Freedom, Escape by StarSpray

---

Freedom, Escape

---

Late Spring
FA 546

 

The orcs came upon them suddenly, rising out of the grass with horrible shrieks and growls. Maglor yanked Elrond by the hair out of the way of a wild swing, kicking out at the orc at the same time; Elrond heard the crunch of bone as its knee gave out and it went down. Then Maglor pushed Elrond and Elros ahead of him. “Run!”

“This way!” Bregolon called, sword flashing as he cut down the orcs swarming around him. They were badly outnumbered. “Boys, here!” He reached for them and grabbed Elros, who grabbed Elrond. They raced ahead of the rest of the party, who leaped into fighting formation with the swiftness and ease of long practice and experience. He glanced back once, just in time to see Maedhros throw himself at the largest of the orcs, teeth bared and a cold fire in his eyes. 

They had just cleared the fighting when Elrond’s foot caught in a root. He lost his grip on Elros’ hand as he went sprawling, slamming his chin into the ground, blood flooding his mouth as he bit his tongue. He got to his hands and knees before someone wrapped a thick arm around his waist and hauled him up off the ground. 

“Elrond!” Elros screamed, and Elrond had time to see him being held back by Bregolon before everything went topsy-turvy, and the underbrush closed around him, branches and leaves slapping at his face. His head bounced against hard metal, and through the confusion he realized—too slowly—that it had not been one of their party who had grabbed him, but one of the orcs. 

Panic had him grabbing for anything he could reach, but the leaves ripped off in his hands and the branches broke, scratching his palms as they swung back into place. He tried to scream but he couldn’t get a breath to do it. He thought that he heard a great cry go up behind him—Maglor’s voice, perhaps? But it was hard to hear anything past his own gasps and the crash of foliage around him, even Maglor’s mighty voice. 

He didn’t know how long the orc ran with him. His head kept hitting the orc’s armor, and black spots gathered at the edges of his vision; his tongue was still bleeding, and the blood went back to his throat and then up his nose, stinging and and choking at the same time. 

Then something hit them from the side. Elrond flew out of the orc’s grip and hit a tree. He lay for a few seconds struggling to take a breath, but once he could he scrambled to his feet and around the tree, out of the way of the fight behind him. All he could think was that he had to get away. He pushed through a thick tangle of honeysuckle and stumbled down a game trail. Everything hurt, and his head throbbed, and he was dizzy, but at least the sounds of the orcs were receding behind him, and not following. 

He did not see the steep stream bank until it was too late, and his next step hit nothing but air. Elrond yelped as he tumbled down into the water. The stream bed was rocky but not deep, though it did shock him out of his blind panic. He sat for a moment in the water, trying to catch his breath and listen for pursuit at the same time, and tried to think. He still had all of his things, though they were now wet. And he wasn’t unarmed. He had the knife that Maglor had given him before they’d left the fort, dwarf-made and sharp. Maglor and Glamren had taught Elrond and Elros how to use their knives, where best to slash or stab if they had to. Elrond rested his hand on the hilt now, comforted to find it still firmly attached to his belt, and that the orcs had not had the chance to take anything from him. 

Then he heard a twig snap somewhere nearby and the panic returned. He wouldn’t have to use the knife if they couldn’t find him. He hauled himself out of the stream and took off running again. Someone called his name, but he couldn’t hear the voice well enough over his own panting to recognize it—and anyway, what if it was some trick?

At last, he found a tree with a limb just low enough that he could jump up and grab it. It took two tries to hoist himself up, with his sodden cloak and pack weighing him down, but the thought of getting high enough to be safe, out of the reach of orcs or of anything else, lent him enough strength to swing his leg up over the branch, and haul the rest of his body after it. 

Once he was safely ensconced in a fork between three thick branches, hidden by the foliage below and too high to be caught, Elrond curled in on himself, finally able to really catch his breath.

“Elrond!” The sound of his name somewhere below made him start, and he gripped the hilt of his knife. When Maedhros came into view below him, he relaxed, but only slightly. Maedhros was splattered with blood, and bleeding himself from a gash near his hairline. Elrond was still afraid of some trick—some illusion to make him come out of hiding only to be caught again. But also…if the Enemy knew enough to do that, would he not use Maglor’s face instead? Elrond didn’t know, and his head hurt, and he didn’t think he could climb down without falling anyway. Again Maedhros called, urgency in his voice, “Elrond!” When Elrond didn’t answer he halted, wiping at his forehead and muttering a few curses in Quenya—in an older mode of it that he usually only used when speaking to Maglor. 

That, Elrond thought, was probably something the Enemy wouldn’t think to copy. “Maedhros?” His voice came out a hoarse croak, but Maedhros spun immediately. Elrond coughed and tried again. “I’m up here.”

Maedhros stepped over to the tree to peer up through the branches. He placed his hand on the trunk, and Elrond could feel the tree’s quiet thoughts—nothing of warning or of fear. It was hard to read Maedhros’ face, as it always was. He opened his mouth to say something, but turned his head sharply away. A moment later Elrond heard crashing through the undergrowth, and the voices of the orcs. Without saying anything, Maedhros sheathed his sword and began to climb, moving quickly and with apparent ease even with only one hand. He reached the fork where Elrond had settled in just a few seconds. “Do not move,” he whispered, barely more than a breath. Elrond nodded once, and made himself look down as Maedhros balanced above him. The orcs passed by the tree, arguing with one another in their own language. They paused near the tree, and Elrond held his breath. Maedhros’ hand rested for a moment atop his head, large and warm and strangely comforting. The orcs did not look up, and after another minute they went on.

Once the sounds of the orcs faded, Maedhros crouched. “Are you hurt?” he asked, voice soft. 

“Just bruises,” Elrond whispered. 

“You’ve blood on your face.”

Elrond touched his chin; his fingers came away tacky with drying blood. “Bit my tongue.” It had stopped bleeding since, and only felt tender when he pressed it against his teeth. 

The night was not that cold, but Elrond was still wet, and starting to shiver. Maedhros maneuvered them both so that he could sit in the tree fork, and set Elrond on his lap. Elrond was fourteen and growing quickly, but he felt very small again next to Maedhros, who was not only tall but powerfully built. He removed Elrond’s cloak and pulled his own around to cover them both. It was the first time Elrond had been alone with Maedhros, who had always seemed to avoid them as much as they avoided him. He was large and intimidating and at times threatening, though Elrond did not think he always meant to be. He did not believe that Maedhros would hurt him—he hadn’t believed that for years, now—but it was still his first instinct to draw away, and he had to make himself relax, little by little, until he could rest his head against Maedhros chest. 

“Is Elros all right?” Elrond asked after a few minutes. Now that he’d stopped moving and was safe, or as safe as possible under the circumstances, he was exhausted—but he could not rest until he knew what had happened to his brother.

“Yes,” Maedhros said. “He is safe, and very angry.”

“He gets angry when he’s afraid,” Elrond said. He sometimes wished that he did, too, because at least anger let you do things. When he was afraid he just wanted to cry, and you couldn’t do anything useful if you couldn’t see and your nose was all snotty. It was strange that he wasn’t crying then. Maybe he was just too tired.

“Yes, I know. Maglor has him in hand so he won’t do anything foolish, like try to come after you himself, not knowing the land or how many of the enemy he might find.”

“You did that,” Elrond pointed out. 

Maedhros made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh if it had come from anyone else. “I am not a stranger to these woods. I hunted here often during the Long Peace.”

Elrond thought of a map that Maglor had shown them once, of the division of lands between the lords of the Noldor. Amrod and Amras had dwelled in the south, allied with the Laegrim. Maglor had never spoken of them—not to Elrond, at least. But Elrond had long made a habit of eavesdropping, since in the beginning he had not trusted anyone to tell the truth when he asked a question, and he knew that Amrod and Amras had died at Sirion, just as the other three brothers, Celegorm and Curufin and Caranthir, had died in Doriath. He knew better than to ask more about what Maedhros had done during the Long Peace—knew better than to dredge up memories of better times after such terrible things had happened. 

“Why didn’t the orcs kill me?” Elrond asked instead after another pause. 

“I cannot say.” 

“Does the Enemy know that we are here? Elros and me?”

It was a long while before Maedhros answered. “It is better,” he said, slowly and very softly, “to assume the worst. I do not know what the Enemy knows or sees, but it would be a great victory for him indeed to capture one of the last heirs of both Finwë and Elu Thingol.” Elrond shuddered, and Maedhros grip around his waist tightened, just a little. “He will not have you.” The whisper was surprisingly fierce. Elrond curled up even closer, and closed his eyes. It got dark quickly; for days now the skies had been overcast, covered with thick grey clouds that seemed to promise rain, though none fell. Somewhere above them the moon was waxing toward full, but its light would not reach them. 

Sleep did not come easily. Elrond dozed in fits and starts. The orcs still roamed the wood and several more times in the night they passed near the tree where he and Maedhros were hidden. Dawn came only slowly, but at last it was bright enough that Maedhros thought they could safely descend from the tree. Elrond stretched his limbs, wincing. He’d grown stiff overnight, and his body felt like one large bruise. Maedhros steadied him, and then jumped down, waiting with one eye on Elrond as he climbed down more slowly, and one eye on the brush around them. “Now what?” Elrond asked when he reached the ground. 

“Stay close to me,” Maedhros said, and turned away. His strides were long, and Elrond struggled to keep up. They returned to the stream, where Maedhros stopped to wash the blood from his face and armor, and Elrond drank his fill. He found some dried berries, now rather damp, in one of the pockets of his pack, and chewed on them as they set out again. Maedhros slowed his pace so that Elrond did not have to run to keep up, but he kept them moving at a brisk pace. At least the movement quickly loosened Elrond’s muscles, and he felt less sore as the day wore on. 

They stopped twice more for Elrond to rest and catch his breath. Maedhros said very little. Maglor would have been full of encouragement or knowledge or even songs to keep them moving. Elrond wondered how far out of the way he’d managed to lead them in his headlong run through the wood, but didn’t know how to ask. Maedhros had not seemed disapproving, but if he was not going to say anything, Elrond was not going to invite reproach.

As it started to get dark, Maedhros slowed, and seemed to be looking for a place to make camp. Elrond heard sounds in the woods ahead of them just before Maedhros grabbed him by the arm and hauled him through a thick tangle of honeysuckle to the base of an enormous and gnarled oak tree. There was a hollow at the base of its trunk where the roots provided shelter even for Maedhros, if he crouched low enough. Elrond ducked down beneath them, and Maedhros knelt with him as the sounds of orcs grew nearer—and nearer. Maedhros tensed, and his hand went to his sword hilt; he seemed prepared at any second to spring out into a fight. 

The orcs halted abruptly, and Elrond held his breath. The second that one of them moved toward the honeysuckle thicket Maedhros leaped into action, drawing his sword as he charged forward. Elrond did not need to be told to stay back, but he drew his own knife, huddling under the roots and praying to whoever might be listening that they would be enough to keep him hidden. The sounds of fighting filled the wood—screams and shrieks and the clash of swords, and the heavy thuds of bodies hitting the ground. He could smell the blood. 

It ended as suddenly as it had begun. Elrond didn’t move, listening hard, but the minutes began to stretch, and Maedhros did not come back to the tree. Finally, Elrond crept out from beneath the roots, and crawled through the honeysuckle into the more open space beyond. Bodies littered the ground, all orcs, and Maedhros was not there. It was now almost fully dark, and Elrond did not know what to do. Fear curdled in his stomach, and he could feel tears building behind his eyes, and squeezed them shut tightly for a moment to try to keep them from falling. 

Movement out of the corner of his eye had him spinning around, raising his knife, but it was Maedhros emerging from behind another tree. “It is only me, Elrond,” he said. “One ran off, and I chased it down.” 

“Oh.” Elrond lowered the knife. 

“Come. We cannot stay here.” Maedhros put his hand on Elrond’s shoulder and turned him from the bodies. He was moving strangely, a little gingerly, but it was hard to tell in the dark if he had been injured or not. They passed quickly and silently through the dark woods until Maedhros judged that they had come far enough to be safe. They found a small space in among some slender young trees growing in a cluster. The ground was covered with a thick layer of last year’s leaves. As Maedhros went to sit he hissed a little. 

“Are you hurt?” Elrond asked. 

“Only bruised. I’ll be fine.”

Are you sure? Elrond swallowed the question before it could escape. Of course Maedhros was sure. Maglor would have probably argued with him and cajoled him into letting someone look at it, but Maglor was not there, and Elrond wouldn’t know what to do even if he could look at the injury. So he just huddled next to Maedhros, tired but unable to sleep. 

They heard something else moving through the forest some time later. Maedhros tensed, and Elrond sucked in a breath. “Wolves,” Maedhros breathed, and Elrond heard the snuffling noises of creatures sniffing out their quarry. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished there was something to be done, anything—

Then he recalled what Maedhros had said before, of Elrond being the heir of the line of Elu Thingol. Of Lúthien. 

He took another breath and began to chant, barely whispering the words of shadows and shelter, of hiding and safety, of seeking eyes turning elsewhere. The trees around them responded, he could feel their attention, and as he whispered the words the darkness in their little space deepened. Maedhros’ hand rested on Elrond’s back, big and warm, and after a time the snuffling and scuffling noises retreated. Elrond took a deep breath, and opened his eyes. Maedhros’ were a small silver glint in the dark. “Well done,” he whispered.

Sleep came a little more easily that night. But when dawn came Elrond could see more clearly how stiffly Maedhros moved when he stood, and saw that there was dried blood on his right arm. The gash was not large and had stopped bleeding in the night, but it looked very bad. When he moved his arm it opened again, and Elrond saw him wince. “I’ve got bandages,” Elrond said, hauling off his pack and pulling out a roll of them. They were a little damp from his fall into the stream, but he didn’t think that would hurt—not if they caught up to the others soon. “Can I…?”

Maedhros sat back down, and pulled his sleeve up so Elrond could reach the wound more easily. Remembering what he had been taught about such wounds, Elrond cleaned it as best he could, wiping away the worst of the blood, and then he wound clean bandages around, firmly but not too tight. Amariel or Maglor would have had songs to sing, but Elrond couldn’t remember any of them in the moment. He thought that Maedhros would have said something if it had been poisoned—or he would already be ill from it—but even if that was not so there was nothing Elrond could do about it there. 

There was so little that he knew, and so little that he could do. 

“Elrond.” Maedhros touched his shoulder. His expression was softer than it usually was, and were he anyone else he might have smiled. “Thank you. It isn’t as bad as it looks; you need not worry for me.” 

“How are we going to find Maglor and everyone else?” Elrond asked as Maedhros carefully rolled his sleeve back down over the bandages. 

“I know where we were headed, and Maglor knows to wait for us there,” Maedhros said. “We had thought it would be safe—but we had not expected so many orcs to be roaming these lands.”

“Where will we go, then?”

“I do not know.” Maedhros glanced toward the sky, though the sun could not be seen. “We had thought the Laiquendi…but it seems likely they have fled or gone to join themselves to Gil-galad in the west. Perhaps Belegost, if we can reach it.” He got to his feet, and Elrond scrambled after him as they left the trees. “We will reach the meeting place sometime tomorrow, if nothing else happens to delay us,” Maedhros said over his shoulder.

They met no more orcs, and saw no sign of wolves or other fell creatures that day. In the night they rested near a stream, and Elrond fell asleep to the sweet music of the flowing water. The next day, just before noon, a large craggy outcropping rose up before them as some of the trees dropped away. “There,” Maedhros said, pointing to it. “There are caves near the top that will give us shelter until we can make further plans.”

Elrond squinted up at the stones, but could see no sign of any openings. All the better, he supposed, but he could not see a way to climb up, either. But Maedhros was moving again before Elrond could ask, so he just followed behind, uneasy now that they were out of the trees. Whoever was up on the outcropping would be able to see them coming, but so might other things closer at hand. Elrond kept close to Maedhros’ heels, and couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder, or up toward the heavy grey sky, fearful of what he might see. 

At the outcropping, Maedhros lifted Elrond to the first ledge, and instructed him how to find hand- and footholds. Under other circumstances, Elrond would have found the climb exciting and not that difficult, but that day he only barely made it to the opening of the cave, arms and legs trembling with the effort. Hands reached out to haul him up the last foot or so, and he crawled a few feet back before collapsing, panting and aching. Maedhros climbed up a moment later, and Elrond raised his head to see Maglor embracing him, saying something that Elrond couldn’t make out except that he sounded both frightened and relieved. 

Then Elros was there, hauling Elrond up into an equally tight embrace. “Elrond! You look awful, what happened to you?”

He felt awful, sore and exhausted and with tears building up behind his eyes even though he should not have wanted to cry now, when he was safe and far above the reach of any danger. “I’m all right,” he said into Elros’ shoulder. 

“Elrond, let me have a look at you.” Maglor knelt beside them, prying Elros’ hands off of Elrond to check him over. “We have all been very worried about you,” he said gently. 

“I’m sorry,” Elrond said.

“No, it isn’t your fault.” Maglor kissed his forehead and helped him up. Elros hovered on his other side, tugging off his pack so that Elrond could lean against Maglor. Maedhros had already disappeared. “Come on. You want a proper meal and some rest.”

The caves were a strange collection of openings in the stone, connected by holes in the ceilings and floors, most with at least one opening out onto the world to let in natural light. The biggest one was where they all gathered, and where a fire had been lit beneath a shaft to take away the smoke. Its warmth was welcome, and after he had changed into clean clothes and eaten something hot, Elrond was ready to fall asleep. He swayed where he sat, and found himself leaning against Maedhros’ arm. Before he could pull away Maedhros shifted so that Elrond leaned against his side instead, with Maedhros’ arm around his shoulders. Elrond closed his eyes as Maglor picked up his harp, and as he coaxed a soft and soothing song from the strings, outside the clouds finally released a steady downpour of rain to fill the rivers and streams and wash away all unclean things from the forests.