And Love Grew by polutropos

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Taken Captive

The aftermath of the flight from the cliffs.

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“Elros! Please stop struggling!”

The child writhed and shouted and beat his fists against Gwereth’s chest. She fumbled with the latch on the cellar door, squinting and blinking furiously. It was no use: the fog came from within, from the panic that drove her stumbling through the wilds about Sirion, dragging the children behind her. Galdor had caught up to them, but not long after his wounds proved too severe for him to carry on. “Go,” he had urged her; “Go — if I am fated to live, I will recover. If not, I count this a noble end. You must find a place to hide.”

So she had fled to her friend Embor’s home on the outskirts of town, where most of those warriors of the East who had not been deceived and enslaved by the Enemy dwelt. She had not known where else to run, and she had hoped that under the protection of a warrior of Bor’s folk, burdened by age though he was, she and the children might yet survive. They might wait out the retreat of the sons of Fëanor. And perhaps — perhaps help would come before Morgoth sent his legions against them, a ruined city, defenceless without the Silmaril to preserve them.

Gwereth was relieved to find Embor’s home intact; but he was not there. There was no time to wonder or to mourn what had become of him.

Elros’ fist struck her ear as she bent to open the sloped hatch and a jolt of pain shot through her skull.

“Blood and darkness, child!” she snapped. “Stop hurting me! I am trying to help you!”

Her sharp tone silenced him and her heart cramped with regret. How could she blame him, a child of six who had lately seen his mother leap to her death, whose own life had been threatened, who had seen horrors beyond— Well, Gwereth had been nearly their age when she had watched the blood spilling from her father’s skull on the flight from Brethil, and the image haunted her still.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, cupping the back of his head and holding him closer. “I’m sorry, Elros, I know—”

He loosed a piercing wail.

Flinging the hatch open, Gwereth yanked Elrond after them down the short flight of steps. The door banged shut, smothering the room in sudden darkness but for a thin square of light around the doorframe. Gwereth fumbled for the striker to light an oil lamp that stood by the entrance. It leapt to life, and she inhaled sharply at the reminder of the ravaging flames that had blazed through the night, eating through the wood and thatch of Sirion.

She grabbed an iron rod to bar the door, then reconsidered: surely anyone finding a cellar locked from inside would suspect. A single bar would do nothing to hold off these warriors if one were determined to break in. Better to leave it, and trust to the barrels and crates and shadows to conceal them.

She tucked the rod into her belt instead. It was not much, but she was descended of both Haleth’s and Emeldir’s people, whose traditions the elders of Sirion had preserved. She knew how to fight. A bar of iron would serve as a weapon in utmost need.

Elros squirmed free and ran to the opposite end of the room where the ceiling sloped down steeply, scarcely high enough for a child to stand. He pounded his fists against the wall. “I hate you! I hate you, Gwereth!” he screamed. “We have to go back to Mama, we have to!”

Gwereth summoned all her strength to resist the urge to comfort him. Elrond, shivering and silent beside her, needed her no less.

“Elrond, my love.” She knelt before him. Blood crusted along the shallow cut on his throat and she licked her thumb to wipe some of it away. It struck her how small and fragile he was. Her own small hand covered half the girth of his neck. She held his narrow shoulders and tried to meet his eyes.

“Tell me how you are, sweet one.”

His gaze dropped to the floor, but his lips moved silently.

“I cannot hear you, love,” said Gwereth. “What is it?”

After struggling again to speak, he gestured at his trousers, and was seized by silent sobs. At the other end of the cellar, Elros fell quiet.

Gwereth patted Elrond’s trousers and found them warm and damp. He had wet himself.

“Oh, Elrond, it’s all right,” she reassured him. “It happens sometimes when we are scared. Are you scared?”

Elrond nodded. Gwereth glanced around the cellar for something she could use to clean him off. A rag covering a large storage jar would have to do.

“Elros,” she said, looking at him and then nodding in the direction of the jar, “can you fetch that rag for your brother?”

He hurried to obey, subdued by his brother’s distress.

Gwereth rubbed her hands up and down Elrond’s arms. “Can you help me take these trousers off, dear?” Elrond nodded again but did nothing, so Gwereth unlaced and shimmied them down his thighs. She guided his feet out of the soiled clothing.

Elros wandered over with the rag and stared at his brother. “It’s all right, Elrond,” he said, “it happens when you are scared.”

“That’s right,” said Gwereth.

There was no water, so Gwereth spit on the cloth and wiped him down as best she could. She removed her own headscarf and tied it into a skirt around his waist. The trousers she hung to dry on the low rafters.

“Why do we have to be here?” Elros asked. “I want to go back for Mama.”

There was a cry bubbling up inside him and Gwereth set a reassuring hand on his back. He nuzzled himself into the hollow between her chest and arm.

In the moment of quiet, she let her eyes fall shut. But plastered on the backs of her lids was a vision of her lady leaping to her death. Gwereth drew a shaky breath. Her imagination supplied the aftermath: Elwing’s graceful form beaten against the rocks, broken, and dragged out to the unknowable depths of the sea. Their lady, their Silmaril, their protection against the darkness: all gone.

Elwing had despaired.

Anguish swooped through Gwereth’s stomach. She felt as though she were toppling forward. Her eyes snapped open. Elrond stared back at her, dark brows pinched over the bridge of his nose.

She was crying. “All is well,” she said, scrubbing the tears from her cheeks.

The wells of Elrond’s silver eyes swelled and he sucked his lower lip between his teeth. He knew she was lying; of course he knew.

“Aaghh!” The yell exploded beside her, and Elros jerked free of her hold. “We have to go back!” He bolted for the door, clambering up the steps and banging his little body against it.

“We can’t,” Gwereth said, too meekly for Elros to hear through his shouting. “Elros!” she cried. “Please, you must be quiet! People are looking for us, people who want to hurt you.”

“But Galdor killed the angry elf,” he said, slamming the flats of his hands on the door and drumming his feet on the steps. “Why, why would they hurt us? We didn’t do anything bad! Aaghh!” he wailed again. “We need to go back for Mamaaa!”

His next shout ripped through Gwereth’s heart. He banged his head against the door sill, hard enough to send him toppling backwards off the steps and crashing to the floor. The back of his head thudded horribly as it hit the uneven stones. He fell silent.

Gwereth screamed and launched to his side, landing hard on her wrists. There was a terrible moment when she saw him still, eyes closed, and imagined him dead. Her breath stopped. But then his eyes blinked open, he rolled his head to the side, and her relief was so intense her arms buckled beneath her.

She fell to her elbows and cupped his face. “Oh, Elros, Elros, Elros! Elros can you hear me?”

He blinked again, stunned; stunned but alive. She stooped over him, spreading her body over him like a swan tucking her fledgling beneath her wing.

“Is he alive?” Elrond asked, squatting beside them.

“Yes, yes, he will be all right,” she reassured him. “Come, Elrond, come. We need to keep out of sight.”

She bundled Elros to her breast and shuffled on her knees towards the other end of the room, beckoning Elrond to follow.

“I’m hungry,” said Elrond.

“Ssh, ssh,” Gwereth said. “We will find you something to eat.”

As Gwereth cast her eyes about for something to fill his stomach, a voice came from the other side of the door. Gwereth froze.

“There are children here, lord.” It was a woman’s voice, speaking low but in a rush, as if agitated.

Elven-light footsteps crossed the boards above them. Elros groaned in Gwereth’s arms.

The steps stopped. “How do you know?” said another voice, deeper and steadier than the first.

“I heard them,” the woman answered curtly.

In a rush of panic, Gwereth tucked Elros, still half-limp and stunned, into an empty crate. “Elrond,” she whispered, “you need to get inside with your brother. Hide.”

He looked at her warily but did not struggle when she helped him in. He sat cross-legged, squeezed tightly in the corner, and stared at her with sorrowful eyes.

“I love you,” she said. “You’ll have to duck, sweetling. Please be quiet.”

He curled forward over the body of his brother and Gwereth pulled a cloth over the crate. Then she drew the iron rod from her belt and turned towards the door. The riot of fear inside her cooled and hardened.

The door swung open. The light of the rising sun spilled into the room, blindingly bright. Against it were silhouetted two pairs of long legs, booted in dark leather. One crouched in the opening with an arm braced on the lintel.

“Do not go in,” the woman’s voice cautioned. “You do not know who else is with them.”

“Hold your peace, Dornil,” said the man. “Wait here.”

The elf-man was tall enough to have no need of the steps, dropping down in one fluid motion and landing lightly despite his long mail shirt. His red tabard was embroidered across the breast with a silver star: the symbol of beauty and hope for Elf-kind that these soldiers had turned to a sign of fear, its eight keen points and eight piercing rays bringing to mind not a bright star of heaven but a bludgeon spiked and barbed.

Even at the higher end of the room he was too tall to stand upright, and as he approached he dropped to his knees.

Gwereth lifted the rod and lunged from the shadows. She swung.

At once a large hand, gloved in leather, was around her wrist. There was no pain: the only discomfort came from her own resistance to the warrior’s hold, and she knew then that he wielded but a fraction of his strength against her. No amount of friendly sparring had prepared Gwereth for such a foe. She felt diminished, shrunken, as Beren must have in the pits of Gorthaur, or drowsing beneath the throne of Bauglir. And Gwereth had neither Elf prince or princess to defend her, nor any great doom to protect her; and the foe she faced was, she deemed, himself a prince of Felagund’s power — and none of his virtue.

She gasped and staggered to a halt. The elf let her go.

“I have not come to hurt you,” he said. “The battle is ended.”

His voice was unlike any she had heard before. It was the clear chime of bells running together as a stream leaps over stone; but beneath this, it was the deep rumble of the sea, impenetrably dark. It was a sound so arresting she had to strain to hear the words running through it.

Sound gave way to sight as her eyes adjusted to the light. The elf wore no helm, and his dark hair was held close to his scalp by many rows of braids pulled together at the nape of his neck. Shorter curls had come loose around his face, softening the edges of his sharp elven features; his skin shone like wet clay in the lamplight. Heavy brows settled above deep eyes of the sort whose colour shifted and danced. Gwereth had always imagined it was because the Treelight that flickered within them eluded the untrained eye, ever skipping from hue to hue but never settling. It had been so with the Silmaril, too.

It was strange to see that light in the eyes of an enemy.

He said, “Have you heard the message, lady?”

Gwereth shook her head, transfixed. Dread closed in around her, groping; her limbs hung uselessly, numbly, as if severed from her body.

“The sons of Fëanor are withdrawing. All those who wish are free to follow: I urge you to consider it. The Havens will not be safe for long.”

The hold with which his arrival had seized her slackened. Her mind began to clear. “What of the Lords of Balar?” she asked. Ereinion had not been Gwereth’s king, nor Círdan her lord, but they had ever been kind to her lady. Surely they would come to their aid.

The elf was silent, his jaw stern for a long while before he answered. “I do not know.”

Gwereth wondered at his pause. She wished this elf was not her only source of news from without.

“We have also come to tend the injured,” he said. “Are you well, lady?”

He reached for her. Gwereth flinched.

“Yes. Yes, I received no hurts,” she said.

“Are there others with you?” the elf asked. His tone was gentle, but knowing, and his look stern. Of course: even had his servant not heard them, he was Elf-kind: he felt the children’s presence.

She lied all the same. “No. Only myself.”

His continued silence pressed into the corners of the room and Gwereth’s body awoke at last from its stupor. Like a frightened creature who, without hope, turns and faces its pursuer, she cried, “Leave! Leave, there is nothing here!”

But her pleas glanced off him like sticks hurled at the sturdy bole of an oak. It was as if she had not spoken at all.

“You have children with you.” It was the voice of the elf-woman in the open doorway. “Show them to us.”

“Dornil,” the other elf said firmly, keeping his eyes on Gwereth. “If you interfere once more with my errand, you will be sent to the camp to load the wagons.”

The elf-woman shrank back, a beam of light catching her pale features and revealing a flicker of hurt, as if she had not expected so harsh a reprimand, and for a moment Gwereth’s heart clenched in sympathy for the servant of so terrible a lord. No — it was not so. She was as much a part of their campaign of violence as he.

At that moment, a whimper squeaked from the shadows. The elf-lord’s eyes were drawn to it. No. Gwereth dropped to her knees, folding over and cradling her face in her hands.

“Please do not hurt them,” she begged.

“Lady,” the elf said, “I have already assured you: we mean you no harm.” He paused. “Are they wounded?”

Gwereth choked out an affirmative sob. Some desperate instinct drove her to tell the truth. “Yes. One of them. He fell. He hit his head.” She sobbed again, ashamed to confess to this failure of her care.

She did not stop the elf-lord as he made his way on folded knees towards the source of the whimper. Raising her head, Gwereth watched him lift the cloth from over the crate. Elrond sat upright, hesitant but rapt at the stranger before him.

It was so incongruous, the tenderness with which the elf cupped Elros’ head as he drew him out. He lay him down to rest against his thigh while he removed his gloves and metal bracers. He adjusted Elros’ body carefully, as Gwereth in her panic had not. The scene brought to mind a wolf Gwereth had once encountered, tending her injured cub.

All his attention was turned towards the child. Briefly, the thought entered Gwereth’s mind that now again she might strike him; but the heat of her anger had withered. She did not know if she could have found the strength to lift her weapon.

The elf’s large hands nearly encompassed Elros’ head. He breathed deliberately and slowly, watching the child.

“The hit has disturbed his brain—” he paused, as if listening, and sank his fingers into Elros’ hair at the base of his skull; “and caused a small fracture in the bone.”

Gwereth was surprised to hear herself ask, “Can you heal him?”

“Yes, I think so,” the elf said. “But this child— is he mortal or elven?”

“Mortal,” Gwereth said in a rush. “He is Mannish.”

The elf looked through her. “I think, lady, that you do not tell me the whole truth. But neither of us has been forthcoming with the other.” He scooped Elros to his breast and shifted to face her fully. “I am Maglor. Son of Fëanor.”

The revelation did not startle her as much as it ought have. In her heart she had known from the moment she heard him speak. She had encountered few in her life whose presence carried such power. Her lady had been one, as had Eärendil and his mother, ere she departed. But theirs had not been marred by evil deeds.

“I know that you suffered great hurt at the hands of my brother,” he said, “and you have reason to distrust me—”

A broken laugh leapt from Gwereth’s throat, and with it a daring defiance. “Distrust? I have reason to hate you. I have reason to kill you. Do not tell me that you are guiltless, Maglor son of Fëanor.”

“I am not—”

“Did you not lead an assault on a haven of refugees?”

“Lady, let me speak,” he said sharply.

“Why?” Gwereth said. “Why should I let you speak?”

He made no answer. Elros blinked in his arms, his head lolling to the side to face her.

“Gwereth?” he said weakly.

Then the muscles around his mouth quivered. He retched, vomit spilling onto Maglor’s thigh.

Gwereth leapt towards him. Her fingers brushed Elros’ body; then she was herself jerked backwards.

“Do not,” the elf-woman’s voice hissed in her ear, “lay hands on my lord.”

This time Maglor did not reprimand her. He was cleaning the vomit from Elros’ face with the hem of his tunic. Then he took a water skin from his belt and wet Elros’ lips, and Elros gulped greedily from the bottle’s mouth. He gasped, reviving, as it was removed.

Maglor left the sick sticking to his own garments. One more stain among many.

Only when Elros was settled did Maglor set eyes on his servant, who still held Gwereth by the arm. His gaze was penetrating, warning. The silence lengthened, and Gwereth suspected they took counsel mind-to-mind.

The breaking of the connection was palpable. Seemingly with her lord’s approval, the elf-woman tied a slender rope around Gwereth’s wrists. Her touch was firm but painless. Gwereth did not struggle.

Clarion trumpets sounded outside, a simple progression for lifting up the heart. A summoning.

Maglor scooped up Elrond with his other arm, balancing each child as if he weighed no more than a basket of herbs. Perhaps they followed Gwereth’s cue or perhaps their fear was blunted by some wizardry, but they made no effort to resist. Elrond’s fist even bunched at the collar of Maglor’s shirt, clinging to the strong, solid body.

If Gwereth had not known otherwise, she would have thought she looked upon a saviour and not a sacker of cities. But a killer he was, and a thief of children. For had he not spoken to his servant of an errand? What other could it be than to take them captive?

At least he would not kill them, as his younger brother would have done. That much she trusted, though she knew not why.

Forgive me, my lady, she beseeched Elwing, whose spirit had fled to a fate Gwereth could not know. But she prayed still because she allowed herself to hope: that Elwing was not gone beyond the Circles of the World; that she might see her children again, in some far removed time long after Gwereth and all the proud people of Haleth had faded from memory altogether.

I will protect them, she promised. With my life, I will protect them, and if by any power in me I can deliver them from their cruel captors, I swear to you, lady, dear friend: I will.

The last words she muttered softly in the tongue of her people.

Her keeper nudged her forward. “I am Dornil,” she said. “Come, Gwereth, nurse of the sons of Eärendil. For that is your name and station, is it not?” Gwereth bowed her head. “Do you accept the continuance of your charge to care for these children under the command of Lord Maglor?”

Gwereth nodded.

“Good. I will lead you to our camp. It will be better if you do not struggle.”

She guided Gwereth out the open hatch. Maglor and the children followed behind where she could not see them.

On her flight from the cliffs Gwereth had not had time to take in the sight of ruined Sirion. Now she saw neighbours, known and unknown, drifting among the wreckage: searching for possessions of their own, perhaps, or unclaimed goods that could be salvaged. If any had been slain in this quarter, their bodies had been cleared.

A cloak was cast over Gwereth’s shoulders. Dornil was not as tall as her lord, but she was taller than Gwereth by far, and under her cloak Gwereth all but disappeared. If she had friends among the lingering folk, they would not mark her. She and Dornil approached a mighty warhorse, and Gwereth was slipped free of her bonds and helped into the saddle. Dornil mounted ahead of her, forcing Gwereth to take hold of her waist to keep steady on the horse.

As they turned, Gwereth twisted towards the mouth of the river and the Isle of Balar; but they were far from the bay and the reeds grew too tall between them. If help was coming to the people of Sirion, Gwereth would likely never know.

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Chapter End Notes

It's not exactly reproduced of course, but definitely had this stunning image of Maglor and Elrond and Elros by anattmar in mind writing the end of this chapter. Thank you to cuarthol for beta'ing this chapter.