On the Edge of Ruin, Part I by MithLuin

A Bitter Truth

This portion of my sprawling epic (hah!) was first posted in Sept. 2008 in the very first "A Long Expected Contest."  I always intended it to be the opening chapter, so I might as well add it here now, with the possibility of adding future chapters later. 

Read A Bitter Truth

Elrond breathed in deeply as he stepped down into the storeroom. Bunches of drying herbs hung from the rafters, and dust motes danced in the shafts of light that leaked in from the high windows. He opened his sack and began to add what he had gathered that day to the long wooden table. He was beginning to learn what could be saved and what needed to be gathered fresh. Órello had taught him the names of the useful plants, for cooking or medicine, and the Sinda elf Taurdil was showing him where to find them near Amon Ereb. The exotic plants, from Elvenhome, were grown in the gardens, but those native to Beleriand could often be found within a two days’ journey from their fortress.

But today, he was not thinking about herbs. Something Taurdil had said while they were out in the woods was troubling him. Maglor, the Fëanorean lord, was the only father he and Elros had ever known. He understood that the Sindar (well, some Sindar) considered the Noldor to be interlopers – busybodies who had interfered in a war that was not of their making. But he and his brother did not consider themselves to be prisoners of the Sons of Fëanor! He hoped Elros would be back tonight, so he could speak with him about this. When he had emptied his sack, he left the storeroom.

He made his way to the upper battlements, where he could feel the wind in his hair, and see far out over the plains to the north. He stayed there until the sun set to his left, then he turned and went inside. In the banquet hall, food for the evening meal was being set out. He headed towards the kitchens and found Elros just returning.

Elros smiled in greeting, then paused when he saw Elrond’s face. “What is it, brother?” he asked, concern in his eyes.

“Oh, nothing serious,” he said, his face clearing. “I’ll tell you about it after you’ve had a chance to clean up… and get some food.”

Elros laughed and nodded. “I will not delay,” he said with a smile.

The brothers sat next to each other at the main table, as was their custom when they were both in the fortress. Elrond asked about the hunting trip, and Elros gladly told him where they had been and what he had seen. But he did not question Elrond further about their earlier conversation, waiting for the privacy of their room.

Elrond closed the door, and turned to his brother. “Do you need to sharpen your axe?”

Elros considered, but only for a brief moment. “It will wait until tomorrow.” He walked over to tend the fire, which was burning low, and then leaned on the mantelpiece expectantly. Elrond took it for the invitation it was.

“I was out with Taurdil today, since he knows best where to find herbs. And he said….he said it was a wonder my captors would let me stray so far with only a Sinda as a jail-keeper.” His brow furrowed and he looked at Elros.

“How dare he!” Elros fairly exploded. “If they were our jailers, they wouldn’t let their captives stray, as he said. We are allowed free reign, and are only prevented from going further for our own safety.”

“True enough,” Elrond agreed. “Two half-elven warriors would not make it far unless they showed more cunning than King Finrod of Nargothrond.”

“Or had an army,” Elros added, his original outburst cooling. “But why would he call our Uncles our captors? Were we ever captives?”

“We did not always live with our Uncles,” Elrond answered slowly.

“No…we lived with our mother in the Haven by the Sea, or so we have always been told.” They lapsed into silence as they tried to read this riddle with missing pieces.

Their musing was disturbed by a knock on the door. Órello poked his head into the room. “How are you this evening, young masters?” Seeing them startle at his intrusion, he stepped into the room, and closed the door behind him. “Is everything alright?”

“Órello, can you tell us how we came to live with our Uncles?” Elros asked, too earnestly for the request to be casual.

“Why? What’s troubling you?” he asked them again.

“Something we heard,” Elrond answered. “But please just tell us the truth.”

“It is a sad tale, and a long one,” Órello sighed. The twins merely directed him to his usual seat, and sat on the floor at his feet attentively as if they were young boys still. “Shortly after you were born, your father the Lord Eärendil went to Sea. I had served him faithfully since he was born, as my father served his father, but having no love of ships, I did not go with him on this journey. Instead, he entrusted his young sons to my care, and so I pledged myself to care for both of you, in his absence.” Órello paused, considering his audience. “Your mother, the Lady Elwing, ruled the Havens while he was away at Sea on his long errand, and the people prospered. But after several years had passed, misfortune befell us. We were attacked in the night. Amidst the chaos, your mother gathered all those she could of her household, and we fled. We hoped to reach the boats that had been secreted against just such an assault. The paths down to the boats were behind the houses, on the very edge of the Sea, and so we thought them difficult for the attackers to reach. But the assault was so fierce that before we could reach the boats, we were waylaid. Rather than surrender, your mother cast herself into the Sea and was lost. Those who carried swords were killed, and the rest of us surrendered. I know you must think me weak, but I did not pick up a sword and fight to the death. Instead, I honored the word I gave your father, and stayed by your sides.”

“No, Órello,” Elros quietly interrupted. “We are glad you survived that night. Who else would tell us stories of our first family?”

“But I still want to know how we came to live with our Uncles,” Elrond insisted.

“As you know, your Uncles took you in after the attack.”

“Yes, but why? How?” Elros asked.

"I-" Órello grimaced. “It was elves who ordered the attack on the Havens.”

“Elves attack elves? But that’s orc-work!” Elros exclaimed indignantly. “Why would they do such a thing?”

“For that story, you must ask your Uncles. I cannot answer for those elves. But there are old grievances, of which you know nothing. All elves know how to keep their word, wicked though it may seem.”

“That is no story at all,” Elrond complained. “I would never kill an elf, unless he marched under the banners of Morgoth.”

“Or by accident,” Elros agreed.

“I agree with you, my young innocents, which is why I cannot tell you their story – I would not do it justice. But it is dangerous to claim to know what you would or would not do until the time comes. I know you love your Uncles; they are older and wiser than I. Ask them.”

---

Many days passed before Elrond and Elros had the opportunity to speak to Maglor about the Havens. Something about the way Órello spoke to them was troubling, as if he had left out an important piece of the puzzle. Elros went on another hunting trip, and Elrond spent several days away from the fortress with Órello. He would not seek out Taurdil until he knew what truth was in his slight, if any. Their chance came one day after the evening meal. Both of their Uncles were at home, and Maedhros turned to Maglor, asking for a song. And Maglor complied, singing of the Battle of Sudden Flame, when Glaurung burst upon the North and the long uneasy peace came to an end. The brothers listened eagerly; other minstrels merely told the names and deeds of those who had fallen, but when Maglor sang, he brought the entire history of the elves into his words. He captured the confusion and fear of the first days of the battle, when the cold winter night was lit by foul fire, and the failure of the Eldar to rally together to meet the assault. They felt bitterly the grief of the losses as the Noldor fell back and their lands were destroyed. When he sang of the fall of Angrod and Aegnor, it seemed too much, but against this he set the defense of Himring, which could not be captured, and the escape of Finrod to his fastness of Nargothrond, and the survival of all of Fëanor’s sons. But this breath of quiet hope was dashed by the death of Fingolfin, noblest of the Noldor: “and then he rode away, his grief and despair overcoming all counsel. He would not be restrained, this vision of the Valar, who rode to challenge Morgoth himself. His horse returned riderless, and died in mourning. An eagle bore his body back, and Turgon his son buried him in the mountains, never forgetting.”

He lapsed into silence, and his audience was quiet as well. Many elves got up to leave, but Elros and Elrond stayed. They looked at one another, and made their decision. When few elves remained, they stood and went to where the Sons of Fëanor sat. “Yontaro," Elros asked, “can you tell us something?”

“What is it, yontimot?” Maglor answered them.

It was Elrond who asked, “Can you tell us why an elf would kill another elf?”

At that, Maedhros looked up swiftly, his eyes piercing them. But he said nothing, and looked to Maglor instead. For his part, Maglor looked at each of his foster sons and said lightly, “Why do you ask?”

Elros replied, “We want to know what happened at the Havens.”

“We know it was elves who attacked that night,” Elrond added. Maglor looked troubled and said nothing.

“Did Sandórë tell you this?” Maedhros asked suspiciously.

“Órello told us to ask you,” Elros defended their friend.

“Are they old enough, Cáno?” Maedhros asked his brother.

“The question is, are they still young enough?” Maglor answered. He considered the twins.

“But I think I can answer your question. You wanted to know how one elf could kill another. By the end of this evening, you will know.”

Elros and Elrond looked at one another in alarm. “Please, sir, we do not wish to kill any elf,” Elros said.

“No, you do not,” Maglor said with a sad smile. “But you do not yet know the names of the elves responsible for your mother’s death.” He paused, considering how to begin. “Your mother came from Doriath, and she was descended from Thingol, the King. An ancient grievance lay between Thingol and the Noldor, so that when he obtained something that rightfully belonged to certain Princes of the Noldor, he refused to yield it to them. This necklace came to your mother, who took it with her to the Havens.”

“Her necklace….” Elrond whispered, a dim memory stirring.

“She also refused to yield it up to its rightful owners,” Maglor continued.

A horrified look crossed Elros’ face. “They attacked us for that?”

“Who were…” Elrond’s voice trailed off. “How many surviving Princes of the Noldor are there?” he asked instead, understanding dawning in his voice.

“Only Ereinion…and us,” Maedhros answered.

“You…you killed her?” Elros said, knocking his chair over and stumbling backwards. The hall was silent as the few remaining elves looked over at his outburst.

“We did not mean for her to die,” Maedhros tried to explain. “We only wanted the…the necklace.”

“But she is dead, and the Havens are destroyed, because of you,” Elrond said hollowly.

“To think that we called you yontaro! Why, we ought to…”

“Kill us?” Maglor interrupted Elros ruefully.

“No, that will not bring her back,” Elrond said quickly. “You were wrong – I do not understand how you could kill elves you had no grievance against.”

“No grievance?” Maedhros repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “You were wrong, brother, they cannot understand.”

“Nelyo, they too have lost a father and a mother. Do not become blind to others’ sorrows because our own are so heavy.”

Maedhros turned back to his brother’s adopted sons, his yontimot, and saw the pain in their young faces. He softened. “When I was your age, I knew little of grief. My cares may be heavy, but my shoulders are old enough to bear them. You have seen much in your young lives.” He bowed his head. “If you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me, please forgive my brother, who has loved you since the moment he saw you. Do not hold him at fault for following his father’s heir on a fool’s errand.” Without another word, Maedhros stood and left the hall. An uneasy silence followed his departure.

Elrond looked at his brother. Elros’ fists were clenching and unclenching, his breath coming in panting gasps. “Sit down,” Maglor asked. Elros met his brother’s eyes, and complied.

“My father’s grievance was with Morgoth, and him alone,” Maglor continued. “But he could not foresee what he would drag the Noldor into, where we would follow him. We have paid bitterly the price he demanded of us, and as you know, only my brother and I remain of all the mighty Princes of the royal house of Finwë.” He sighed, and looked at them beseechingly. “Morgoth alone has earned Maedhros’ hatred, and mine. We will fight him to the end. Can you not join us in that fight?”

“If I do, I will kill only orcs, servants of Morgoth,” Elros answered.

“The day you lead us against elves is the day we leave your following,” Elrond agreed.

“I do not ask you to forgive me tonight. The knowledge and grief are too new. But when it is less near, you shall join me in the field. You are both nearly grown, by the measure of your kindred. Before, I would not have dared to lead you into battle, with this secret between us. But now…” he looked at each of them. “Know only that I could not have wished for better sons. Your parents must have been remarkable people indeed. I… I am sorry you did not know them.” He looked away quickly.

“You have been a father to us,” Elrond said slowly. “We will not forget that.”

“But neither can we forget what we have learned tonight,” Elros added. “It will be some time before we march under your banner.”

“The time is yours to choose,” Maglor agreed. He stood, and they did likewise. After embracing them and bidding them goodnight, he went in search of his own brother.

He found Maedhros standing by a window in an empty corridor, the night breeze teasing at his long red hair. He spoke before Maglor could. “So, they did not kill you.” He turned towards his brother and leaned against the stone wall. “Did they forgive you?” he asked, crossing his arms in front of him.

“Not yet; it is much to ask of them.” Maglor sighed. “I would not lose them now, though. I always knew I would have to tell them one day, but that did not make it easier.”

Maedhros nodded. “Give them time, Cáno. They love you as a father,” he added, almost wistfully.

“But is that strong enough to withstand such a betrayal?” Maglor asked.

“I remember the day Father betrayed me,” Maedhros said in reply.

Maglor looked at him in surprise. “What day was that?”

“The day he burned the ships.”

Understanding dawned on Maglor’s face. “You would not help. Did you quarrel with him?”

Maedhros almost smiled. Almost. “I asked to go back for Fingon. When he refused, I thought we would never see them again.” He paused , and then went on. “But that did not stop me from seeking to avenge his death.”

“No, it did not,” Maglor murmured. “You were more keen to than the rest of us, actually.”

Maedhros unconsciously rubbed the stump of his right arm. “Your sons are grown, they will see it the same way,” he said, turning the conversation back to the present.

“Yes, I told them they could fight now, if they were willing to march under our banner.”

Maedhros laughed. “Clever of you! And I thought Curufin was the only one to inherit Father’s gift of… persuasion.”

“I did not mean to…” Maglor began.

“Oh yes you did! You know they have been restless to fight orcs for the past year.”

“Perhaps you are wearing off on me,” he conceded. “You have always been the leader, since we were all boys. Curufin may have had Father’s gift for oratory, but you’ve always been able to get people to do what you want them to do.”

“But where have I led you?” Maedhros asked, turning back towards the window.

“You have paid for your mistakes, Nelyo. You have my forgiveness, and always have.”

“Thank you,” Maedhros murmured, almost too softly to be heard.

---

By unspoken arrangement, neither Elros nor Elrond left the stronghold of Amon Ereb that week. Each wanted the other nearby, as they wrestled with what they should do. On that first afternoon, the brothers could be found near the stables. Elros was carefully sharpening his axe.

“I don’t want to think about it,” he said petulantly, rubbing the whetstone along his axe blade rhythmically.

Elrond was walking back and forth, kicking at the ground restlessly. “But we must. We have to decide if we can…if we can stay here.”

“Where else would we go?” Elros asked hopelessly. “We would not last very long on our own, and what land is not overrun by Morgoth’s minions now?”

“The Isle of Balar is still free,” Elrond said, doubtfully. “I do not know if we could get there, but we would be welcomed by the exiles from the Havens, I think.”

“The Fëanoreans send messengers to Ereinion the High King, sometimes,” Elros reminded him. “If we insisted, they might send us…”

“Do you really want that? To leave the only home we remember?” Elrond asked in surprise.

“I don’t know!” Elros said in exasperation. “I feel I should hate them for what they did, but…”

“But it’s just the same as always?” Elrond suggested.

Elros nodded helplessly. “It does not make sense.”

“Maglor says we have time. Let’s see what we think later, after we’ve made sense of this.”

“That’s what I said earlier!” Elros exclaimed, but he was only teasing his brother. He brushed his hair out of his way and examined his axe critically. “It looks smooth enough; hand me the oil, would you?” Elrond tossed it lightly.

A few days later, Elrond was in the storeroom when Taurdil came in. He still wasn’t ready to confront the other elf about his words, but he could not let it pass, either. “I am not a prisoner, and they are not jailers,” he said abruptly, not meeting the other elf’s eyes.

“Is that so?” Taurdil said, his eyes full of pity. “My…mistake.”

“You should not speak of what you do not know,” Elrond said angrily, then turned and left. He could not help but think that if Taurdil had never said anything, he and Elros would never have had to see an enemy when they looked on their foster father. But he knew it was not the Sinda’s fault that his Uncles were guilty.

By the end of the week, they were both restless. “Are the apples ripe yet?” Elros asked hopefully.

“Not quite,” Elrond replied, “But we can pick them anyway.”

They let themselves out of the gate, and went down the hill towards the orchard. They were still within sight of the fortress, so it was safe to be out alone. They would not pass the outer defenses. Nevertheless, both brothers carried long knives on their belts. They picked almost-ripe apples from the sunny side of the trees, and munched on them as they wandered through the orchard. You could never have just one apple tree.

“What do you remember, of before?” Elrond asked presently. Elros looked up at him thoughtfully, not needing to ask 'before what?'

“Not very much,” Elros admitted. “But sometimes I think I do. It is hard to separate the stories we have been told from what I do recall.”

Elrond nodded. “It is the same with me. I think I am remembering, but I am just imagining Órello’s tales.”

“Sometimes, though, I know it is real,” Elros continued, picking at the leaves, “I walk down a corridor in the fortress, and when I turn a corner, I expect to see…something else. I feel certain that some other, bigger, room should be there. I suppose…I suppose it’s the Havens.”

Elrond considered that, then asked quietly, “Do you remember Órello there?”

Elros looked at him in surprise. “I don’t know. I think so. He told us stories there, too.”

“Are you sure?” Elrond pressed him.

“Not really, no,” Elros admitted. “But why does that matter?”

“The stories he has told us – how do we know they are true?”

“Órello would not lie to us,” Elros said quickly.

“Would he not?” Elrond countered. “He did not tell us the truth of the attack.”

“That’s different – he did not want to scare us when we were too little.”

“It was still a lie. I thought I could remember that night – waking up in fear in the dark, not knowing what happened, being bundled outside in the cold amidst frightened whispers. But in my memory, the attackers were foul orcs. It is so vivid…and yet, so clearly false. It never happened. What if all my memories are just dreams?”

Elros shook his head. “All I remember of that night is being very afraid. Some things, I can’t remember, no matter how hard I try. I…I don’t remember our father.”

“Me neither,” Elrond agreed, though he did have a glimmer of one. A memory of a memory of a memory. He was looking at the water, and someone was telling him to wave goodbye. “But I do remember the Sea,” he said aloud.

“I miss the sound of it,” Elros agreed. Almost surprised, he added, “And I do remember Mother’s voice.”

“She used to sing to us,” Elrond said, “but I don’t recall the song.” They were silent for a time, each lost in his own thoughts.

“Would you march under the banner of the Fëanoreans?” Elros asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Elrond answered. “Maglor is as much our family as Órello.”

“But only because he slaughtered our first family!” Elros said angrily.

“No…he did not,” Elrond said slowly. “Our father went to Sea, as did his father. And our mother was lost in the Sea as well. Our family was not slaughtered.”

“I do want to kill orcs,” Elros said wistfully. “Do you think our mother and father would mind, if they knew?”

“I like to think they would be glad to know their sons survived, and are free,” Elrond answered. “But I do not like being required to…overlook such evil.”

Elros shook his head. “Not overlook, forgive. That’s different.”

“How?” Elrond asked suspiciously.

“If we ever…if we ever…” Elros began, then stopped, his face clouding. “We would be saying we approved if we obeyed an order to attack elves. If we…participated in it.” He grimaced, the words leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

“Never!” Elrond said vehemently.

Elros nodded. “But if we follow them to defend these lands against orcs of Morgoth, that means that we don’t hold the past against them, not that we…condone it.”

“I think you just want to fight,” Elrond retorted.

“And you don’t?” Elros asked.

In response, Elrond took the knife from his belt and lopped off one of the suckers at the base of the tree he had just been leaning against. He swung it at Elros, who ducked out of the way. Breaking off his own, Elros countered the attack. The brothers dueled with the whip-like branches, parrying and ducking around the trees. They only stopped when the fingers of both smarted from the sting of blows that missed.

“I know what we can do,” Elrond said between pants.

“And what is that?” Elros asked, sucking on his knuckles.

“We’ll ask Órello. If he says our parents would not mind, then we can fight.”

“But what if he says no?” Elros asked, his forehead crinkling.

“I haven’t thought about that,” Elrond admitted.

---

Neither Maglor nor Maedhros was at the evening meal, but Órello was there. The twins sat across from him, but were unusually quiet. Órello looked at them both thoughtfully and asked casually, “Have you been outside this week?” They shook their heads mutely. Órello clucked his tongue. “It is not like young boys to stay cooped up inside on such fair days.”

Elros answered him, “We have not been idle. There was work to do in the stables, and the orchard is pleasant enough.”

“We are no longer young boys,” Elrond added.

Órello considered their answer, but then turned to the elf sitting net to him and inquired after his family. He would not press Eärendil’s sons – yet.

But after the meal, the twins departed quickly, holding their own council in their room to decide how to broach the subject with Órello. “He thinks we are still children,” Elrond insisted. “He will not permit us to fight.”

“Then let us not ask for his permission, but rather his advice,” Elros suggested.

“The advice of someone who never became a warrior?” Elrond asked skeptically.

“This was your idea,” Elros said in exasperation. “You think of a way around it.”

“We ask him why he never became a warrior,” Elrond said slowly. “Then, counter with why we want to. In the end, we ask him if he thinks our parents would approve.”

Elros nodded. “That is better. Shall we find him, then?” Elrond moved to the door.

Some elves boasted that an enemy who tried to take the fortress of Amon Ereb would have to fight for every step, even if the walls were breached. Whether or not that would prove true, it was certainly built with defense in mind. Elrond and Elros passed from their room through a honeycomb of passages leading to the single outer door. Here, they were forced to pass through a narrow passage that curved around, following the outer wall. Few windows pierced this heavy stone wall, and the ones that did were too narrow to admit even the thinnest man. When they had walked most of the way around the tower, the floor opened up, revealing the only stairwell to the lower levels. The heavy trap door stood open as always. The circular stairway was built not of stone, but of wood, and could be pulled up with some effort. Having descended it, the brothers continued around the outer hallway and passed down to the floor below. They found the single door that led to the interior, and sought out Órello’s room.

He answered their knock on his door immediately, but seemed surprised to see them. He beckoned them in and offered them seats near the fire.

“You seemed quiet this evening,” Órello began, giving them an opening.

“We have had a lot on our minds this week,” Elros answered.

“Nothing happy, I deem,” Órello responded sympathetically.

“Just…history,” Elrond said. “Why did you not…What did you do, in Gondolin?” he asked instead.

Órello paused, surprised. “What did I not do?” he mused. “I was a farmer.”

“You were?” Elros remarked. “But I thought your family were mariners.”

“We were!” Órello laughed. “But what does a mariner do in a city in the midst of the mountains? I was born in Gondolin, and never saw the Sea until I came to the Havens with your father and mine.”

“Do you miss farming?” Elrond asked, curious.

“I miss Gondolin. This fortress would be but a small part of that sprawling city, and it was fair beyond any place in Beleriand. But as for farming? I raised horses. We had few at the Havens, but the Fëanoreans have many.”

“Why did you not become a knight?” Elros asked, steering the topic towards their true interest.

“Sons of mariners did not generally become knights of Gondolin. And what would my Grey-elven mother have thought of that?” He shook his head. “No, I did not want to fight. I am a tender of hurts, not a slayer of beasts.”

“Then how did you escape the sack of Gondolin?” Elrond asked, thinking of the Havens.

“It happened at Midsummer,” Órello said quietly. “We were all gathered on the walls of the city, to greet the dawn. My father Voronwë was with your grandfather, as he always was since his return. When the attack began, his household retreated to Tuor’s, with his wife and young child.”

“Our father!” Elros said.

“Yes, he was only a boy of seven at the time. The Lady Idril, the King’s daughter, ordered everyone to make preparations to flee, if the worst should happen, and found arms for those who could bear them. She herself was girt with a sword in that desperate hour.”

“But where was Tuor, our grandfather?” Elrond asked.

“He was with the King’s men. He was a warrior, like his father Huor.”

“We know about Huor!” Elros said excitedly. “He fought in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, guarding King Turgon’s retreat.”

“Yes, fought and died there. I was not in the battle, but I saw him once when he was in Gondolin,” Órello remarked. “I did not know then that my life would be entwined so closely with that of his children.”

“But how did you escape the city?” Elrond pressed.

“When…when it was clear the city would fall,” Órello continued, swallowing a bit, “the Lady Idril said that she knew a way of escape, and that we should gather all the folk that we could and follow her. We each of us had a pack, that she must have prepared long in advance, which we had quickly filled with food and other necessities, of which she had great store. At the time, I did not pause to wonder at this, but she must have taken the warning of Ulmo to heart, even as she had his messenger. But as we left,” he continued, “she was attacked by Maeglin, the King’s nephew, who proved a black-hearted traitor in the end. But Tuor returned, and he rescued her and his son, casting Maeglin over the city walls. Then we quickly made our way to a secret tunnel, calling for all we met to follow us, though by now the city was in chaos, and people fled hither and thither without purpose.”

Órello shook his head, trying to dispel the memory. “Passing through that tunnel is the most frightening thing I have ever done. It was lit only by torches, and I did not have one. I do not know who guarded the entrance at our backs – perhaps Tuor’s warriors – but we could hear the sounds of battle echoing as if our enemies were right behind us. In that echoing darkness, I lost my father and mother, and did not know if they were but a few steps ahead of me, or fallen behind in the burning city. I feared that the tunnel would lead nowhere, and we would be trapped underground forever. But finally, it came to an end, and we emerged back onto the open plain. The sun was sinking - in a single day, the glory of Gondolin was destroyed, her mighty towers brought low – but we could not see the city yet, for the enemy had brought dragons, and there was smoke and fog everywhere.

“We made our way to a high pass, and I realized with a shock that we were headed north. Weary with fear and grief, I did not care, but trusted in the Lady Idril to lead us to safety. As we wended our way along the steep and narrow path, we were attacked from behind. The warriors of our rearguard were scattered, caught at unawares, and we were set upon by the orcs. I learned two things in that moment – I did not need to know how to fight with a sword to use one to kill an orc, and that my mother had indeed fallen behind. The Eagles came to our aid, and our warriors recovered. Not one of those orcs escaped, but we buried my mother and others high in the mountains. They never left the Vale of Tumladen, but we looked one last time on our once-fair, ruined city now engulfed in flames, before we passed down the mountain and it was lost from sight forever.” Órello stirred, looking up as if he had forgotten his audience. He smiled at the slack-jawed brothers ruefully. “Not my best tale, I fear.”

“No,” Elrond whispered, “but it is good to know.”

“I am sorry, Órello,” Elros said. “All this time, and we never asked you about your mother. You’ve lost your family, too.”

But Órello shook his head. “Do not grieve for me. I have many fair memories of my family and my home, and I have been healed of my sorrows. But let us speak of more pleasant things! What have you two been up to all week?” he asked, his look too shrewd for their liking.

The twins exchanged a look. “We have been debating a decision,” Elros said.

“And we’d like your advice,” Elrond added.

“And what decision have you reached?”

“We want to become warriors, so we can fight orcs,” Elros explained.

“And why do you need my advice?” Órello asked.

“We want to know what our parents would think of that decision. You knew them best,” Elrond answered.

Órello looked at the fire, not facing them. “Under whose banner would you march?”

“Our Uncles’,” Elros said tentatively.

“And you seek your parents’ blessing on that?” He looked at them this time. Neither brother answered, and Órello just shook his head. “Your mother would not wish this for you.”

“But what of our father?” Elros pleaded. “He fled Gondolin with you, and had no love of those creatures.”

“Peace!” Órello answered, but not angrily. “I have more reason to hate the servants of Morgoth than you do. I did not say your mother would have forbid it,” he continued. “If you had to take responsibility for the Havens, you would have had to learn to fight. But that future will never be.” He sighed and looked away. “How shall I answer you? As an exile of Gondolin, I must tell you to fight the enemy in any way you can. As a guest in the house of the Sons of Fëanor, I must not speak ill of them. As the man who saw your mother fall into the Sea…how can I tell you to follow her attackers?”

At their look of dismay, he explained. “Master Maglor told me you knew, and that he awaits your decision. So you see, I cannot advise you.”

“What does the friend of our father say, in his absence?” Elrond asked boldly.

“Your father would not see his sons cozened, locked away in a fortress. But he would be grieved to learn that they had fallen into darkness. If you do choose to follow your Uncles, never forget who your enemy is, nor why you fight.”

They nodded earnestly.

---

The twins waited for Maglor to return, and then went to him in the early morning. Elrond was relieved that Uncle Maedhros was not with him. Maglor looked at them gravely. “What is it?” he asked.

Elros spoke. “We have made our decision.” Maglor merely waited, his face betraying nothing. “We wish to become warriors, and will march under your banner.”

“My warriors are loyal; can I count on you as well?” Maglor asked them, his relief kept out of his voice.

Elros was thrown by this question, so Elrond stepped forward. “We are loyal, and will obey your orders in all things – save this. If ever you command us to attack elves, we will lay down our arms.”

Maglor nodded. “I will not give that order to you,” he assured them in all sincerity. “I would sooner release you from my service.” He looked them over. “Tomorrow you will be fitted for your gear. If you have any misgivings, tell me in the morning.”

“We will not,” Elros assured him.

Their first stop the next morning was the cobbler. He measured their feet and legs, and asked them to pace back and forth so he could observe how they walked. Elrond felt foolish having someone staring intently at his feet. “Could you not just take an impression of our feet in clay and be done with it?” he asked.

“I have been making boots since before the Sun first rose,” the cobbler quipped. “If I ask you to walk, you may be sure there is a reason for it.”

“I am sure we will appreciate your handiwork after tramping for days in these boots,” Elros said with a laugh. Now that the decision was made, his heart was easier.

Next they went to the armory, where shirts of mail were found for them. “Should they be this loose?” Elrond asked. It seemed very heavy to him.

The elves laughed. “If it is too tight, you will find it difficult to slip on and off.”

Elros frowned. “Still, I think these were made for stouter men than we are.”

To his surprise, the guard nodded. “They were. But you should grow accustomed to the weight. Then you may have them altered, when you know what suits you.” The brothers looked at each other doubtfully. With this much weight, it would be difficult to do anything. Divining their thoughts, the guard added, “It will be easier with a belt.”

From there, they were given tunics, which did fit them. These were solid sable, relieved with silver trim and the badge of Fëanor embroidered on the front and back. Once belted, the weight of the mail did not sit so heavily on their shoulders.

Elros fastened the tunic at his throat, then turned to see his brother. Elrond had already pulled a heavy dark grey woolen cloak about him, leaving the hood down. Elros put on his own cloak.

“So, what do you think?” he asked, spinning on one foot so the cloak would billow out to reveal the badge on the front of his tunic.

“You are arrayed for battle, not a dance!” Elrond chided him.

“Not until we get helms and swords!” Elros pointed out, then looked expectantly at the guard, who shook his head. Whatever he was thinking about sending boys into battle, he bit his tongue. He fetched steel helms and wooden shields with metal plates that would serve for horseback or groundwork. The twins put on the helms and were surprised that they could still see well enough.

“These are dwarf-made,” the guard explained. “You will need to braid your hair to keep it free of your faces, though.” They nodded, then strapped on the shields, experimenting with the weight on their arms.

“These feel like practice shields,” Elrond remarked.

“They are similar, but the swords are not,” the guard answered. “Come, let us get your weapons.” He led them to the back of the armory, and drew out two swords. “These are from Cape Balar, the Shiphavens past the Mouth of Sirion. Your father Maglor requested that these be given to you. Wield them well.” He presented the hilts to each of them and was pleased to see that they took them gravely, their earlier sense of play falling away. “Tomorrow, you will receive your gear,” he informed them, and then sent them to see their father for inspection.

Maglor was startled when he saw them both dressed in their gear, with the badge of Fëanor on their chests. Startled, but pleased. The sons of Eärendil were not estranged from him, despite all that he had done to their families. Whatever outcome he had hoped or feared from the attack on the Havens, surely he had never dreamed that it would be like this. For their parts, they seemed pleased to be accepted as soldiers. He hoped he would never have to betray they trust they had placed in him today.

---

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Chapter End Notes

 Órello (Sandórë ) may look like an OC, but he is really Littleheart son of Voronwë, and thus invented by Tolkien for the Lost Tales. I felt they needed a connection to the Havens, and so I brought him along. His presence here at Amon Ereb will likely be explained in Part II.  

Yontaro = foster father
Yontimot = pair of adopted sons
Tolkien gave the root word YO; these words were coined by others and can be found on http://www.elvish.org/gwaith/ppq.htm