Chapter Text
Elrond reread the message on the small slip of paper and knew he had no time to waste. It was in Maglor’s handwriting. Maglor’s.
He had returned to his cramped tent just a few moments earlier, yearning for an undisturbed nap after a lengthy daytime shift at the infirmary. He’d scarcely believed his own eyes when discovering the folded note resting atop a pile of half-read anatomy books.
Out of nowhere, the past had come calling. Two years had passed without so much as a word, but now, at last, Elrond’s father was reaching out to him.
Abandoning all thoughts of rest, Elrond swung a cloak around his shoulders, breathed in deep, and hurried back outside.
These days, the High King’s war camp was ever bustling with activity and noise. The army had been growing immensely lately. New bands of elves and small tribes of Edain joined with them almost every month, and as a result, they moved slower than ever. They had dwelled in this area since before Elrond’s birthday, which was more than two weeks ago, so Elrond had come to be well acquainted with the camp’s layout.
Around him, uniformed soldiers made their rounds in pairs, their armor glittering in the dwindling afternoon sunlight. Vendors were closing their last deals of the day, trading vegetables for furs or chicken eggs for gritty brown bars of soap. Young children ran errands, maneuvering swiftly in and out of crowds and taking shortcuts between the many tents.
Elrond headed straight for the settlements of the mortal men, keeping a brisk pace, overhearing bits and pieces of conversations as he made his way.
“I tell you, the holy Herald Eonwë himself….”
“Freshly smoked sausages!”
“... those folks might cause the King more trouble than they’re worth, mark you my...”
A farrier hammered away as he shooed a horse. A small girl shepherded a flock of bleating long-haired goats across the path. On a corner, a lutist sang in praise of Valinor’s armies.
Elrond thought only of his discovery, of the plan he was beginning to form. His head lingered far up in the clouds till he reached the training grounds at the center of camp. There, he stopped in his tracks, hesitating. Out of the corner of his eye, he could spot the familiar figure of the High King. Tall and broad-chested, King Gil-galad held a longspear in his hand, sparring intently with one of his blue-clad personal guards.
A small crowd of spectators had gathered around the King: the remainder of his guardsmen, a few of his officers, some younger elven spearmen eager to learn from the King's tactics. Elrond swallowed. Any other day, he would have gone to ask if he might join Erenion in his drills, or at the very least, stop by to greet his friend and observe for a bit.
The two of them had grown close throughout Elrond’s time in the army. Far too close, Elrond had been telling himself lately. Erenion knew all about Elrond’s studies, how he rarely saw eye to eye with the master of healers, how his fellow apprentices made plans without him. He knew how some in camp, even now, after two whole years, whispered about Elrond's past, his reappearance, his true allegiances, and how Elrond did his best to ignore those whispers.
Erenion remained the only one to know all that had taken place between Elrond and Elros two weeks before. He'd been the one to comfort Elrond in his first forceful shock and hurt. The persistent anger that had come afterward, Erenion had mostly rejected. Though his sympathy was evident, he suggested to no end that Elrond swallow his bitterness and seek his brother out.
While he hadn’t exactly listened, Elrond appreciated the attempt at advice for what it was.
The confidence didn’t just go one way. Erenion had shared a few of his own personal matters with Elrond, trusting him to help with important matters, to guard his secrets. For the most part, the two of them had come to rely on one another, and Elrond liked it perfectly well that way.
This, Elrond thought with a raw stab of guilt, was something else, an exception. The king hearing any news of Maglor would only bring danger upon them all.
Figuring it might be better to avoid Erenion altogether, Elrond turned left, opting for a different path across the encampment. Their friendship might have been built on half-truths and omissions, but Elrond didn’t think he’d be very good at lying about his plans to his best companion’s face, the face of his King.
Elrond could recall their very first conversation as clearly as had it been yesterday. It had been more of an interrogation, in fact.
He and Elros had approached the High King's army on horseback on an overcast spring afternoon, two years ago almost to the day. Soldiers in King Gil-galad’s service had been swift to apprehend them, understandably wary of any and all outsiders.
Safe to say those watchmen had been astonished by what the twins had proceeded to reveal.
Although everything had gone according to plan, Elrond hadn’t been able to suppress his alarm as the soldiers tied his and Elros’ hands behind their backs. The guards had walked them past rows and rows of colorful tents into the very midst of the encampment. Elrond's eyes had grown progressively wider as he surveyed their new surroundings. He didn't remember ever seeing such flocks of people before in his life. He'd had no idea so many elves of Beleriand remained alive.
There were mortal men, too, and hounds and warhorses and livestock, all seemingly living together in close quarters. The noise and smell of it all were nearly overwhelming. At times, the guards had had to push the twins through the crowds of strangers, yelling to disperse them. Elrond's throat remained dry, his breathing uneasy.
Countless curious eyes, elvish and mannish alike, followed him and Elros, getting the measure of them. Prisoners were seemingly a rare sight. Around the twins, a chorus of gossipy speculation surged and fell.
“Trespassers?”
“Spies!”
"I can't see anything from h—"
“Twins? Eärendil’s sons? The ones who… No, surely they would be younger.”
“You cannot mean the half-elven princes? The scions of Luthien?”
The commotion reached its height when, at last, the crowds began parting. Gazing around, Elrond realized the masses were making way for two approaching eleven lords, followed by a retinue of courtiers and attendants. Elrond stretched his neck to catch a glimpse of the people arriving, but their silhouettes were obscured by ranks of blue-clad guardsmen in close formation.
Still, it made no difference. Though he had never laid eyes on either of the people before, Elrond knew exactly who had come to see him and Elros.
The guard behind Elrond gave him a hard shove forward, making him kneel on the ground. Beside him, Elros followed suit. Elrond stiffened in this awkward position, feeling the cold dirt beneath his knee and the coarse rope tearing at the skin on his wrists. Bracing himself, he looked straight ahead as the guards shifted and the two lords came into view.
The one on the left was a sharp-eyed elf with a silvery beard and long grey grey-green robes. Elrond was unsurprised when a herald loudly declared him to be Lord Círdan of the Falathrim. A warrior, a shipwright, and a loremaster, Elrond remembered. According to Maglor's warnings, this one was learned and quick of mind as few. Elrond reminded himself to be careful, to watch what he said.
The elf beside Lord Círdan was, of course, Erenion Gil-galad, High King of the Ñoldor in Middle-earth.
Back then, the King had stood nearly a head taller than Elrond. His burnished plate and mail made it seem as if the King had come to them directly from battle preparations. He wore no crown or circlet to indicate his status, just the armor and a heavy ermine-lined cloak. His hair was long and honey-blonde. A few strands of it were braided back at his temple, the rest fell in waves past his shoulders. One of his wrists rested lightly on the hilt of the sword at his side.
For an instant, Elrond noticed, the High King beheld the two captives in front of him, their identical faces, with a look of utter disbelief. His blue eyes were agape, his lips parted, a small furrow appeared between his brows. A vulnerable expression, Elrond thought, ill-fitting on the face of a King.
Then, perhaps remembering himself, King Gil-galad replaced his shock with a guarded thoughtfulness.
"High King Gil-galad," Elros tried. "I am Elros, son of Eärendil."
"And I am Elrond, son of Eärendil," Elrond echoed, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
Still watching them, the King nodded his head. Then he turned slightly, giving the nearest of his guardsmen an order.
At once, the ranks of guards moved to disperse the entire crowd around them. Slowly and reluctantly, the droves of onlookers turned on their heels and went back to their daily doings. That left only the twins, the High King, Lord Círdan, and perhaps a dozen guards or so. Elrond felt a gush of fresh gratitude. It was further cemented when one of the guards came to free his and Elros’ hands, letting both of them stand up.
Lord Círdan had urged them to speak freely. Elros had done most of the talking, giving Lord Círdan and the King the shortest possible version of the events of the last many years. He was a good speaker, Elros; you could hardly even hear the shaking in his voice. At his side, Elrond nodded and added the occasional clarification. The King and Círdan had been unnervingly quiet all the while. As if they were simply waiting for Elrond or Elros to slip up and reveal something. When the King finally nodded and called for the twins to undergo the rest of the questioning without the other present, Elrond had no clue if that was a good or a bad sign.
All the same, they'd had little choice in the matter. Just as they were escorted onward in opposite directions, Elrond had managed to catch his brother's eyes. Fleetingly, they exchanged a frightened, purposeful look.
The High King and two guards escorted Elrond around a corner and inside one of the larger tents. “Leave us,” Gil-galad ordered, and his men obeyed at once.
They were in the King’s personal pavilion, Elrond realized, looking around. The place was spacious, costly adorned, and not entirely tidy. Lived in. The ornate chest of weapons stood slightly ajar, the embroidered bedspread creased slightly at the corners, and a few unlit candles and an empty teacup rested on the desk.
“Take a seat.”
Elrond did as he was told. He sat down and did his utmost not to stare, not at any of the High King’s belongings, not at the King himself as he breathed in, shed his cloak, threw it across the back of his chair, and sat down opposite Elrond.
“Boy-king,” was how Maglor and Maedhros had often referred to him, dismissively and not without derision. To Elrond, it didn’t remotely ring true.
Throughout the war, Elrond knew, the Enemy’s forces had murdered their way through the Ñoldor's royal house, leaving a line of inheritance consisting mostly of dispossessed kinslayers and a few female heirs. Eventually, the crown had gone to Erenion Gil-galad, who had barely been of age at the time and whose royal lineage was known by most to be obscure at best and dubious at worst.
Elrond found himself thinking that the Ñoldor might have made an astoundingly good call on that one. All traces of uncertainty had long left Gil-galad's face. Seemingly without effort, the King radiated competence, dauntlessness. Elrond felt like a child, felt like a beggar in comparison.
He badly missed Elros’ presence. The two of them might have been orphaned, destitute fugitives, but at least they were in accord, each other’s mirror images. They had the same half-gown frames and light grey eyes, the same worn and dirty traveling clothes, the same long plaits, day-old and frayed at the edges.
Inwardly, he prayed that Lord Círdan would be kind to Elros, treat him justly. He prayed that he and Elros would not end up accidentally contradicting one another. The slightest mishap might make these intimidating new people even more suspicious of them.
Somehow, Elrond had gone and forgotten how it felt to be a prisoner. He hadn’t missed the pressure on his chest, the fear coiling in his gut. The watchmen had taken away his sword, his hunting bow, and the knives he carried upon capturing him. Now Elrond yearned to have his weapons back, not out of any desire to use them, but simply to feel their cold metal through his clothes, to not be this defenseless.
“No,” he had told the king when asked, feeling awfully put on the spot. “No, sire. The Sons of Fëanor never harmed me or my brother.”
It had felt like confessing to a crime. He had made himself meet the king’s ice-blue gaze and used the most neutral language he could think of. “We grew up in their custody and under their protection, sire. They fed and clothed us. When their garrison fled the Amon Ereb fortress, they brought us with them and taught us how to live in the wilderness.”
The King had clenched his jaw, surveying Elrond. “What do you believe could have motivated them to do that for you and your brother, Eärendilion?”
“I don't believe I can speak to that, sire. I’m not sure the Sons of Fëanor would be able to pinpoint an exact reason either. Lord… Lord Maedhros and Lord Maglor, neither of them ever seemed particularly… stable, I suppose. Sometimes their minds appeared sound. Other times it was… less so. It... It could be quite unsettling. I would never claim to comprehend their motivations.”
Elrond lowered his gaze, staring down into Gil-galad’s oaken tabletop.
“I see,” Gil-galad said. Elrond truly couldn’t decide what to make of him, couldn’t decide whether to respect this new ruler or simply fear his imminent judgment.
He supposed the important thing was that the High King seemed willing to think the kinslayers mad and unbalanced, just as Maglor had predicted. Maglor had been the one suggesting this approach, sardonically assuring the twins that they could never blacken his reputation any more than he'd done himself. The plan made Elrond uncomfortable, nevertheless. This was misrepresenting his family, distorting something he loved into something much more twisted.
He felt as if he was simultaneously being unfair to Fëanor’s sons and to this King Gil-galad, who had done nothing to deserve this deception.
“I’m grateful to them, in my own way, for aiding us the way they did, but I'll always hold them accountable for everything else. Especially… Well, the little I remember of Sirion, of the massacre there… It will haunt me till the end of my days, sire.”
Gil-galad processed that. "Grateful, you say." The caution in his voice made Elrond fear he'd said the wrong thing.
"I understand the Sons of Fëanor willingly let you and your brother go. I have to ask, son of Eärendil, did they order you to journey here, to seek out me and mine?”
"No! I mean, Lord Maedhros… mentioned that this might be the place to go if we wanted a new start. Truly, sire, that's all Elros and I wish for. We both know we could never make it out there on our own."
Elrond raised his shoulders and whispered, "We just wanted to get away from them."
Gil-galad’s eyes softened slightly. “Have you truly been traveling with… with those people all these years?” Pity stained the king's voice. He sounded as if the fact disturbed and pained him.
“Yes, sire. We parted ways the day before yesterday. Two days’ ride east of here.”
Gil-galad’s brow furrowed, perhaps at the sheer recency of their split.
“Eärendilion, I think I need not tell you that anyone concealing the whereabouts or potential plans of the surviving Fëanorians would be guilty of the highest treason, not only toward my authority but against all of elvenkind, against Beleriand’s free peoples.”
“I don’t know where they went, sire. I don’t have the faintest idea of what they mean to do, and that’s assuming they even mean to do anything.”
That part had not been so far from the truth.
“If I possessed information akin to that, I would already have let you know, sire.”
That part had been a flat-out lie. Elrond would never have revealed anything that might lead to a violent confrontation, but he’d felt as if he had gotten away with the falsehood.
“They knew not to tell Elros or me anything vital. We were captives. They dragged us along, sure, but I don’t think they ever trusted us.”
Elrond tried to add dislike and insult to his voice and found that it appeared fairly easily. “They knew perfectly well that we never had much sympathy for the Fëanorian cause.”
“No,” Gil-galad’s empathy was resonant now. “You wouldn’t have.” The last of his suspicions seemed to be fading away.
“We thought you dead and gone, Elrond Eärendilion, and little as you might believe it, based on how I’ve received you, I am overjoyed to find that you and your brother live. I’m sorry we could not provide you with a warmer welcome, but I have a duty to protect my people from any who might threaten them.”
“We’re no threat to your people, sire,” Elrond insisted earnestly, pitch slightly higher than before. “I promise. We came here because we wish to contribute, to be of help.”
“Peace.” The King moved his hand in a small placating gesture. "I believe you."
For a long moment, Elrond could feel his gaze. When Gil-galad spoke again, his voice was gingerly. “I don’t know if you’re aware, Eärendilion, but I happen to know a thing or two about being an orphan.”
An abundance of rumors surrounded the High King’s parentage and eventual fostering by Lord Círdan. Elrond, who had never been much for gossip, simply nodded.
“Still,” Gil-galad continued. “I always had Círdan, and by the time I was your age, I had the broken shards of a splintered kingdom.” He'd paused. “What you’ve told me just now… I can’t imagine.” He had shaken his head in horror before once again looking Elrond in the eyes.
Elrond shifted in his seat. In truth, he had not said much, only made implications. It had felt false and cruel to hint at neglect and hardships that had never truly taken place, but it was working, just as Maglor had insisted it would.
It was vile but necessary.
“I’ll need to confer with Círdan, of course, and with my council, but know that you and Elros will be welcome among my people from this day on. You’ll be honored guests of my court, and I will do all that’s in my might to make the adjustment painless for you.”
Elrond was unable to hide his relief. “Thank you, sire!” He felt elated at the invitation and glad this charade of an interview might soon be at its closing. “You do us a great honor.”
The King’s lips quirked. “You are so very welcome. Now, is there anything else, anything at all, I might do for you, Eärendilion?”
He'd blurted out the very first thing he thought of. “You can just call me Elrond.”
Hearing that, the High King cracked a real smile, a handsome, almost boyish one. “Is that all?”
Nodding, Elrond returned the smile.
“Then you must call me Erenion. At least when we are in private.”
The High King - Erenion - had extended his hand.
Elrond had grasped it eagerly, and his new life had begun.
He had sworn fealty to Gil-galad the very next day, kneeling in borrowed robes in front of the whole assembled court, the ground unyielding beneath him.
Afterward, there had been a bustle of people. Elrond had shaken countless hands and learned countless names and titles. He'd received congratulations as well as odd, hostile looks. Even back then, Elros had been in the habit of disappearing. He'd been gone mere seconds after the ceremony finished up.
“He comes off a little restless, your brother,” King Gil-galad had remarked as he and Elrond made their way into the King's tent to mark the occasion.
“More than a little,” Elrond acknowledged, apologizing on his brother's behalf as he followed the King inside. “But I’d vouch for him a thousand times over.”
Their following conversation had touched on Elwing and Eärendil, Elrond’s lost mother and father, whom the King had been acquainted with in times past. An unavoidable, if painful topic. Thankfully, the King quickly picked up on Elrond’s thinly veiled discomfort and changed the subject.
When prompted, Elrond had explained his wish to begin studying. “My formal schooling has been quite… fragmented, I suppose.”
“That’s true for all of us,” Erenion let him know with a shrug. It might have been pure politeness, but it had felt reassuring nevertheless.
Finally, the king had procured two small goblets and a carafe of some rich amber liquid. “You just pledged your life to me, Elrond. I believe treating you to a drink is the very least I can do.”
"If it pleases you, sire."
Then, clearly on second thought, the King looked Elrond over and asked him, “You’ve tasted alcohol before, have you not?”
“Obviously,” Elrond was swift to assure him, though that hadn’t been very often, in truth.
They both smiled at that. The candlelight played in Erenion's eyes as he raised his chalice to his lips. Elrond followed suit, downing the liquor, fragrant and spiced in his mouth, feeling how it made his heart race.
Their friendship had come along gradually. Every so often, when they could find the time in their gruelingly busy schedules, Elrond and the King trained or talked or labored on separate projects in comfortable silence. Before long, they’d made a serious dent in Erenion’s stocks of honeyed mead. A few months in, the king had even taken to asking for Elrond's opinion on occasion, praising his eye for detail, and showing him some of the ropes of government.
Erenion was entirely singular, the first-ever friend Elrond had made for himself.
That thought never failed to make him feel wretchedly conflicted; gloriously warm and sick with guilt at once. Elrond had lied to Erenion, conned him when the two of them first met. He’d let his deception go on ever since.
And now I’m even more of a traitor, Elrond thought, keeping his head down as he continued his route through the city of tents. In Erenion's eyes, in the eyes of our people. No amount of goodwill from the High King could excuse him from communicating with Maglor Fëanorion, not even to speak of sneaking out of the camp to meet with him.
Elrond knew it well, but he couldn’t make himself halt. The hope of seeing Maglor tonight made his heart soar in his chest and gave speed to his feet. Though he’d attempted not to, he'd missed Maglor so damnably much these last two years.
Erenion could never possibly understand that. Only one person could, Elrond knew.
At the distant end of the path, Elrond singled out his brother’s tent. Just earlier that day, the prospect of approaching Elros had seemed like an insurmountable obstacle, one full of tears and accusations. In the light of Maglor’s message, everything looked different. Elros wouldn’t want to miss this for the world.
If Maglor’s call couldn’t bring the two of them together once again, nothing could.