Crossroads by Gwanath Dagnir

CIRCA 562, F.A. - BELERIAND

One particularly violent lurch of the wagon startled him awake in a panic. He strained to lift himself up from the floor that rocked like a boat in choppy waters.

“Ai, easy there, stay down. Wheel caught a rut in the path is all,” said a voice indistinguishable from his own. The hand resting across the back of his neck massaged gently, bringing calm and more context. 
He let his face relax against the restless wood as their circumstances groggily pieced together from the scattered images of fever dreams and dark memories. Captive. Scrimmage. Rescued. Marching.

“Oh, bore. And here I hoped for a rematch.” His voice came out weak and cracking, which encouraged the joke. “I’m ready. Where’s my sword? Let me at them.”

“Ha,” his brother said, mirthless, and helped him drink from a canteen, the stale water warm as leather-flavored tea. “None of our adversaries survived the wrath of your tardy saviours, I’m afraid, though their defeat came at a price. Nay, alas – you shall have to beg Finarfin for leave to find your own revenge on the proper battlefield once we return. At least that should be the smallest grace to beg for, after the mess we made of this.” His tightened voice turned toward the mouth of the canvas framing the scene of hard-won victory shrinking in the distance. “Sorry, never mind that. Try to rest.”

“I am resting. This is luxurious.” An even worse bump that bounced his brow off the floor seemed to disagree with comedic timing. “Well, comparatively.” The constant jostling pinned him between pain from bruised ribs that bore his weight, and pain from the scored flesh of his back tugged by every movement. He purposefully recalled to his mind that putrid orc den, echoing with cries of despairing elves chained in the darkness, quieted only by the crack of a whip that struck like lightning, over, and over. Then opening his eyes with a grateful breath of free air, he smiled up at his twin’s dour face, half-covered in swaying light and shadow thanks to a gap in the canvas overhead. “Oi, handsome. Which one am I this time?”

“Elrond.” His twin faked a smile to give comfort. “You must have taken a worse beating in there than I thought. Here, this will help.” Elros had folded a cloak and replaced it with the paltry cloth left to imitate a pillow after the last redressing of his wounds. “Now rest, please – unless you’ll take more of that tonic first?”

“Threaten me at your own peril. You saw what happened to the last who dared.”

“Ha,” said Elros, somber again as he watched the grim past retreat outside. “I did indeed.”

Over the next several days of travel, Elrond gathered a roughly comprehensive account of the campaign from the Liberators’ perspective. All had gone according to plan up to a point on both ends. After Elrond posed as easy prey lost in the wild and successfully baited some passing orc scouts, his abductors returned with him to their encampment where a slave labour force was embedded. As always, he relayed the path and location to his twin via the uncanny link twixt their minds, and in turn Elros rallied the battalion for pursuit from their place of hiding nearby. Yet things went afoul for Elrond from the onset, exactly as wiser commanders had warned during the planning of this latest campaign (a whole harsh winter since the previous): the Half-elven were grown too mature now -and developed too obviously as a race neither elf nor man- to fool even lowly creatures into mistaking them for mere elvish younglings. His composure, unusual visage, and anticipatory compliance swiftly attracted the eyes of the sharper-witted slave masters and sealed his fate.

Meanwhile, the party that Elros guided met their own complications. After years of executing such daring raids that freed countless thralls and crippled the enemy supply chain, word of their tactics had spread to this particular orc-hoard with enough notice to prepare. Their encampment occupied a dried-up reservoir accessible via a long passage closed in on both sides by sloping walls of silt and jagged rock, and behind every boulder an orc guard hid in waiting. By the time the Liberators poured onto the path, the guards had already been alerted of the strange spy found in their midst, and waited until the elvish ranks were fully embedded to launch a relentless assault from the advantage of higher ground. After a slow and grueling haul through the gully, the battered company reached the encampment to find its orc residents equally prepared for their arrival, and what was supposed to be an explosive surprise attack upon an unsuspecting labour camp spiraled into a brutal melee. At long last, the elves prevailed but at great cost, taking as many casualties in this single campaign as in all their past raids combined.

On the final day of their return journey, dawn stained the cloudy sky blood-red, an ominous welcome home.

“Finarfin would not ask this of you,” said Elros, the latest of ongoing protests. He applied a medicated balm to what remained of his brother’s wounds with intense delicacy.

From their perch straddling a felled log, Elrond focused on the camp sprawled before them as it came to life under the breaking of day. The thralls freed from the orc encampment still slept, woke, ate, and huddled together anxiously, like a herd of harried livestock amidst the army bustling with purpose around them. As always, he wondered if they would ever separate, reintegrate, or if they were bonded together by shared torment and changed beyond the ability to find belonging alone amongst the uninitiated. “It is what I want regardless,” said Elrond. He had insisted on joining the commanding officers when they reported to Finarfin forthwith upon their arrival. “None of us are completely proud of this outcome, but we two share most of the blame. I will stand beside you and our brothers in arms to hear Finarfin’s rebuke firsthand.”

“We are officially but lieutenants,” Elros murmured, laying a stretch of clean linen over each shoulder and around the waist to help blunt the friction of armor. He would be the youngest commander in all the history of Middle-earth’s many wars, but at the age of thirty still begrudged the title. “Customary to retire and await our summoning, should it occur.”

Whatever their rank, the brethren were the informal architects of these campaigns, owed to the critical role that they alone can perform. Elrond said, “A dozen elves were slain in a raid we misjudged as less risky than usual. We will be summoned.”

“I know.” Elros sighed with the weight of the dead upon his conscience. “So be it, already. I only wished that we could take some rest before facing the inevitable; you especially, after hardly resting in all this time.”

“What do you mean? I’ve laid prone for a week and been tended to like a helpless babe newborn.”

Elros stood up to make space while an esquire helped his twin into a tunic, watching as another approached carrying armor that dwarfed his own size. “Even so, you’ve kept one ear tuned to every passing word outside, and coaxed every elf you’ve laid eyes on to fill in the blanks. Would you call that resting?”

“Well, I would call it restful.”

“Ai… how is it that I ended up with a reputation for being the stubborn one.” Elros took the breast plate from the esquire’s boyish hands, making a rough conversion of the elvish lifecycle to estimate their ages as similar, though Elros stood a head taller and twice as thick. “We shall handle the rest – please go now and prepare our horses.” The esquire spread gleaming chain mail across the log and darted away dutifully. Elrod stared down at the heaviness of it. “At least forego the mail, brother. It will only pain you needlessly.”

“And bear it I shall, but not needlessly. Today we ride to answer for the fallen – those who placed their trust in the Half-elven should behold us rightly prepared, and know that the lesson has been learned.”

The last moments of sunlight made a dazzling spectacle of Finarfin’s vast host; pristine standards waving high from glittering spears crowned the barricades protecting an enclave of tents, stables, and wagons. They navigated a maze of swiftly lengthening shadows to reach Finarfin’s headquarters, where they were made to wait for his audience.

On the cusp of nightfall, a dozen elves poured out of the tent and scattered with purpose derived from their long council, while one remained firmly in place. “Hail,” he said. “I am Aranon, Finarfin’s herald.” He raised a hand that dissuaded questions. “Newly appointed. Alas Harndur who you knew has perished. The King will hear your report now.”

They assembled in order of rank to pass under the entrance canopy – Aranon put out his arm to stay only the Half-elven who walked last. “Wait here for your summoning, lieutenants.” He followed the commanders inside.

An admirable length of time passed before Elros broke. “I told you so,” he said.

Elrond shifted under the building pressure of chainmail against tender flesh. “What ill timing to bring more bad news. I wonder how recently Harndur met his end…” he trailed off.

“At least it isn’t raining,” Elros glared at a riddle of clouds darkening the stars overhead. “Valar, I’m hungry. How long will they debrief, do you suppose?”

“Longer if an archivist is in attendance.”

Elros changed his feet like an unruly steed put to stall. “This is ever the hardest part for me – waiting. One reason I prefer to play the captive. It seemed like an age before you were finally taken, this last time. But of course we know now those orcs were wise to the ruse. Moreso, I’m sorry it happened to be your turn considering how poorly things went. They might have been slower to detect me – I am a bit shorter, as you often point out. And you might have been more cautious of the road. Anyway, how are you keeping? That armor must be a torment by now.”

In response, the gentle song of virgin rainfall seemed to mock his anxious prattle. Elros lowered his head with a defeated sigh.

“I’m hungry too,” said Elrond, arching to let the rain wash over his face.

The twins were soggy and chilled when Aranon emerged to usher the commanders out. They laid encouraging hands upon the brethren’s shoulders as they passed but spoke no words. To a paranoid eye, Aranon kept watch from his post at the entrance to ensure it was so. “The King will see you now, Half-elven,” he said, gesturing within.

The tent serving as Finarfin’s headquarters was as close to a royal hall as the twins had beheld in their humble years. Etched poles thick as columns pitched ornate tapestry into a peak over three separate chambers, and a treasured stove in the center radiated welcome heat. At the furthest end from the entryway, the King sat upon his chair carved out of a massive tree stump that resided here long before his host erected this camp. To his side, an archivist was hastily collecting the days’ work from a long desk, the last of the King’s staff to be dismissed. The twins approached in awkward silence, suddenly cowed by the King’s illegible gaze and the burden of their own guilt.

“Thank you for your service,” he said.

They hastily bowed, then exchanged embarrassed glances to realize that he was addressing the scribe as she left.

“Condolences for your late herald Harndur, lord,” said Elrond, trying to recover. “He was perceptive and steadfast and will be remembered fondly.”

“Ai, yes, alas Harndur!” cried the King, and he signed. “Misfortune fixed its eye upon many of our designs these past weeks.” The way he came elbow to knee and scrutinized his guests seemed to command their silence. But he said thoughtfully, “Perhaps of all his deeds, we owe the most thanks to Harndur for espying you twain amongst Maedhros’ gaggle those years back, and recognizing two who could be none other than Melian’s progeny. Perceptive indeed, good Harndur! His keen eye saw you delivered into my keeping, whence many valiant feats have you since wrought. But now we have come to a split in the path with a riddle to solve – for you stand before me at the age of elven adolescents but in the form of men half-grown! And though your skills are impressive and your mettle is doubtless, time betrays you: no longer shall youth of body conceal your guile to deceive our foes.”

Elros folded both hands over the pommel of his sword to stop himself from fidgeting. “So feared our seniors as we made plans ere this last raid, yet in overconfidence we naysaid them, and to no fault of their own they acquiesced. Many brave elves paid for that err with their lives, and we deserve all blame.”

“Then I must blame myself foremost,” said Finarfin with a glint of amusement. “For was it not by my own decree -against the advice of opposing counsel- that you were permitted to embark upon the very first of these perilous campaigns? And so great the reward for your toils, time and again, that I acted too slowly to reassess the risks, despite knowing by the very nature of the ploy that those risks increased day by day as you matured. Tell me; is the blood of the fallen also upon my hands?”

“Erm…” Elros wrung the hilt of his sword unconsciously.

“Yes,” said Elrond. “But success is not measured only by emerging from every conflict unmarred, nor is failure measured only by the sacrifice that it may cost to prevail.”

Finarfin peered intently at this response, as though challenging Elrond to recant. At length he nodded. “That is how I judge it as well. War is not a scorecard of flawless wins and utter losses with each weighted equally; it is a battlefield of complex values upon delicate scales, some balanced closer than others.” He sat back, softened. “Still, this was a hard hit to take. I can see that it weighs heavily upon you both, and that you yearn for absolution. Therefore, I tell you as I told your commanders: no punishment shall I dispense, for I deem that none is due. We suffer enough that the long winning streak of Finarfin’s renowned Liberators comes to an end on such a sour note. As for atonement, look to your own hearts for arbitration in this matter. None of us has authority to provide it to another, save Eru himself.”

Elros straightened, finally confident. “For my part, I would find redemption on the battlefield, lord, with your leave.”

“For myself as well,” said Elrond. “We may have outgrown our usefulness in this game of feigned captive and psychic bloodhound, but as warriors we will only grow stronger.”

“Indeed,” said Finarfin. His fair face seemed to struggle with emotion, until he surrendered to a smile. “Forgive me. You have proven yourselves as astute and capable as any elf your own age. Yet to my eyes you are still boys nonetheless! Many years separate you from the full strength of your manhood. Once, I overruled wise counsel and allowed you to take great peril upon yourselves under the protection of subterfuge, and from that gamble we won far more than we lost. But lo! I will not tempt luck again by sending you prematurely into the brutality of open warfare.”

“But then-” Elros flinched at the pitch of his own voice. “What is to become of us?”

“Behold the split in the road,” said Elrond.

Finarfin spread his arms with open hands as if to disarm the impasse. “My own heart’s desire is to send you to Balar where Gil-galad can keep you under his charge. He is a young king, but wise beyond his years, and beloved by his people. He heeds my advice to wait out this storm in the relative safety of his island stronghold, and tirelessly facilitates safe passage for the countless refugees fleeing Beleriand’s troubled shores. His domain is the last elven haven with any semblance of peace that remains this side of the Sundering Sea. Eärendil’s sons would be well-regarded in his court.”

The brethren shifted while he spoke, as if the same discomfort twisted them in unison.

Finarfin finished dryly, “Alas, I can see the prospect has not gained appeal since I broached it when you first came to me. I expected as much, regretfully. So be it! You must be put to task otherwise, until such time as you ripen completely and return to me in adult form.” He stood, and as though summoned by some invisible cue, his valet entered the tent to join his side. “For now, take your leave of me in peace and be well rested, Half-elven. My decree shall be delivered to rouse you soon enough.”

The brethren bowed low and measured their steps so as not to seem overly glad to leave.

Outside, the fresh air was fragrant with all manner of things washed by the storm that had passed, and the stars shone upon them.

“Well,” said Elros at length, “that could have gone worse. What do you suppose he has in mind for us?”

“Something between fodder for the front lines and prisoner in an orc den,” said Elrond bemusedly. “But I can imagine few assignments more daunting than life coddled at Gil-galad’s court, so I think we should be grateful.”

Elros laughed. “Fair enough. Let’s find a stew pit before I start eating my own arm, and then get you out of that armor.”

~TBC~

Chapter End Notes

It's always been my interpretation that Elrond and Elros played an active role in the War of Wrath. At the Council of Elrond in FoTR, Elrond compares the Last Alliance to the hosts of Beleriand when Thangorodrim was broken, indicating he was a firsthand witness. Also, I surmise Elros' relatively quick ascent to King of Numenor indicates he was a well-regarded figure among the Men who fought in the war against Morgoth.

CIRCA 546, F.A. – OSSIRIAND

The adults had grown more tense and withdrawn throughout the year, in the way that reeds become brittle when the river goes dry out of season.

The twins made a game to study this change in open secrecy -overlooked from high perches like peering crows, ignored from silly hideaways like curious mice- all while maintaining the outward visage of blithe children so as not to spook their prey.

Now tents were kept sealed even during daylight, where hushed talk of scouting parties and doubled patrols filtered through, and after nightfall, subdued camaraderie circled the campfires with the old mournful song and a new sense of trepidation.

Eventually so too did the outskirts of their encampment seem on edge, its animals quiet and skittish, its leaves recoiled as though anticipating some storm to come.
Picking their way out of that dreary wood one day, the twins returned to the barricade emptyhanded, not a mushroom or berry or rabbit in sight.

“Maglor has been searching for you,” said an elf posted to guard the perimeter. He stood waiting for them in front of the forbidden passage that they exploited (a small break in the column of logs that they finally struggled to squeeze through after many years of slow growth).

They shrugged at his familiar cautionary tone and tried to pass him undeterred.

“Come or go that way again and we will all three be made to regret it,” he said sterner, and moved to block their path.

“Oh – is he very angry?” asked one brother.

“Maglor? No, he is very worried. But of Maedhros’ mood, I dare not imagine. The whole camp is astir – and I have no wish to be found at fault for your absence!”

The other brother sighed, realizing the severity. “Very well. Make this easiest for yourself, then.”

“Sorry,” said the first. They considered any guard friendly who made a habit of looking the wrong direction at convenient times to enable their escapades. “Shall we feign resistance to help demonstrate your loyalty? Or you can carry me upside down by my ankle if you like, it’s fun but I will pretend to despair.”

The guard raised his eyes in a quick bid for patience. “Just comply, Half-elven.” He picked them up by the waist like sacks of grain cinched to each hip, one facing front and the other behind. 
“Remember not to giggle this time, you scoundrels,” he groused as the gate drew open before them.

From their bobbing perspective, the twins noted that the particularly harried scurrying of elves around them did not cease upon their arrival, nor even pause at their passing.

“Is some trouble afoot?” said the backward-facing twin, watching the gate being hastily barred behind them.

“Look, they are distributing the arrow reserves,” said his twin, straining his neck to see elves climbing the watchpost ladders laden with bound bundles wide as ancient trees.

“Be silent,” said their captor, playing his role dutifully.

The inside of Maedhros’ private abode was unnaturally quiet, an eerie contrast to whatever fervor had seized the rest of the encampment. At the threshold, the elf unburdened himself in one ungentle motion. The twins let themselves fall to the ground in graceless heaps for dramatic effect. “As requested: two wayward Half-elves. They are unharmed, lord. Anything else?”

“Nothing that you possess,” said Maedhros without turning. He stood by the far wall where a pot hung over the cooking fire, peering into the brew as he stirred it.

At the table nearby, Maglor stood up from the bench but stayed put, his expression a conflict of injury and relief. “Where were they?”

The elf shifted. “It’s true as you suspected, they had gone beyond the fence.”

This attracted Maedhros’ full attention. He turned, a billow of steam rising behind his crimson head, and even with a soup ladle in his only hand he seemed menacing as a cobra posed to strike. “Children. How did you get beyond the fence?”

“Magic!” said one twin, springing to his feet and in his mind, to the rescue of the guard. “But he broke our spell and it cannot be cast again. Only the very best guards command such power.”

Maedhros’ eyes narrowed. “Which one are you?” The boy tightened his lips, and Maedhros nodded. “Sit down, Elros. Him too,” he pointed the ladle at Elrond still playing dead on the floor and returned to his chore. “And Mahto…”

The guard stopped with himself half-closed in the doorway to look back.

“See that whatever breach in the fence is repaired. Straightaway.”

“Yes, lord.” Leaving with a hard glance, Mahto warned the twins not to test this man again, as they sheepishly took their places at the table.

Maglor had assumed his customary pose of anguished defeat, resting forehead against fingertips as he shook his head, helpless. “Such danger you invite upon yourselves,” he said, his beautiful voice weak. “Such turmoil I endure by your doing. Either you deem that I deserve to suffer so, or you underestimate what horrors prowl in the wild, what a dreadful fate you tempt.”

The twins sat quiet – they knew well enough the peril on both sides of these walls.

“Hearken to me, you twain,” said Maedhros, watching a spoonful of stew as it cooled under his words. “Fourteen are your years of age – old enough to know better than this mischief, thus old enough to pay a price for disobedience. The next time you wander unpermitted, know that punishment shall follow.”

“What could be worse than your cooking…” Elros murmured.

Maedhros took a sip. “Hm. It could use herbs. Next time be useful and scavenge some to mitigate your trespass.”

Elros crossed his arms.

“We saw no herbs, actually,” said Elrond. “Not even a bird met our path in all that time. The wood is stagnant, it seems very strange.”

“The whole camp is acting strange,” said Elros. “Or suppose we are too young to notice.”

Maedhros went still and straight, his own unique pose of thought. Maglor stood and joined him by the pot, pretending to assess dinner while his fingers drummed a musical scale on his thigh. “Perhaps it is time,” he said. At length Maedhros nodded. He came to his chair at the table head and sat unmoving until Maglor served four steaming bowls and a plate with stale flatbread to the board.

“What you perceive is not without cause. A great host of Elves has been marching along the Adram, and they have taken watch upon Amon Ereb. Lately they mobilize, it seems, in preparation to continue North.”

The twins waited for more, while Maedhros took to his supper in silence.

Elrond finally dared to speak the name, “Is it Gil-galad?”

Maedhros snorted. “The child king has no host to call upon such as this that has been described to me.”

“May we go out to see them? I can sneak unseen like a Green-elf, they taught me how.”

“No,” Maglor said, already using his tone of finality. “It is forbidden. And furthermore, you are not to mingle with the Green Elves.”

“What! But why?”

“Because they have traded our location in this wood for some boon unknown. They are no longer trustworthy,” said Maedhros. “Besides, they make busy to retreat to the foothills – I do not expect to meet their ilk again for trade or friendship whilst this Age lasts. No, our gates are closed and may reopen only upon my word and under strict watch. We must be ever more vigilant now, and you must obey! But no more talk of this tonight. Eat.”

“It’s good,” said Maglor. “Thank you.”

“It’s bad,” said Maedhros. “You’re welcome.”

As it happened, the gates would be opened before the next moon.

By then, the elves’ heightened vigilance had become commonplace. When the twins were plucked from their daily chores one day and ushered into Maglor’s tent, they complied boredly – many false alarms had resulted in such precautions for naught. But this time, they watched out of a slit in the flap between Mahtos’ legs as the gate was unbarred and pulled back. The elves moved stiffly to form a broad pathway from the entrance as a mounted warrior rode into view. His armor glinted like lightning in the sunlight, and his white steed regaled with decorated tact tiptoed into an elegant halt as though to demonstrate such majesty. The Elf stabbed the staff of a great standard that he bore into the ground, then dismounted in one smooth motion. He stood taller than most while he surveyed the mixed expressions that surrounded him. 
As Maedhros’ valet approached, he handed over a longsword sheathed in an ornately jeweled scabbard.
“Hear ye! This blade is for my own protection traveling in the wild – no harm shall come to any of you or to your lords by my hand upon this errand, in exchange for the same guarantee.”

“Keep your pretty sword, Harndur,” called Maedhros’ voice. He too walked into view from the other end of the path of elves. They spread out as these two came face to face, as if to create an arena. “We here have succumbed to disgrace and much worse besides, but if nothing else you should believe that our word is trustworthy to a fault. Finarfin’s terms to parley under protection of truce have already been accepted.”

The one called Harndur took off his gleaming helm and shook out a cascade of golden braids. “We received no response to our missive at all.”

“You received your messenger back in one piece.”

With his face uncovered, Harndur’s annoyance manifested plain as daybreak. “Yes well, you are very scary indeed, and so brave to menace a King’s Herald sent to you in good faith – but I am in haste. Shall we confer here in the open and give your men some purpose to serve by listening? They do not seem busy making this place less of a hovel anyway.” He looked around pointedly.

Maedhros looked as well – toward where an outburst of children’s giggles rang out and quickly quieted. His face was grim. He spoke lowly, “We have but one purpose, and you know what it is.”

Harndur laughed as one unashamed and guiltless – no small mockery, considering the present company. “Ai! As if we could forget! Even had the Half-elven Eärendil not traversed great peril and hardship to come remind us. Ah – but much has transpired in Valinor since your banishment from those lands.” He pointed up at the sky – something about the simple gesture seemed to upset even Maedhros’ resolve. “His blessed ascension fills the Elves of Aman with wonder and inspiration. But to the dispossessed, perhaps it serves a different reminder: the Silmaril that he bears will be forevermore beyond your grasp, Oath be damned.”

Maedhros stepped back, and the surrounding elves stirred, disquieted. At length he spread his arm, half-turning. “Maglor will join us to speak in private.”

Harndur followed his lead while measuring the camp with bright and piercing eyes.

After the door to Maehdros’ abode creaked shut, the twins wasted no time to begin their work on Mahtos’ nerves. They plead for fresh air, for exercise, for sustenance, and to visit the privy, repeatedly, until the last request became a true need. Later, they stood marveling at Harndur’s horse, who grew quickly curious to snuffle at these unknown creatures. Mahto turned from eyeing the intrigue of Maedhros’ closed door to remind them periodically it was past time to go back undercover, per Maglor’s command during uncertain circumstances. They listened attentively until he went quiet again.

“It confounds me, what that elf said about our father,” said Elros. “I think even Maedhros was speechless. Maedhros is never speechless.”

“I know. Can you believe he’s only a herald! I thought he must be a great King of some fair place, so fine is his raiment.”

“He mentioned a king – of course there’s a king if he’s a herald. But I wonder who! Not Gil-galad, we know that already.”

“Boys,” Mahto barked. “Enough. It is time to go.” He remained transfixed upon the door and the boys returned to each other.
By now the horse had taken to keeping the children nudged under its breast. They stood there sheltered with their backs against his long legs.

“He is one of the High Elves certainly, not Moriquendi like the Green Elves.”

“These also are High Elves,” said Elrond, tilting his head to indicate the elves returned to their usual business throughout the camp.

“Well, I mean he is not… dimmed.”

“Oh Valar, come here, quick, quick!” Mahtos spun and lunged to grab the children, his movement too threatening for the horse to ignore coming from a stranger in a strange place. It whipped its head round and jammed the elf in his center with its armored crest, throwing him back easily. Mahto cursed and struggled to regain his footing, but too late.

Suddenly Maglor appeared amidst the chaos as if he rode in on the wind of a storm. One twin had leapt aside where Mahto landed while the other darted opposite from the horse, now spooked by Maglor’s frantic appearance and stomping backward into a circle.

“Take him! Take him!” Maglor hissed, grabbing the twin nearest and recoiling to tuck him underneath his own cloak. When he righted and turned, the child standing behind him was hard to see.

Mahto wore no cloak and in a panic, snatched up whichever twin stood nearby and squeezed him tight as though it could make him smaller. He took one jolting step sideways hoping to escape in time, but just as abruptly abandoned flight – Maedhros already strode forth from the hut, and Harndur followed suit.

“What’s all this ruckus?” asked Harndur with humour in his voice. “Was there a snake? Little else will rattle this girl’s nerves.” Recomposed at the mere sight of her master, the horse came to nest her muzzle into his open hand remorsefully.

“Erm,” Mahto stammered, and shrunk from the attention that it brought to himself.

“Whose child is that?” asked Harndur, so unassuming it could be suspicious. 

“Mine,” said Maglor, leaning forward against his own urge to disappear. Before Harndur could discern the untruth, he added, “He was orphaned, alas. I’m raising him.”

“Ah,” said Harndur. His high gaze raised slightly higher and cooled to disinterest. “That is decent of you. Well!” He took only one step to reach the stirrup and swung himself up upon the saddle at once. “I leave you in good standing to see to your preparations, Fëanorians. Until we meet again.”

With nothing more he rode off.

When the bar fell across the gate, Maglor released the breath he held. He started to speak several times, the words dying on his tongue.

“He already knew, brother.” Maedhros stared blankly at the closed gate like the last page of a book.

“Perhaps, but-” Maglor retrieved the twin hidden within his cloak, as though just then remembering he remained there. “He only saw one of them, I think. Perhaps… I mean, he did not so much as look twice.” Maglor searched the face of the Half-elf in his arms, the light in his eyes a ricochet of mixed heritage that no elf could mistake.

Even if Harndur had overlooked the second child that Maglor concealed, his indifference alone betrayed the significance of his observation; in times of peace, an elf would not waste the opportunity to lavish adoration upon a child, so rare and precious amongst their kind – and in times of strife, elves do not beget children at all. During their conference, Harndur shared that Finarfin came first to Balar and met with Gil-galad and Círdan there, who without doubt relayed that Eärendil’s sons had been seized at Sirion…

“You may be right,” said Maedhros. He came to Mahto who only cowered more at the softness of his lord’s tone. “Come, child. Let us see what herbs we can find while daylight lasts, maybe some morels as well. I will make a stew this eve.”

~tbc~