And Love Grew by polutropos

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The Half-elven

Maglor's host succumbs to sickness. Elrond finds Taur-im-Duinath is not altogether empty.

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The child shook. He was burning. Gwereth curled onto her side and clutched Elros closer, as much to soothe him as herself. The hard carriage floor, the burning and cramping of her stomach felt as though they were all she had ever known. Had it been a night? Two? The effort of remembering stabbed painfully behind her eyes; she squeezed them shut to hold off the nausea that always followed the pain. It was humiliating, the urgent emptying of her bowels at every hour of day and night. She had stopped eating; she could scarcely keep down water.

Gwereth had not been old enough to remember her mother’s death, but in her fevered dreams something like memories visited her: clear, stringy fluid dripping from her mother’s grey lips; her eyes so dry, so tired; her arms too weak to lift a hand to caress her daughter’s face. Hundreds had died that year after she came to the Havens, yet few now remembered them. Would any remember the Men of this host? Survivors of war once, twice, some even thrice over, lain low by disease.

She shook, clinging to Elros, and imagined the coolness of the tears she could not shed.

With a spasm, Elros vomited onto her chest. She barely noted the damp warmth seeping through her shirt. There was nothing she could do but wait. She had not even the strength to call for help, not though she could hear Orfion and Elrond speaking just outside.

“They do not often show themselves to the speaking peoples,” said Orfion, in his pleasant speech that reminded Gwereth oddly of Lady Elwing’s.

“When did you see them?” Elrond asked.

“I have not seen them since the days before the Sun.”

“You are older than the Sun?” Elrond said. “But you look younger than my father!”

Orfion chuckled. “I was born long before, child, across the mountains where there were many Onodrim. It was for love of them and of Greenwood the Great that our chieftain Denweg forsook the March. The Elves and Tree Shepherds dwelt there in friendship — still do, I imagine.” His voice took on a wistful note that for a moment stung Gwereth’s heart. Were there none left in Middle-earth who had not lost their homes? “But when the woods began to fill with monsters, I followed Denweg’s son over the mountains, into Ossiriand—”

“That is where Lord Maglor said we are going,” Elrond interrupted. “Are there no Tree Shepherds in Ossiriand?”

“There are,” said Orfion, “but not so many, and they are most often still and silent. But have you not heard the tales of your grandsire, Dior the Fair?” There was a pause. “Ah. Well, they say he and his father Beren were joined by the Onodrim in their battle with the Dwarves.”

“I have never heard that,” Elrond said. “Mother did not like to talk about her parents or where she came from.”

“Well, she was very young,” Orfion said sadly. “Perhaps she did not remember.”

“I would like to meet the Tree Shepherds,” said Elrond. “Do you think they live in this forest?”

“Almost certainly,” Orfion answered.

“Can we go look for them?”

Their converse came to an abrupt halt, for a violent shout tore through the murmur of the camp; another rose in answer. Gwereth did not need to understand their ancient tongue to know they were words of violence and anger. Physically, the elves had shown no signs of sickness — but their minds were unravelling. Some withdrew into themselves, solitary and soundless. Others the sickness seized with bouts of fear and rage, and they turned against each other in their madness.

There was a clash of steel and then another voice lifted in command. The shouts died down; Gwereth closed her eyes in relief. Much as she hated the Kinslayers, she hated more the sickening sound of a body breaking, and the horrified scream of the murderer when the madness passed and he saw a friend slain by his own hand.

“No,” Orfion said in answer to Elrond’s question, mastering the fear at the edges of his voice. “I do not think it would be wise to go looking for the Onodrim here. There is something strange about this forest. Not even I dare go near it until we know. But wait here a moment,” he said, and there was a rustle of movement, “I must bring these tinctures to your brother and Gwereth.”

“I want to come,” Elrond whined. “I want to see my brother.”

“I am sorry, child, you cannot.”

“But why! You are going.”

“It is as I have said. I am Elf-kind. I cannot become ill. Not in body,” he corrected. “But your mortal blood means you cannot risk going near them.”

Gwereth had to strain to hear Elrond’s next words. “Well if Elros is going to die then I should die too.”

“Oh, little star,” said Orfion. “Do not say such things. Your brother will not die. He has elven blood, and the blood of Melian! He will recover.”

“Then why can’t I be sick with him?”

To this Orfion only sighed; the sigh of one unused to minding children. “Wait here,” he said. “I will not be long.”

A moment later Orfion was in the carriage entrance. Gwereth felt the pity in his silence, and her flesh burned hotter with shame.

“I am sorry to trouble you,” he said. “I have brought medicines mixed by our healers.”

Gwereth said nothing. He sighed again, with less patience, and set the vials down on the bench.

“The green vial is a mixture for the stomach,” he said, “and the blue will provide the essential nourishments your body has lost.” He set down a cup. “And there is tea of the yellow root, for the head pains.”

He waited, breaths shallow, for some acknowledgement. But Elros had fallen asleep, and Gwereth was too weary to answer him. Even if she could, it would be to spurn him. She had no faith in these medicines, least of all the yellow root which she believed to be the cause of their illness.

Orfion left. He exchanged a few words with Elrond and then their voices retreated. The solid floor seemed to sink and sway around her as she drifted on the cusp of sleep. She struggled against its pull, knowing Embor would be by soon.

At last, his rough voice, gentled for her benefit, greeted them. She whimpered in answer, and with effort rose to sitting on her trembling arms. Elros she kept tucked close to her hip.

“Did you find what I asked?” Her voice creaked with the dryness of her throat.

“If this is the plant you meant, yes.” He drew a bundle of pale green leaves from a pouch on his belt. “And here,” he pulled forth a flask, “I removed the bark and boiled it in water, as you asked.”

“Yes, that is it,” said Gwereth. “Thank you.” She could not be sure the willows in these lands had the same properties as those they had harvested in the lush vale of Nan Tathren in sprintime, but the shrubs looked similar enough, and when she had chewed their stems at the onset of her illness they had relieved the fever.

He removed the cork and handed her the flask. “Careful, it’s hot.”

The familiar bitter taste comforted her. “Elros,” she murmured. His shining black curls stuck to his forehead and she brushed them aside. “Elros, love, I am sorry to wake you, but Embor has brought some medicine.”

Elros groaned and parted his lips. She touched the mouth of the flask to them, lifting his head onto her knees so the liquid would not dribble away. He grimaced.

“’s awful,” he muttered, then caught sight of the steaming tea on the bench where Orfion had set it. “What is that?”

Gwereth frowned. “It was that made you ill.”

Elros buried his face in her thigh.

“Gwereth,” Embor said tentatively, “perhaps you ought to try the elf-medicines. I do not think—”

“No. I will not, and neither will the children. Tell me: has anyone else improved from taking their medicines?”

“No,” Embor admitted.

“Then we shall all die. But at least we may ease the pain.” She fell back down against the hard wood.

“Please,” said Embor. “Perhaps they have found no remedy yet, but the Elves are great healers. They will put an end to this sickness, I am sure of it. Please, try their medicines.”

As the willow bark began to work, Gwereth’s mind stirred awake, considering. She, too, had believed in the healing powers of Elves. It was Elves who had ended the plague that killed her mother and rid the Havens of illness in the happy years that came after. Elves — and the Silmaril.

“The Kinslayers have lost all capacity for healing,” she said. “They can only destroy.” Then she flung an arm at the medicines Orfion had lined up along the bench, meaning to topple them — but missed. The effort and the shame made her flush. “Embor,” she said. “Do you not see that the curse of the sons of Fëanor follows us, as long as we are near him?”

Embor was silent a long time. “I admit I have wondered the same. The tales of my people speak of the courage of the sons of Fëanor, of the mighty voice of Maglor that sung death to foes and called life back into the bodies of friends. Aye, I share your doubts, my friend. I do not recognise the elf from those tales in our leader.”

Gwereth grasped for his hand. “You see? Help me, then. Help us.”

---

The healer stood, awaiting Maglor’s response. Her face was as washed of colour as the sodden landscape behind her. It was the rains; the rains rolling in from the North that brought the sickness.

She had every reason to fear him. He had not been kind when she had brought news of their losses yesterday. How easy it was to lay blame upon another for his own failings.

He dragged a hand down his face, then swallowed. He did not wish to hear the answer to his next question. “How many?”

“Twenty-seven,” the healer replied.

“Twenty-seven?” he echoed, stricken. “That is twenty more than yesterday.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“How many of them children?”

“Fifteen.”

Maglor balked. “Why so many?”

“They are small,” she explained, with the practical tone of one whose vocation is the dying. “Their reserves of water are less. Men must drink.”

Maglor fought to hold his head upright upon his shoulders. It was three days since he had tasted water; he was weary, but an Elda could go without far longer. A Man already weakened, as these were, might die of thirst in a day; the strongest could survive no more than seven.

Word had passed silently between the Eldar: it is the water, they said upon currents of thought, that sets us against each other. But it was difficult to persuade an elf already afflicted with violent hatred that what he felt, so real to him, was naught but the workings of an outer force more powerful than he. Not all had heeded the warning. Though by different means, the disease slew elves as surely as it slew mortals. But Maglor had not the courage to tell the Men their illness came from the water. It did not matter: between thirst and contagion, their only choice was death.

He dredged up the question weighing heaviest upon him. “And Elwing’s son? What of Elros?”

“He lives. But his nurse would not administer the medicines.”

Maglor swallowed his despair, holding his breath. It was true that the medicines would do nothing but postpone the end, if Elros’ spirit could not save him, but at least he might follow after his mother more comfortably.

“Thank you,” he said to the healer. “You are dismissed. I am sure you have more important work than bringing reports to me.”

The healer acknowledged him, bending at the waist, but had more to say: “There is one here to see you, lord. He says he is close in friendship with the sons of Elwing and their nurse.”

“Does he name himself?”

“He calls himself Embor. He says he is descended of Men of the East who once followed you.”

“Send him to me,” Maglor said, both apprehensive and eager to speak to one the people who had followed him, for thus far he had failed to make any connection with them.

The healer bowed again, and not a moment later the man had taken her place just beyond the awning of his tent. The sky spat a mist of rain, and it stuck like tiny crystals in his coarse black hair.

“Come in where it is dry,” Maglor said.

The man tipped his chin to his chest and stepped beneath the covering. Maglor took a closer look at him: he was a broad and dark, with thick brows and many years graven on his face. Yet strength slept behind warm brown eyes. Like ripples over still water, memories blurred the present vision, and for a moment Maglor might have said Bór himself stood before him, even as he had stood between him and the rage of Uldor on the field of Anfauglith.

“My lord,” the man said, “I am Embor son of Agida. My father fought and died for you in the Union.”

“I am sorry,” said Maglor, meaning his distracted state and hearing too late what the man had said. As if so brief an apology could remedy the tragedy to which they had led his people!

“I knew him not,” Embor said. “I was yet in my mother’s womb when he set out for battle. But my grandsire Egida escaped. As he told it, it was you who guarded him when he retreated with a small contingent of my people.”

“You come from good stock, Embor son of Agida,” said Maglor. “We owe a great debt to you and your forebears.”

“Thank you, lord. I am certain if the winds of fortune had blown otherwise, we would still be staunch allies. Perhaps we will be again.”

Maglor huffed at the suggestion. He had thought it possible, yes, in the aftermath of Sirion, but now after weeks on the road, as the people who had followed him died by the dozens, he could not indulge the hope of any sort of trust taking hold between them.

“What may I do for you? My healer tells me you are a friend of the young princes.”

“And of their nurse, Gwereth,” Embor answered. “Yes. It is for them that I have come. Elros is very ill. Even if he and his brother prevail, I fear what will become of them if Gwereth does not. I fear what will become of all of us.” He paused, hesitating.

“Go on,” Maglor said. “You may speak freely.”

“Thank you, lord.” Embor cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. “I do not know what your intention is with the people you have asked to follow you from Sirion, but I cannot believe it is to let us die. You need us, as you needed us before. And yet, you have done little to earn our trust. If not for the illness crippling us, I believe people would rise against you. Indeed,” he hesitated, searching Maglor’s face, “the thought has come to me, seeing my friends waste away. But the truth is that you and your kind may be our only hope. I know you are powerful. I cannot believe there is no one among you who can discover the cause of this sickness and stop the deaths. I cannot believe that you do not care that children are dying, not now that you have triumphed over us—”

“Triumphed?” Maglor interrupted. “There was nothing triumphant about our victory at Sirion, Embor. Of course I care. But whatever tales you have heard about us, we are not saviours. My kin, perhaps, were saviours and heroes — and what became of them? They were slain and overcome by the Enemy who will overcome us all. Do I know the cause of this sickness? Yes. It is the malice of Morgoth, carried from the North and rained down upon us, poisoning the waters. That is why your people are dying, why mine are going mad. See how powerful he has become, that his hate can pursue us so far from his seat of power? Not even Fingolfin, not Felagund, not Lúthien herself could stand against him now.” Maglor laughed harshly, disguising a stab of pain between his temples. “Certainly not I, certainly not one whose only victories have been against his own kin.”

All the while, Embor stood staring at him with expressionless eyes. “Have you tried?” he asked.

“What?”

“Have you tried to wield your power against him?”

“I cannot.”

Embor’s thoughts were writ plainly on his face: his lids hooded his eyes, his lips curled in disgust. “Respectfully, lord, I do not believe you.”

It was all Maglor could do not to strike him. “Leave,” he gritted between his teeth, and turned so sharply he nearly collided with Dornil as she came round the side of the tent.

“Lord,” she said, gripping him by both shoulders to stay him. Pain sliced through his skull. It was so hard, so hard to resist the urge to violence.

“All is well, commander,” he said. “All is well.”

“Lord,” she said again, in Quenya. “Macalaurë. Elrond is missing.”

---

A huge tree, thicker than Elrond was tall, reclined on the forest floor. Elrond set his palm against its coat of spongy moss, experimenting with how easily it bounced back when he pressed and released. He pulled his hand away. Could the moss feel? Did the fallen tree know he was there?

This forest certainly felt awake. It was comforting, he thought, for he did not feel wholly alone here. There were no adults to protect him, but he felt somehow safer here than he did with the host. If anything happened to him, the trees would protect him. When Elros was better, he would bring him into the forest with him and they would be safe together.

He looked up and down the length of the trunk, seeking a way around. It was so long! It must have been the grandest tree in the forest when it stood upright. He set out in the direction that looked like it had been the tree’s crown. It would be narrower there and he could climb over. Soon, he came to the trickle of a stream with a strip of blackened and barren earth along its edges. Almost as though the stream had scorched it. Strange. His heart told him to stay clear of it so he leapt across — but stumbled on the other side, and shouted in alarm. The forest rustled in answer.

He called, “Is someone there?” No answer came.

As he carried on his way, he paid special attention to the uneven ground. A little blossom of fear had opened in his chest. Even if the forest was friendly, he must take care. Even the loveliest places may host hidden dangers: so Mother had said. Yet it was difficult to keep his eyes on the ground, for there were so many sights and sounds. The call of an owl drew his eyes up into the trees. He had seen an owl once, on a journey to the Cape through the birchwoods of Arvernien — bright and green, nothing like this forest — swooping between branches silent and beautiful. Distracted, Elrond slipped on a patch of muddy ground, and screamed as he felt himself tipping backwards.

But he did not hit the ground. He was caught, like a fish in a net, ropes around his arms and under his back — no, not ropes. Vines with waxy dark leaves, coiling around him. Elrond shrieked, surprised by the plant moving with such speed and purpose, but did not struggle. Somehow he knew the plant meant him no harm. If he did not struggle, he would be released. He breathed slowly, as his father had taught him, to calm himself.

Then there was a voice behind him, speaking lilting words Elrond did not recognise. Seemingly in answer, the vines unwound; Elrond was set down on the ground. He turned towards the voice.

It was a small elf — or at least Elrond thought him small, for it was hard to tell the way his shape blended into the forest, as though he were a part of his surroundings. Even his face was marked with shadows, similar to the patterns that decorated Orfion’s face — but this elf had them all over his skin and clothing.

The elf spoke again, addressing Elrond this time. The language was more like Mannish than Elvish; when Elrond stared back uncomprehending, the elf answered in a halting version of Sindarin. “A young one should not wander alone,” he said. “There are beasts who hunt young ones. Are you hurt?”

Elrond examined his dirtied clothing and the scuffs on his knees. “No,” he said. “I am exploring. I came from over there,” he pointed back to the camp, but as he did he realised he’d been turned around and was no longer sure where it was.

The elf smiled. “There,” he said, gesturing with his chin, just left of where Elrond had pointed. “What people are you?”

Elrond was not sure how to answer this. “Elves and Men,” he said. “Of all kinds.”

“You bring illness,” the elf said. Elrond recoiled at the intensity of his eyes, huge and round and black like a cat’s.

“We did not bring it,” Elrond said defensively. At the reminder of the sickness, the world went misty with sadness. “My brother is dying of it.”

Softening his manner, the elf took several silent steps towards Elrond and knelt so they were almost of a height. “Another young one? Are you many young ones?”

“Yes,” said Elrond. “Though Elros and me are the youngest. I think. Some have died already.”

The elf whispered something is his own tongue, head tilted to one side. “I see. Know you no, hmm,” he searched for a word, “…Songs?”

Elrond shook his head. “Songs don’t work. Orfion told me the elves have tried.”

“You are cursed,” the elf said. “No, not you. They are cursed. You are too young, you cannot carry curses. You say ‘the Elves’. Are you not an elf, little one?”

“Oh. Well.” Elrond hesitated. Mother had instructed him and Elros never to reveal to strangers who they were. But then, Mother was gone, and Elrond had the sense that the strangers she had hoped to guard them from had already found them. “We are peredhil,” Elrond said.

“Peredhil,” the elf repeated. “A strange thing to call yourselves. Half-elf. What is the other half?” The elf stood and smiled down at Elrond.

“Man,” Elrond answered. “My father is Eärendil son of Tuor and my mother—” Elrond abruptly stopped. He should not reveal so much.

But the elf did not inquire further. “I believe we are of a kind, then, Peredhel. I, too, am of mingled blood.”

Elrond’s mouth dropped open. “You are?”

“Yes. Though I know not if I am half, or more, or less of Man or Elf. My people mingled with the younger Children before we came over the mountains. We are many peredhil, as you say, in Taur-i-Melegyrn. But we do not call ourselves such.”

“What do you call yourselves?”

“Penni, of course. For all Speakers come of the same Father, whether of his Firstborn or his Secondborn. The stars shine upon our meeting, Elrond. I am called Nelpen.”

Elrond was brimming with questions, but one crowded out all the rest: “How old are you?”

Nelpen laughed. “We do not count years, little one. But I was born before the Sun, if that is what you want to know.”

“You are undying! That means, that means,” Elrond’s thoughts toppled one over the other, knitting together this new knowledge: he was not alone! There was a whole forest of people like him and Elros! “That means my father may return one day. That means my mother— Where do your souls go, when you die?”

Nelpen wrinkled his brows. “Go? We stay here in the forest. Sometimes our spirits make homes in the trees and rivers. Do you not hear our spirits singing?”

“Singing?” Elrond listened for a snatch of sound, but it was altogether silent. “No, I hear nothing.”

“Hm. Do not be concerned. You are a stranger still. But come,” Nelpen stooped and gently nudged Elrond’s chin up with a hooked finger: “tell me your name, son of Eärendil.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I am Elrond.”

“Elrond,” Nelpen repeated, as though puzzling out the sounds. “Were you named for the sky at night?”

“Yes!” said Elrond, “and no. I am named for Menelrond.”

“What is Menelrond?”

“You know, the great hall?” Elrond said, but Nelpen still looked uncertain. “Made in imitation of the night sky. In Menegroth. It was very famous. Have you not heard of it?”

“Menegroth, yes; we have knowledge of Menegroth. Elu is its king. Our elders knew him long ago. They say his queen is a fay. Do you come from Menegroth, Elrond?”

“No,” said Elrond, and fidgeted with his tunic. He did not like being the bearer of so much ill news. “It was destroyed a very long time ago.”

Nelpen hummed. “A long time for you, perhaps. Much has been destroyed since the bright Elves came over the Sea. Are you their friend, Elrond?”

“You mean the Noldor?” Nelpen slanted his head curiously. “Golodh,” Elrond tried. “Lechind.”

“Yes: Lechind. My sundered kindred call them this.”

“My father’s mother was one,” Elrond said intrepidly. He did not think Nelpen liked the Noldor, and Elrond wanted to be liked by him. “But they are not my friends, no.”

It was for the most part true. Perhaps Elrond had considered Noldor among his friends — he was not often sure in Sirion whether one was Noldo or Sinda or Adan or Easterling or something else — but it was Noldor who had burned their home and taken him and Elros away. If he ever had liked them, he did not think he did anymore.

“Yet you travel with them, do you not?” Nelpen asked. “You are not safe with them.”

“How do you know?”

“Death follows them,” he said simply.

There was a long silence while Elrond stared into the other peredhel’s dark eyes, searching for something of himself and Elros there. How he wished to see it! Yet Elrond felt no stronger connection to Nelpen than he did to anyone else. No — they were alone. He wanted to go back to the camp. He wanted to see Elros.

“Elrond!” a voice cried. Elrond jumped, and quick as a snake Nelpen had nocked his arrow and aimed it in the direction of the voice.

It was Orfion, and he raised his hands in submission then addressed Nelpen in his own language. Elrond looked between them as they exchanged words he could not understand. Nelpen lowered his bow.

“You know this elf?” Nelpen asked Elrond.

Elrond nodded but did not look at Orfion. He felt he would be scolded for wandering, and moreover, now that someone was here to take him back to the camp, he was not sure that he wanted to return. He did not know what he wanted.

He wanted Elros. He wanted his mother. He wanted his father, and he wanted to hear the Sea and see the familiar hump of Balar on the horizon like the back of a great whale. He wanted Círdan, or Aerandir, or Galdor, or even King Ereinion, who frightened him with his changeable moods and loud voice, but who meant well. Anyone but these two near-strangers. Elrond’s lip trembled, and he sputtered trying to contain his tears — but his uncertainty rattled around between his ribs and against his will his nose and eyes filled with fat drops of water.

Orfion dropped to his knees before him, one arm extended, but pausing just before he touched him. Orfion never touched them, and Elrond had always been glad that he did not, for Orfion was dangerous, even if he made himself gentle for them. But now Elrond needed to be touched more than anything. He threw himself into the bend of Orfion’s outstretched arm, and slowly it wrapped around him.

“There, there, child,” said Orfion. “Why did you wander?” Elrond could not answer through his sobs. “Nevermind. We have you now.”

There was a long pause, and as Elrond’s tears subsided he looked up. Orfion and Nelpen watched each other. No words passed between them, but they seemed to come to some silent agreement. Adults were always doing this around him. No one had taught him or Elros how to listen to mind-speech. They were slow to learn, like Men, and they were too young. Who would teach them now? This thought made Elrond begin to cry again.

“Come, Elig,” Orfion said at last, and the tightness in Elrond’s chest opened, like an oyster splitting its hard shell to welcome the returning tide. Orfion stood, lifting Elrond up with him. “Let us return to the camp. They are very worried about you there.”

“Farewell, Elrond Peredhel,” Nelpen whispered to their backs.

But when Elrond craned his neck for one last look at him, he was nowhere to be seen.

---

By day, the forest was friendlier to Maglor. The spirits roosted in the high thick canopy, perhaps, or burrowed underground. Wherever they were, they left Maglor’s mind open to recall other lost children. Elrond he called, but half-expected the echo of another name. But there were no echoes in the forest, and even Maglor’s mighty voice was swallowed by the carpets of moss and the great sheets of lichen, heavy as velvet drapes.

Yet in the silences between his calls, the sense grew in him that someone, or something, was aware of him. Not spirits, but something of flesh and bone and breath. Danger lurked in the forest, of a sort Maglor had not felt before — not here, nor anywhere in Endor. He froze like a hunted hare, forgetting for a moment his errand, forgetting even himself. Then came a growl so low he felt it rather than heard it.

“Macalaurë.” Dornil’s voice cut through his fear.

He exhaled, blinking to dispel the lingering unease.

“Sister,” he said.

“I called to you thrice. Did you not hear?”

Maglor had not. He responded with a minute shake of his head and Dornil sighed. She eyed him sternly. “I ought to have known not to trust your word. You promised to remain in the camp. Do you wish to be lost also?” When Maglor made no reply, her manner softened and she waved him forward. “Come. Orfion found the child.”

“Where?” Maglor breathed, faint with relief.

“He did not go far — he went chasing after some tales that Green-elf planted in his mind, it seems. I warned you not to entrust them to a guard you scarcely know. Let me guard them.”

“Enough,” Maglor hissed. “You speak too freely, commander. Where are they now?”

“They returned to the camp some hours ago, I have been searching for you for— Stop, Macalaurë!” she cried, as Maglor raced past her towards the eaves of the woods.

---

Elrond was stiff in his embrace, but Maglor’s arms refused to let him go. Not again, never again.

He had not held either child since that day he sat them on his horse and led them out of their smoking city. It was not because he did not long to; it was not right to lay his hands on these children whom he had robbed of a mother. (Yes, he: in him the ghosts of his brothers dwelt; in him their deeds commingled with his own and multiplied.)

I thought you had given up nursing fledglings long ago.

On the journey from Sirion, Maedhros’ accusations had rooted like some physical thing at the base of Maglor’s skull, sprouting doubts like weeds. Could Maglor have done otherwise? Could he have stayed, and turned himself and Elwing’s sons over to Ereinion for judgement? By placing him in command of the survivors, had Maedhros not steered him from that course? Or perhaps he had hoped he would: perhaps it had been Maedhros’ intent that Maglor defy him, stay behind and see them all safely bestowed on Balar. Had Maedhros hoped that Maglor would abandon him?

It was intolerable, the doubt that cast Maglor’s thoughts into disorder! But all of it quieted when he held Elrond, and slowly, slowly, Elrond softened into his arms.

“Why did you leave, child?” Maglor whispered. He resisted the impulse to kiss the dark curls on his head.

“I wanted to find the Tree Shepherds,” Elrond mumbled into the crook of Maglor’s arm. “I thought they might be able to help us.”

Maglor glanced up at Orfion; the elf licked his lips guiltily. “I told him a tale of the Onodrim. I did not think…”

“You only meant to entertain, Orfion,” Maglor reassured him. “Yet we must keep a closer watch. Elrond — do you understand now that the forest is not safe?”

“But it is, Lord Maglor!” Elrond twisted out of his arms. “There are kind people there! I talked to one of them. They live there.”

“What do you mean? You saw them?” Maglor looked back to Orfion, searching for an answer. Surely the elf would have reported at once if they had encountered others.

Orfion shook his head and his eyes darted to the ground before he spoke. “The child has a powerful imagination,” he said. “We saw no others.”

“Oh, Elrond,” Maglor clasped his thin arms. “You heard voices, is that it?”

“No, I saw him! Nelpen was his name.” Elrond’s pupils widened in confusion, but his pout was defiant. “He was a peredhel, like me and Elros.”

Maglor sighed and stood. “I’m sorry, Elrond. Sometimes our minds create images of things we wish to see. And this forest is strange. It has shown me images, also.” He saw Orfion’s face lift and felt the burn of his wary gaze. Let him know, Maglor thought. So I am mad — aren’t we all? “It is late,” he said to Elrond. “You should sleep. But you must not return to the forest, do you understand?”

Elrond nodded. His eyes glittered in the fading light, almost as if they housed the Light of the Trees. Or— could it be? No, of course not: there was no Silmaril caught in Elrond’s eyes. Only a sheen of tears. Maglor regretted his dismissal of the child’s imaginings. What harm would it have done to let him believe there were others like him living in the woods? What harm in letting him think he was not alone in the world?

“Take him back to his tent, Orfion,” said Maglor. “And watch him well.”

As they retreated, Maglor wondered if Dornil was right to advise him to appoint another to guard them. But of all Maglor’s followers, Orfion had the best heart, even if his loyalties pulled in several directions — Maglor was sure he would rejoin his own people, as soon as they came to Ossiriand, and he would not begrudge him such a choice. But for now, where else could he go?

Where could any of them go but onwards to Amon Ereb?

---

Chapter End Notes

The language was more like Mannish than Elvish: From ‘Of the Coming of Men into the West’: “It is said also that these Men had long had dealings with the Dark Elves east of the mountains, and from them had learned much of their speech; and since all the languages of the Quendi are of one origin, the language of Bëor and his folk resembled the Elven-tongue in many words and devices.” Elrond is doing his best 6-year-old linguistics here. 

Penni: One of six clans of Avari named by Tolkien, all of which are just variants of Quendi, which properly refer to all speaking people and not just elves. This is all in the essay ‘Quendi and Eldar’ in The War of the Jewels. The name Nelpen is a vibes-based attempt at constructing an Avarin name. 

I am named for Menelrond: One of two etymological explanations for Elrond’s name, and greatly preferred by me to the ‘found in a cave’ version. From ‘The Problem of Ros’ in The Peoples of Middle-earth: “Now Elrond was a word for the firmament, the starry dome as it appeared like a roof to Arda; and it was given by Elwing in memory of the great Hall of the Throne of Elwë in the midst of the stronghold of Menegroth that was called Menelrond, because by the arts and aid of Melian its high arched roof had been adorned with silver and gems set in the order and figure of the stars in the great Dome of Valmar in Aman, whence Melian came.” 

It was destroyed a very long time ago. According the Tale of Years, the fall of Doriath was actually less than 30 years earlier. This was a bad time in Beleriand :(. Lechind. Flame-eyed, a derogatory Sindarin term for the Noldor. Also discussed in ‘Quendi and Eldar’. 

leucisticpuffin did an incredibly perfect illustration of Elrond in Taur-im-Duinath