And Love Grew by polutropos

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Put Forth All His Power

Elros recovers, but new dangers lurk in the trees. Maglor reaches a breaking point.

He was still weak, his stomach raw and unable to hold much more than cooled soup, but Elros had overcome the sickness. The healers had allowed him to leave the confines of the carriage. Elrond’s bubbling joy at being able to embrace his brother again had brought Gwereth rare relief from her pain.

She listened as the twins prattled about some imagined world only understood to them, populated by a host of fantastical characters: tentacled queens who ruled over underwater kingdoms with many and lengthy names, besieged by shapeshifting whale-bears and razor-clad crabs as big as a house. Yet, for the heirs of Lúthien and of Melian the Maia, were such tales so fantastical? They seemed so, in this drear camp where the fabled powers of the immortal Elves had faltered altogether.

It was Morgoth, Embor had reported, only half-believing what Maglor had told him. How could it be, so far from his domain? The Elves blamed all evil things on the Dark King, but such tidy explanations no longer satisfied Gwereth. Evil was a seed in every person, awaiting its chance to push through the cracks of a broken soul. The souls of the sons of Fëanor and their followers were crowded with clotted ash and blood.

With the clarity of encroaching death, Gwereth could admit there once had been goodness in them. Still, she did not pity them. She would not break the promise she had made to Elwing. For her, hope was lost. But not for the twins, not for Elros and Elrond.

That night, Embor would take them to the woods and the dark-elves Elrond had met there. In time, they would find their way back to Balar. Their father would return for them.

Gwereth closed her eyes and hoped that this time would be the last.

In the end Embor had to lie and kill to escape the camp with his charges, the young princes. Two lies: that Gwereth was gone and would not wake, and that Eärendil would be at Sirion when they arrived. That he’d only had to kill once was a mercy. A single guard — Embor had not lingered on his face and therefore could not say if he knew him — who would have raised the alarm had Embor’s knife not found his throat first.

They had driven deep into the forest that night, following as straight a path as Embor could trace in the dark. With one child in his arms and another slung on his back, he wearied sooner than he would have on his own. Though the Allfather had blessed him with good health and strength of body, he was no longer young, and his heart ached and fluttered with too much exertion. Following the burble of a creek in the dark, he found a patch of spongy earth on which to rest.

Unable to see, he kept a hand on both the twins through the night. Soon after nightfall, he was startled from his rest by a piercing yowl. The children stirred but did not wake. It was followed by rumbles, rising and falling and rising again, which, though low and distant, reverberated noisily in the silent woods and seemed to come from all directions. He lay still, attuning to his instincts. Though all was dark, his senses were honed enough to know that they were being watched. He did not move.

After what may have been mere minutes or many hours of wakefulness, Elrond stirred and rolled towards him. “What is that?”

Embor tightened his grip on the child’s shoulders. “I do not know,” he admitted.

Shrugging out of his hold, Elrond propped himself up on an elbow. “Maybe the Tree Shepherds are speaking to each other.”

“Maybe.” A less disturbing guess than Embor’s own. If trees could speak, he did not think they would do so in growls — and certainly not with the harrowing cry that had first awoken him. “I think it best we remain quiet.”

“I see something,” said Elros to his other side.

“Stars in the branches,” Elrond said.

“No,” said Elros. “Eyes.”

Embor hoped they did not turn their own sharp eyes on him to witness his terror. It was one thing to know; it was another to have that knowledge confirmed by elven eyes.

“Quiet,” he said, drawing the children closer. “Be still.” And they were; finally, even, drifting back into dreams.

The day, when it came at last, dawned without colour. The sounds faded as the visible patches of sky revealed themselves in heavy greys. It must have been raining overhead, but not a drop pierced the canopy. Without the sun to guide him, Embor did not know in the this maze of trees which way would take them back west towards the mouths of the river, so they passed the morning where they were, sharing a square of lembas between them and quenching their thirst from the stream. He had been relieved to wake and see the waters here ran swift and clear.

The night’s fear was soon forgotten. But they must move before the day was up. Embor did not trust that whatever, or whoever, lurked among the branches would be content to simply watch if they lingered a second night.

“Will we be there soon?” Elros asked, in that way of children who lack for entertainment. He was sitting on the muddy bank tossing stones into the stream.

“No,” Elrond answered. “Remember how long it took to get here?”

Elros groaned and beat his heels against the sodden bank. Despite Embor’s best efforts to counsel against it, the child had removed his boots, complaining of blisters.

“Well, we do not have to go all the way back,” said Elrond. “Not if Nelpen finds us.”

“No!” Elros cried, his soft brows bunching furiously over his nose. “We are going home. Mother is there!”

How many times had Embor listened to Gwereth explain, with quavering voice, that Elwing was gone? But every day Elros needed to hear the words again: she is gone. She died. Yes, she may return, one day. We do not know. Her fate could be that of Men, or that of Elves. But no elves who died in Beleriand have returned. “Lúthien returned,” Elros had said, to which Gwereth had sadly conceded, “Yes, Lúthien returned.”

This time, Elrond saved Embor from the burden of explaining. When they did not want Embor to understand them, they spoke in Quenya, the language of their father. But it was simple enough for Embor to understand this time: “Mama is gone, Elero.”

Elros’ pout deepened; he swallowed the tears rising to his eyes, at which Embor was both relieved and saddened. A child as young as he should have no need to hold his tears. Grief should not be locked away — in his heart Embor knew that. And yet, if all who lived in these times let sorrow flow freely, all the lands would flood with despair.

“I am sorry,” Embor said. “It is not easy to lose a mother, but you will find others who care for you.”

“How did your mother die?” Elrond asked suddenly. It was not unusual in Sirion to have no family — their own mother’s parents had been slain, their father’s missing, Gwereth’s dead by the sword and by disease. But Embor had only ever spoken of his father’s heroic death in the Battle of Tears, guarding the retreat of a remnant of their people; how by this deed he had allowed Embor’s grandfather to escape, to come to him, then an infant, hiding behind Himring’s walls with his mother, and flee with them before that mighty fortress fell into the hands of Morgoth’s lieutenants.

He had elided the tale of how they came to Dor-lómin, mingled with the traitors (“For,” his grandfather had said, when Embor was older, “if the choice is between my belief in what is right, an insubstantial thing, and the survival of my family, I will always choose my family.”).

Though the years in Sirion, pasturing the horses and tending the orchards, had erased those memories, now, with Elrond and Elros in his care, the fear was roused from sleep, tingling in his bones, and he grieved for their similar fates.

“She fell ill,” Embor said, not entirely a lie. For all the abuses her body underwent at the hands of Brodda’s favoured lords, it was his mother’s mind that broke at the last. Embor often wondered if she had suffered her torment only long enough to see him become strong enough, as she thought, to stand a chance of surviving on his own.

He had survived. He had done so by lying, like all his people did, feigning loyalty while his heart sickened with guilt. But he had to stay alive, he had to stay free, if he was ever to avenge her. He never had the chance: the son of Húrin, wild with rage, had robbed him of his revenge, and in shame and anger Embor had turned to flight once more.

It was too late to save Elrond and Elros from the pain of their loss and the memories of a childhood in flight; but it was not too late to give them the chance he had not had. They deserved to avenge their mother.

The sun never showed that day, but there was little choice but to move on. Embor led the children downstream, for eventually all rivers must lead to the sea. Nor could he risk straying too far from drinking water, even if it made them easier to follow.

They walked in silence, attention on the task of navigating the slanting, uneven terrain. As the land began to level out some, Elrond asked: “Will Uncle Círdan be there?”

If only Embor could be certain they would emerge anywhere near the Bay of Balar, or find passage to the island — if they ever found the edges of this vast forest.

“That is my hope,” he answered.

The next inquiry came from Elros, the wheels of his young mind turning. “Do you know how to sail?”

Embor laughed. “I do, well enough.”

“We can help,” Elros said, quite serious. “Papa taught us all about boats.”

“Did he? Then I have no doubt we will make safe passage, with two crewmen trained by the most famous mariner of our Age.”

“Círdan, too,” Elrond chimed in. “He taught us, too.”

An ember of hope flickered awake in Embor’s heart, and for the first time he was able to envision a future in which his mission succeeded. They would come to Balar and King Ereinion would welcome his young kinsmen. Embor would redeem the failings of his youth, and prove that not all the hearts of the Eastmen were black. He would age and pass on in peace, knowing that by delivering the sons of Eärendil to safety he had given the remnant of the Free Peoples the best chance they had at survival. He had brought them hope.

They enjoyed an evening repast of salted deer meat, and Embor even risked a small fire to boil some wild carrots. The warm food cheered them all, and the twins chattered past sundown about what they recalled of Balar.

“It is rocky,” Elrond said. “With many silvery fish in the waters.”

“And seals,” Elros added.

“I lost my tooth at Círdan’s house, do you remember?” Elrond gaped, showing the space where a new tooth was breaking through his gums.

Elros pinched his own teeth between fingers and thumb, wiggling, as if one would dislodge at any moment. He pouted.

“He put it on a bracelet,” Elrond mused. “Do you think it’s still there?”

“I don’t know,” said Elros with a tone of mild resentment.

As they spoke, Embor spread their wool blankets on the ground. “All right, boys. Time for bed."

“I don’t like sleeping on a slant,” Elros protested.

“Well, I am sorry, child, but there are no flat places near us.”

Elros squinted up at the canopy. “You could build us a platform in the trees like you did in your pear tree.”

“It takes more than an evening to build a tree house,” said Embor, though the fear stirring to life at the coming darkness made him wish they could take refuge above ground. Yet, even were there time and materials, Embor no longer possessed the vigour and strength to saw and haul several dozen boards up into a tree.

The twins accepted their fate and curled close to each other on the ground. They were asleep in minutes; Embor lay beside them with one arm draped across them both. No blanket cushioned his rest or protected him from the damp cold, which was for the best. He could not risk sleeping too deeply.

It was utterly dark when he shot awake. He blinked furiously to be sure he was awake at all. The same cry that had woken him the night before came down like a rain of glass from the treetops. It was then he realised he was alone. The children were gone.

“Elrond!” he cried. “Elros!”

A cry, again, dissolving into a sob, high above. Embor could just make out the words, “Run, run!” before he was surrounded.

Now he could see them: paired pinpricks of jaundiced light surrounding him, growing bright, drawing closer. Embor drew his knife and hurled a wordless shout at the beasts whose growls he could hear but whose size or strength he could not see. One of them hissed, and a flash like two long white knives appeared in the darkness. Teeth.

Embor had seen carven images of the giant cats that roamed the great forests of the east and south in packs. He had seen with his own eyes solitary mountain lions far off on the craggy slopes of Ered Luin, and wandering the wilds about Hithlum. He had never faced one. Though trained for warfare from childhood, the only beasts Embor had fought and killed were other Men.

One of the creatures lunged at him: its claws pierced through his clothing and into his flesh; the force of the attack threw him against the bole of tree where Elrond and Elros had retreated. They would not be safe for long. These were no wolves; cats could climb. They would dispatch him and claw their way up to claim their smaller prey.

Would this be the end? After surviving the near-eradication of his people, after all his forebears had sacrificed for him, would he die alone in the dark in the maw of a cat? No, not alone — Elrond and Elros were with him, and he would die protecting them. So Felagund had done for Beren, and Lúthien had come for him.

He prayed that her descendants would be saved by a like miracle, and with a great shout, he lunged at the animals, fate guiding his knife to soft, furred flesh. The creature gave a great yowl and thrashed against the ground, nearly taking Embor with him. Embor struck again, but he was not so fortunate the second time. His weapon found nothing but empty air, and then he was dragged down by great paws upon his shoulders. But there were no claws this time: once it had him down, the cat batted at him almost playfully.

He stabbed again, finding the animal’s flank; then the claws were out, razors across his face. He was rolled onto his stomach, and the weight of a second cat bore down on his back, pressing the air from his lungs. His teeth clattered against a rock. Blood filled his mouth, gurgling in his throat as he gasped for air. He felt the creature’s breath on his neck, the damp scrape of its teeth to either side. It could have killed him easily — but that did not seem to be its intent.

The silent woods were anything but: his heart beat between his ears, the animals hissed and yowled, and through it, the faint cries of Elrond and Elros. One cat’s enormous jaw clamped around his arm, teeth like the the bars of a cage, and Embor was being dragged through the dirt, down the muddy bank. He was thrown into the water, and his wounds stung at its icy touch. What foolish courage had led him to fight? He should have run, as the children had urged him.

He was dragged and dragged, limbs and back and skull banging against rocks. How far would they take him? How long until he lost awareness? The pain was everywhere, and yet his spirit clung to life.

Sometime later — minutes, likely, though it seemed like hours — the cats came to a stop and fell silent. There was light, Embor perceived through swollen lids. But from where? He groped in the mud: the water itself was glowing. Was he dying? Was it the music and light of Allfather welcoming him home?

Before he sunk into oblivion, Embor noted two things: the white face of a cub starting at him from beneath the legs of his parent; and then, the cats suddenly scattering, retreating up the bank, as if in great fear.

Embor hoped for death ere he was found by whatever foe was fearsome enough to drive away his savage hunters.

The final, triumphant note was lost in a roar of water. The creek running through their camp stirred awake, tumbling between the tall grasses and taking up the song. Gasps and cries of wonder joined with the trill of birds, leaping into the sky in fright, then soaring in joy through spears of sunlight breaking through the clouds.

Dornil, too, felt lighter than she had in years, as she raced barefoot across the muddy ground. How long had she been asleep? Last she remembered, Maglor had been in her tent, wracked with sobs, while Dornil stood by uneasily. At last he had succumbed to sleep, and she had drawn a coverlet over him and gone to sit on her bedroll.

Then she had been woken by a swell of song, such as she had not heard from her lord since their wars with Morgoth. A different sort of music than the terror he sang at Doriath and Sirion — a music that was full and bright and stung the heart with hope.

But there was nothing hopeful about the way she found her lord, kneeling in a swirl of mud, doubled over so that the water caught strands of his hair in its onrush.

She fell to the ground beside him. “My lord, are you well?”

Maglor groaned; his head swayed, limp between his shoulder blades.

Dornil squinted at the sudden brightness of the sunlight caught in the ripples of water. A warm breeze out of the west fluttered the grasses, and they tickled the soles of Dornil’s feet. She laughed.

“Macalaurë!” she said, and rested her hand on his back. “You have done it! You have swept away the foul poison. My lord! You have defeated him!” If Maglor could yet stand against the malice of Morgoth, perhaps they were not forsaken. It was a glimmer only, but it was hope.

“Nornawen,” Maglor mumbled. “I must rest. Please, leave me. Let me be.”

As swiftly as it had arisen, Dornil’s joy plummeted into the pit of her belly. “No, my lord, no,” she said, looping her arms around his bent torso. “You are not well. I will not leave you.”

“Please,” Maglor protested weakly, but his limbs fell into place in her arms. “I was too late. Too late. Go find them, find them.” Straining, Dornil stood. Maglor hung over her shoulder. “No, leave them. Go to my Maitimo. Tell him…”

“Quiet now.” Dornil planted her feet and hoisted him over her shoulder. “You are not speaking straight. You need food and water. And rest.”

As she carried Maglor to his tent, Dornil kept her eyes ahead. She wished there was a way to avoid passing through the crowd of people, some now stirring from feverish dreams as loved ones set cups of clear water to their lips. They ought to be weeping with relief, crying out their gratitude. But they were silent, and when Dornil glimpsed the face of a Sinda elf cross-legged on the ground, he frowned and looked away. How dare they! Maglor had put forth all his power to save them!

Reaching the entrance of his tent, Dornil brushed past the guard. She dropped Maglor onto his bedroll as gently as she could, but he landed with a thud. He groaned and slapped a hand across his eyes.

“You did it,” Dornil said. His aide rushed in with a jug of clean water, which Dornil took then waved him off. She set a cup of water to his mouth.

“No.” Maglor shook his head, causing the water to dribble down his chin. “I was too late.” When Dornil was silent, he opened his eyes to look at her. His lids were swollen and pink, and the silvery glint of his irises was dim. “Don’t you see? I failed them, for I did not do it sooner.”

Dornil pushed a breath through her nose. “No, that is not true. You did not fail.”

“All those people… so many children… need not have died. Gwereth need not have fallen ill, Elrond and Elros might have remained with us.” He reached for Dornil’s forearm and gripped it tight. “We need to find them, sister. The forest isn’t safe, you know this. Curse that faithless Easterling!” Maglor’s head fell back and he laughed; at what, Dornil cold only guess. “I know not what he means to do with them. Perhaps he is well-meaning. I did not like him, but he seemed an honest man — did he not? But we have been wrong about that before, haven’t we? No matter. They will not make it. We must find them.”

“We will,” Dornil said, and did not believe it. How could they, in that terrible wood full of voices? They were likelier to run mad in the attempt. The sons of Eärendil and the man who had stolen them were almost certainly lost in its dark mazes, if not killed already.

“Go to their nurse,” Maglor bid her. “Gwereth — see that she is cared for. She will be ill-pleased to wake and see them gone.”

“What of you?”

“I will recover. You were right when you said I was not speaking straight. Thank you, sister, for your faith in me.” He gave her a thin smile. “Go now, I will be fine.”

Reluctantly, Dornil left him.

Gwereth sputtered, gasping awake at the trickle of water over her lips. She coughed and her stomach turned. She was no longer in the carriage, for whatever she lay upon was warm and firm but not hard, not pressing into her bones like the wooden bench she had grown so used to.

Her eyes still closed, she stretched an arm out. “Elros,” she said. “Little star, are you there?” No, no, of course not: she had sent him away. With his brother, and Embor, back to the Havens.

“Be still,” said a voice, then, “you need more water.” The mouth of a waterskin touched Gwereth’s lips and, now awake, her thirst overpowered all else; she greedily drank it down in great gulps.

When she lay her head back, she realised it was no cushion but a body supporting her. At last she opened her eyes. It was that wretched elf-woman, Maglor’s pitiless commander. With what strength she had, Gwereth twisted, trying to free herself from the woman’s grasp.

“Let me go,” she said, but was far too weak to do more than flail her arms in protest. “You should have let me die.”

Dornil laughed mirthlessly. “Let you die? My lord has put forth all his power to save you and your kind from death and this is how you thank us?”

“What?” Gwereth asked, resentment giving way to genuine confusion. “What happened?”

“That is what I came to ask you. What have you done with my lord’s wards? Where are Elrond and Elros?”

Gwereth grimaced, wishing she had the strength to curse, to fight, but she could do no more than groan. Her head lolled to the side and her eyes fell shut.

Dornil made a noise of disgust. “You are fortunate Maglor is so merciful. You ought to have been left to die for conspiring in their escape.”

“They are not your wards! No one consented to your taking them!” Gwereth protested, her voice shaking with the effort. “Was it not said that we were free to depart your host if we so desired?”

“You know well that Lord Maedhros did not include you and your charges when he made that promise. Do you think they will be safe out in the wilds? Where will they go? They will die, if they are not dead already.”

Gwereth spat at Dornil’s face, a pitiful thing that dribbled down her own chin. Her words died in her throat; worthless words. Her ribs closed around her heart and she began to shake. Dornil was right. She had sent them to their deaths. Her face twisted, her breaths hitched and grew ragged; her eyes were too dry to shed tears, but still she wept.

Through her trembling she made out the shaky image of the elf-woman and almost her face seemed to soften; almost she seemed to show concern. Not wanting to see what could not possibly be there, Gwereth curled away from her where she could see only the blur of sodden grass. The elf-woman clasped her tighter to her body; not tenderly, but not cruelly either.

As she exhausted the storm of her regret and succumbed to sleep, Gwereth was forced to accept that Dornil’s heart was not all stone. A heart of stone would not have stayed with her through her pain; a heart of stone would have been closed to the pull to help that persists for as long as even an ounce of goodness remains in a person’s soul.

With the clarity of a mind half-waking, Gwereth realised how slack she had allowed that pull to fall in herself.

“Let me go after them,” Gwereth pleaded. “What use am I to you now?”

Dornil shook her head. “What use would you to be us on our search? Of course we are going after them. They are valuable —” she raised her hand, knowing a bitter retort was preparing behind Gwereth’s teeth. “I speak only the truth of the matter. But even were it not so, my lord’s heart is gentle. But you will journey onwards towards Amon Ereb. The whole host cannot afford to tarry.”

Gwereth frowned but could not speak against her. Beside these elf-warriors, and weakened as she was, she was of little use. “You will join the search?” she asked.

“Aye,” Dornil answered. “If I can speak sense into Maglor.” She grimaced. “I should not have said that.”

“Why do you serve him?” Gwereth asked. “It seems your heart seldom agrees with his.”

Dornil’s head snapped in her direction. “Why do you say that? Have I ever disobeyed any command he has given me?”

“No, not that I have seen, but—”

“Good. Loyalty is not about agreeing with your leader’s every belief. It is following him even when you do not, because you must be there to save him when his judgement leads him into danger.”

This made little sense to Gwereth, whose mind had always been the mirror of her lady’s. It had never occurred to her to question Elwing, for Elwing was her guiding light. She knew no path without Elwing to show the way.

“If he chose to die, would you follow him even then?”

“I would,” said Dornil. “But death is a not a choice that our kind can make.”

“My lady chose it,” Gwereth whispered.

“And she was no one’s kind but her own.”

“No,” said Gwereth. “None but her children.”

Not for the first time, she wished she had followed Elwing in the leap of faith that Gwereth had been too afraid to take.

“Gwereth,” said Dornil, “we will find them.”

Chapter End Notes

Embor and the ‘Allfather’ (a translation of Ilúvatar used by Tolkien) — I expect the Easterlings had their own beliefs, but Embor has been converted to Eldarin ways.

Elero — A short form (made up by me) of Elerosse and Elerondo, the Quenya forms of Elros and Elrond, and probably not a correct nickname formation because it breaks up the middle of two different words (rosse and rondo) but also they’re trilingual six-year-olds, so.

“the son of Húrin, wild with rage, had robbed him of his revenge” — referring to the time Túrin returned to Dor-lómin and killed Brodda in his halls without a thought for the consequences, in true Túrin style.

Monster cats — It pained me, a devout cat person, to pay homage to the tradition of Tevildo & Company in this way. I just respect Tolkien’s vision <i>that much</i>.<hr />

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