wasn’t going to force his exhausted twin to wash up when he could be sleeping. When was the last time they had slept in any bed? It had been months, perhaps longer.

He could wash up, at least. He was still upright, after all. Yawning, he tottered over to the door that Nolofinwë had indicated and staggered through, halting again with a soft gasp. He ought to stop being surprised, he thought vaguely. Wherever they were, it was obvious that it wasn’t anything like where they had come from. But this bathroom. It was tiled in marble, veined with streaks of light rose. It was as big as his fathers’ bedroom at Amon Ereb, perhaps bigger. The bath itself was sunk into the floor, and there were ornate golden taps, two of them, at one end. There was another window—who needed a window in a bathroom?—looking out onto the lush green mountainside. A stack of towels had been set upon the commode, fluffy and inviting-looking.

Elros trembled and found that his shoulders were shaking. The next moment, he had sat down upon the polished floor and was sobbing. He didn’t even know why. It just seemed to be something that was happening.

He didn’t know how long he sat on the floor crying. Eventually, he got up and went over to the bath, hesitantly turning the taps. Hot water poured from one, cold from the other. He sat and watched the bath fill. Eventually, he took off his clothes, folded them, and set them by the towels. A little searching turned up a cupboard above the sink filled with sweet-scented soaps and a huge sponge. Guiltily, feeling as if he shouldn’t even touch them, he chose the plainest soap and took it and the sponge with him over to the bath, comforting himself that he ought to clean himself properly so as not to dirty any of the beautiful things in this house.

Slipping into the hot water was pure bliss. He had meant to wash his hair first and then the rest of him, but it felt so nice, as if all the aches and pains were being carried away by the warmth, that he thought drowsily he would just stay like this for a moment.

He woke, still warm, to the sound of Elrond screaming his name. Gasping back to consciousness, he floundered, slipping on wet stone, somehow managing to claw his way out of the tub. Blinking sleep out of his eyes—stars, he was foggier than he had woken in years—he staggered over to the door and somehow managed to open it.

“Elros, Elros!” Elrond fell into his arms, trembling and pressing his face into his brother’s shoulder.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Where was his sword? He half-turned, realizing he had left it lying stupidly with the pile of his clothing in the bathroom.

“No—no, wait.” Elrond gasped and quieted slightly. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry. I just—I woke, and I couldn’t find you.” He took a few more long, gulping breaths, hands running over Elros’s head and back, checking instinctively for injuries.

“I just fell asleep in the bath,” Elros said gruffly. “Elrond, stop, that tickles.”

“I suppose that would be why you’re naked.”

“Yes.”

“The bath?”

“It’s very nice. Let me show you.”

He took Elrond’s hand and led him into the next room. “This is the bath? Are you certain this isn’t some sort of indoor lake?”

Elros shoved him. “Come on. I never finished washing myself last night. We’d better clean ourselves up before—before—” Before what, he wondered. What was to happen to them? They still had no idea where they were or what was going on, and every moment that slipped away was another moment the vision in the notebook could be happening, and they would not even know.

But what else could they do? There was no sense offending their host, and no one else whom they could possibly get enough information from to find their way to wherever their fathers were. With a sigh, Elros slipped back into the bath—and how was it still warm?—and waited as Elrond stripped and joined him.

They washed each other’s long hair and combed it with their fingers. It made the water turn a dull grey, and Elros winced at the thought of how much mud Elrond must have left on those soft, pretty sheets the night before. But there was no help for it.

“What shall we do?” Elrond asked helplessly, staring down at the water. “We can’t get clean in this, but look how much water we’ve already used.”

Elros hadn’t even thought of that, somehow. He blamed exhaustion. He chewed on his lip for a long moment. “I hate to use up more, but everything here is so clean,” he pointed out. “Perhaps if we use up a great deal now, we’ll be able to get properly clean, and then we’ll be able to stay clean?”

“Yes—that’s—that’s probably best,” Elrond agreed faintly. “But what a waste.”

“We needn’t fill this whole tub the second time,” Elros pointed out practically. “We can just use enough to scrub off.”

“I suppose that’s the best approach.” They still had to go through an inordinate amount of water, trying to clean off the engrained muck and soil of what felt like years. When they finished, the bath was half full again, and the water was black. They got out and dried off, then put on their wrinkled clothes, acutely aware now of how long it had been since those had been washed.

“Ought we to wash our clothes as well?” Elrond wondered, as Elros did his hair up in a tight braid.

“I think we should ask Nolofinwë, don’t you? He seemed kind.”

“He did,” Elrond agreed. “Yes, perhaps that’s best.”

Someone knocked on the door. Elros and Elrond looked at one another nervously. “We must find out where we are,” Elrond pointed out. “And we’ve just agreed that our host seems kind.” But Elros still made him stay a pace behind as he went over to answer the door.

A pretty Elleth stood outside, dressed in a long white tunic and soft white leggings. The beadwork done in sparkling gemstones across the front of it drew Elros’s eyes; he thought there must be a pattern there, but all he could think of was how much it must have cost. Elrond elbowed him, and he realized he was gawking terribly. “I’m sorry,” Elrond said smoothly. “My brother is very sleepy.”

“You arrived very late last night, Atar says,” the Elleth responded, in a rough, cheerful kind of way. Elros liked her immediately—she reminded him a little of Hemmoril, who had often taken the twins out riding when they were younger. “I’m not surprised.” She tossed her head, setting a head of wild dark curls bouncing. “Anyway, I’m Irissë, and Atar sent me to tell you that if you’d like to come down for breakfast, we’d be happy to have you.”

Elros hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the thought of food came to mind. “Thank you, we’d like that very much,” he returned, before Elrond could come up with some stupid reason that they needed to be cautious or too polite.

“Oh, shall I get you some of my brother’s clothes first? Yours are…”

“Travelworn,” Elrond put in, and Elros knew, without looking, the precise variation of wry smile his twin was giving. It made his heart tighten a little, because thinking of that made him think of the originator of the expression. It was far more common on Elrond’s countenance, though.

They followed Irissë down another maze of corridors. “Wait here,” she said, knocking on a door with a blue and silver tapestry covering it, an abstract rendition of the night sky, filled with stars. “Finno!” she called. “Finno, are you in there?”

“Finno?” Elros hissed to Elrond, clutching at his hand.

“It’s—it’s not anything,” Elrond said, uneasily. “I mean, it’s not as if—”

The door flew open to reveal a short Elf, perhaps half a head shorter than Elros and Elrond, about Maglor’s height. He was wearing a sleeveless blue tunic belted around with a soft sash, and his black braided hair was bound with—with—

Elrond’s grip on Elros’s hand went from loose to painful in the span of an instant. Elros’s breath caught in his throat, because he would recognize those golden ribbons anywhere. He had never seen anything like them—they sparkled almost with their own inner light, carrying some indefinable quality that made them unique. But they could not be here, because they were bound around the stump of his father’s wrist, where he rubbed them with calloused fingers whenever he was trying to soothe himself.

“Irissë, I was in the middle of getting dressed.”

“Our new guests need clothes.” She tapped her foot, and Finno—Fingon Astaldo, the hero of Elros and Elrond’s bedtime stories, the semi-mythical being who had died as bravely as he had lived and left behind only echoes and the shadows in their father’s eyes—crossed his arms.

“So do I,” Fingon pointed out, but he stepped out of the room and looked Elros and Elrond up and down. “You’re a bit taller than I am, but I suppose my clothes will do better than Turno’s. Come and take a look in my closet.”

Somehow, Elros managed to follow, tugging Elrond along with him. Fingon’s room was at least half the size again of the room they had slept in the night before, though it was a great deal more inviting. There was something very approachable and lived-in about this room. Dark-grained bookshelves lined the walls, and several of the books were tumbled out across the bed, one big one still open. Elros caught a glimpse of some pictures—upside down from where he was standing—and craned his neck to see better.

Fingon followed his gaze, and his cheeks suddenly flushed dark across. He hurried over, slammed the book shut, and shoved it off the bed. “Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Unsure what he had done wrong, Elros stepped back half a pace and let Fingon lead them over to his closet. The carpet was soft even beneath his booted feet, and he was suddenly, uncomfortably aware that his old leather boots were also marked with mud, and that neither of the other Elves were wearing shoes.

“You both have very similar complexions,” Fingon mused, pulling forward a series of elegant tunics. “You’re not as dark as I am, so perhaps one of the lighter blues would do? Or—what colors do you normally wear?”

Elros looked helplessly at Elrond. “Brown?” he hazarded, after a moment.

Fingon looked back at him critically. “Do you want to wear brown?” he asked, frowning slightly. “It’s not my favorite, but I think I have some if you’d like it—only I do think you would look nicer in blue, or perhaps red. But it’s up to you.”

“I—I would like red,” Elrond said shyly, sliding past his brother. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“I have just the thing,” Fingon told him, with an infectious grin that left Elros half-dizzy with its sheer, naked friendliness, unadulterated by sorrow or weariness. Fingon dove back into his closet and came out with a deep, wine red tunic with a crow in flight embroidered on the front, so neatly and skillfully done that each tiny feather was delineated with a few sharp stitches. Its eyes were sparkling black gemstones, so bright they almost seemed alive.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Elrond gasped.

Presentation, Elros reminded him. That was what Maglor had always told them. The most important thing you can do is look the part—whatever part you’re playing.

I don’t know what part we’re playing, Elrond replied doubtfully.

It’s like wearing armor to battle, Elros said, and out loud he added, “I’ll wear blue—have you anything of the same style?”

“Not quite,” Fingon said thoughtfully. “The sleeves of the blue tunic that I think would look best on you are rather more understated, but it’s nice enough.”

“May I see it?” Elros asked politely, as Fingon handed Elros the tunic, along with a rose-pink sheer silk undershirt, and a pair of simple, soft black leggings.

Fingon made an agreeable noise and went back to digging through the wardrobe. Elros tried to take the opportunity to talk to Elrond, but his twin was stroking the fabric of the tunic, wide-eyed. “It’s so soft,” he whispered. “Elros, feel this, have you ever felt anything so soft?”

Elros, his train of thought derailed, let Elrond take his hand and press it to the tunic, and his eyes widened. It felt more like the soft fur of a newborn animal than a piece of cloth. “How?” he murmured.

“I don’t know,” Elrond replied, his voice hushed. “But I cannot keep wearing these soiled garments when I am clean and have been offered this—” His voice shook a little, and he began to strip off his worn outer tunic and then his leggings. At the door, Irissë gave a little squeak, and Fingon turned around.

“Oh, um, you can go into the bathroom to change,” he said. “I think you are frightening my sister.”

“Naked néri are ugly,” Irissë pronounced from the doorway. “I am frightened of nothing!”

Elrond paused with his hands on his leggings, stammered an apology, and bolted for the door Fingon indicated. Elros swallowed, feeling almost as disoriented as his twin. If he had been given an outfit first, he would have tried to do just the same as Elrond. How could they be expected to understand such customs—but here he stalled, because he didn’t even know where the thought was going to end, and let Fingon pass him, as if in a dream, a long blue silken tunic, embroidered with a silver tree.

He managed to gabble out a thanks—or perhaps an apology—and followed Elrond into the bathroom, where he shut the door and leaned against the wall, trembling.

Elrond had not yet continued to change. He stood shirtless, the light scars across his chest faintly visible, as he twisted a lock of his hair around one hand. “Where are we?” he whispered, looking up at Elros. “He cannot be here. Is this Mandos?”

“Perhaps if we died in the storm…?” Elros said doubtfully. “I would think we would remember such a thing. And this is nothing like the tales we were told of Mandos, though I suppose we cannot really know if they were true.”

“It does not feel as if we are dead,” Elrond agreed. “But how else could he be here?”

“Olórin told us to tread lightly,” Elros said thoughtfully. “I wonder what he meant?”

“I suppose for the time being we should not let them know who we are or that we know of Fingon,” Elrond replied. “For now—” he looked down at the soft clothes longingly. “I know we must find our fathers, but we cannot simply go around asking for them.”

Elros worried at his lower lip, his hands clutching at the fragile silk robe he held. “But what if they are dying, even now?” he said, in a low voice. “Or killing—for the Silmarils? And we are not there to stop them? Ai—” In frustration, he bolted for the window—of course there was another window in the bathroom—and flung it open, needing the fresh air on his face.

A warm wind laden with the scent of flowers burst inside, traveling about Elros’s still-damp hair, tickling at his chin and neck, chucking to itself, but he found that he could not pay it any mind, and he halted, his hands digging into the sill, at the sight before him.

“And yet, what can we do?” Elrond was saying, behind him. “I have gone around it in my head twenty times since I woke up and I do not—Elros?”

“Look.” It was huge, as thick as a tower, as tall as the sky, and so bright he could barely look upon it without squinting. Vast and golden, with shimmering vines and flowers climbing up its lovely bark, with more flowers dripping and shining from its leafy hair—“We are not dead,” Elros said hoarsely, his mouth trembling, listening to Elrond’s shocked little cry from behind him. “Elrond, we are not even born.”