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Chapter Text

-587-

In a large camp upon the western reaches of the Anfauglith

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It was full dark, two days after Morgoth had surrendered, that Elros heard the scuffling.

Soft noises were coming from an unremarkable tent, stilted like a whispered conversation rather than cathartic tears or celebratory sex. The tent had been dark, too, but suddenly a flash of light illuminated the interior enough to force a faint glow through the canvas.

Had it been the yellow-orange of a lantern or the purple of a Fëanorian lamp, Elros would have continued walking. But the color was a soft green-blue that sent him reeling: a light which he had seen first as a babe hearing cradle-song.

He’d seen it again since, of course, as Eärendil wouldn’t stop wearing the damn thing around, but he couldn’t have forgotten it anyway. Mastercrafts they might have been, but the Silmarils wouldn’t stop throwing his brain for a twist.

This was the tent, then; the mystery location in which Eönwë had left the jewels for safekeeping. Was it the guards, or could it be possible that someone was stealing them? Would anyone be that stupid?

He crept over to the tent flaps on light feet and lifted the edge of the canvas the tiniest bit, peering inside. Someone was crouched, moving in front of the stones, and for a moment he was blinded as their shoulder shifted away and the glare hit his eyes.

He blinked furiously, releasing the flap in surprise, and then stood where he was and listened instead.

“Stupid fucking rocks,” a voice said. It sounded odd, but in the moment he couldn’t put his finger on why.

Another person hushed them. “Just get them in the bag. What, is it burning you?”

“No – stop saying that – here, just put the other one in now. Ai, no, the glow’s coming through the bag…”

“Put your cloak over it, then.” There was some scuffling again, and then:

“It’s still too bright…?”

Elros palmed his dagger, crouching, and slowly pulled the flap back open just wide enough for him to sidle through. If the thieves were this stupid, he’d take them out here and save the slacking guards the trouble. Elrond would probably berate him for not calling for help, but if he left now he wouldn’t even know what the thieves looked like, and if they covered the stones well enough it was possible they’d never be found.

He crept over few feet of carpet to the closer figure’s back and raised his dagger to their neck. “Drop the stones,” he said, voice clear.

The thieves froze. The one further away from him spun around and took him in, hissing. “How-”

“You were making a racket,” Elros frowned, looking him over in turn. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but we just finished fighting a war over those things, so please put them down and back away.”

Realizing that Elros wasn’t truly about to knife his friend, the standing figure relaxed slightly. To his credit – or stupidity – he was not visibly armed, and he was wearing sandals instead of sturdy running footwear. “Please do not worry, milord. Lord Eönwë ordered us to-”

Elros snorted. “As if. I’ve never even seen your face,” he said dubiously, eyeing silver hair and heavy dark brows. “Lord Eönwë would not entrust the care of the Silmarils to an unknown officer. Who are you?”

He brought the dagger a little closer to the other’s one’s neck, patience growing short, and they both tensed.

“…if I tell you, will you move the knife?”

“No, but I will refrain from screaming my head off and drawing every officer within two hundred feet to this tent,” he said politely.

The free one gritted his teeth. “If you must know, we’re trying to find an acceptable compromise between the Feanorioni keeping it and the Valar making off with the lot,” he lied wildly. “Look, we’re not here to hurt anyone. Can you please get the knife away from my brother’s neck?”

It was hard to tell in the shadow, but it looked like he had a pleading expression on his face. Elros took a breath in surprise as he realized what had been bothering him about their speech. The free one had just said ‘brother’ the exact same way that he and Elrond always said it – the way that Maedhros and Maglor said it, stressing the end of the word instead of the middle in the way that born Ñoldorin Quenya speakers tended to. But these thieves had silver hair, and the free one’s features were as Sindarin as you could get.

He had a good ear for language; he might forget a face, but he would have remembered hearing this particular accent in the camps. Puzzled, he wavered; and in that instant the elf under the dagger twisted, throwing out his arm to deflect the knife and getting his feet under himself in a way that threw Elros off-balance. Elros stabbed the blade into the ground, aware that a knife fight in the dark was ultimately unwise, and went for the thief hand-to-hand.

It was a ridiculous bout, all things considered; the thieves had considerable reach on Elros and the free one instantly dove in to try to pull him off. They ended up in a tangle of limbs on the ground, Elros’ armor protecting and burdening him equally as he tried to get a hand in a useful position.

While he may not have had height on them, he did have bulk, and he shamelessly elbowed the nér behind him directly in the stomach and then used one of Maglor’s moves to twist and force the brother down to the carpet. With one hand on the back of his nape, Elros let threads of magic wind visibly up his fingers and turned to the winded thief, who was scrambling up.

“Try anything and I’ll knock him out,” Elros threatened. It was really only healing magic, but he knew that stories of Melian circulated amongst the soldiers, and that few of whom knew how to identify strains of power.

The one under him stiffened, no doubt feeling heat against his neck. To the side, the standing nér brought his hands up slowly, eyes wide. “You…”

Elros felt his ear twitch. “Back away,” he snapped.

“You’re Elwing’s kid,” the one in front of them said almost reverently. “Shit.”

“He what?” the brother wheezed, twisting.

Elros increased the pressure from his hand, digging his fingers in around elf’s spine. “I’m not letting you up until you promise to leave the stones here. And also that you won’t attack me again.” He’d been raised by oathtakers; promises meant something.

The standing one narrowed his eyes for a moment and then dropped his arms and sank to the ground. “Fine. I won’t come at you again, and neither will he. Anyway, you just fucked up my ankle, so we couldn’t grab them and run even if we wanted to.” He ran his hands over the limb carefully, prodding, and then shot him a look. “Let him go, will you?”

Elros waited a moment, unsure if he was lying, and then released the one beneath him, grabbed his knife, and quickly maneuvered so that he was between them and the little sack of Silmarils lying on the carpet in the middle of the tent.

The basket they’d taken the stones from was sitting innocuously a few feet further away, a red cloth laying halfway out of it.

“I’m not lying about my ankle,” the first one said dryly as the second levered himself up, staring.

Elros felt for a moment as if he had over-imbibed. The two néri looked nearly identical, save for hairstyles and clothing. The fast talker was dressed in dark colors and had looped his hair up, while Elros’ hostage was in light tones with a gaping neckline and his hair swept to the side across his face – and yet they both sported a pair of tiny moles above their right eyes. This was how everyone felt upon meeting Elrond after only knowing Elros, then!

He collected himself, weary, and realized they were whispering to each other.

“I see what you mean,” the one with fringe said softly. “The eyes…”

“Why are you hissing like that?” Ankles said in annoyance. “He can fucking well hear you either way.”

Elros groped for the bag and shoved it into the basket, clutching it to his side with one hand while he held out the knife again in his other. “I can, yes. Now, are you going to explain who you are and what you are doing here with any amount of honesty, or are you going to try and lie to me again?”

Ankles groaned.

“He wasn’t lying,” Fringe said, massaging the back of his neck gingerly as he crossed his legs into a sitting position. “Look, let us speak. Lay down the blade, alright? We really are here in an attempt to avert further conflict.”

Elros lowered the hand with the knife, though he kept a good grip on it. “Lord Eönwë did not send you.”

“No; you have the right of it. We came on our own. But-”

“Why would you think that two unknowns could solve what this entire encampment could not?" Elros interrupted brusquely. He was tired of squinting into the darkness and generally unsure of what to do; the faster this ended and he could kick them out of the inner circles, the better.

Ankles massaged his forehead with consternation and sighed. “We aren’t- do you know, we have actually fought together?”

“We haven’t,” Elros said with certainty.

“We haven’t,” echoed Fringe, gesturing between himself and Elros. “But my brother did fight in the second Battle of Barad Eithel, under Gil-Galad. He told me about seeing you.”

Ankles rolled his eyes. “Naturally, you remember that.”

Elros rubbed his nose. “And if I asked the king to confirm your positions…?”

Ankles shrugged. “I’m a singer with the Third Warders. He knows my face. Why do you think I even know where these are?” he drawled, pointing to the bag of Silmarils. Then he shook his head. “Look, let’s start over, since you did find us in a pretty incriminating position.”

Fringe snorted.

“Hello, nice to meet you. I’m Eluréd; this is Elurín,” he introduced. “I’m pretty sure that you’re Elros, given the-” he gestured to his chin, “-scar and all, so that makes us uncle and nephew. And as I said…we’re attempting to solve this clusterfuck of an ownership situation.”

Fringe made a face, but nodded along nonetheless.

Elros felt a headache brewing. “No, you aren’t,” he said shortly. “My uncles perished in the Second Kinslaying, and were they alive, they would hardly have been able to act as figures of compromise, given that one of the parties suing for ownership is those who perpetrated said Kinslaying.”

He stood up, clutching the bag close. “I will only ask once more. Who are you?”

Fringe slumped a little and then straightened up quickly, glaring at his brother. “No!”

“It would work, though,” Ankles said consideringly.

Elros narrowed his eyes, watching as Fringe glared. They were clearly communicating via ósanwe, and he was swiftly reaching his last nerve.

“Milord,” Fringe broke out, posture stiff and visible eye glinting in the soft glow from the bag, “this is perhaps not the best place to attempt to convince you of our identities. If you will not take us at our word – which I do understand! – then perhaps it will be amenable if we present ourselves before-”

“That’s exactly what we didn’t want to do!” hissed Ankles. “I am not prostrating myself before all and sundry and getting involved in that mess-”

Fringe stood, balling his hands into fists. “Yes, I know you’d prefer theft! You won this argument the first time. But clearly, we aren’t good thieves, and I can’t be sorry about it, because to steal the stones again compounds the sin-”

“Morgoth’s unhallowing cannot possibly be compared to a little light thievery,” Ankles retorted, crossing his arms. “It’s un-theft, anyway; the first party isn’t being compensated, but isn’t the enemy of my enemy my friend?”

They both paused and turned to look at the tent pole, seeming taken aback. After a moment, Fringe nodded and glared. “He’s right. We aren’t under an oath; it doesn’t compare.”

Ankles turned to Elros. “Celegorm would have just killed you, you know. All we want are the rocks. Can’t we be friendly about this? I really don’t want to have to talk to Lord Eönwë.”

Elros felt as if he were having a stroke. “What- are- you- talking about!?” he nearly shouted, feeling strangely as if he wanted to cry.

“Oh, why did you say it like that,” Fringe asked his brother despairingly. He reached out to Elros, but Elros stood up.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped. “You two are awful thieves, and I have no inclination to puzzle you out any further. And I am not letting you stay here!”

He pointed fiercely with the knife toward the flap from which he had entered. “Out!” he commanded. “I shall take you to someone else and make you their problem.”

Ankles grimaced.

“And don’t think that I won’t hold true to my word about yelling, earlier,” Elros promised, rucking the bag up under his arm.

Fringe sighed and bent down to hoist his brother up to his feet. “You need to learn when not to say the things on your mind; you’ve gotten us into this and undoubtedly now I will be the one to get us out,” he grumbled.

Ankles tried his weight and winced. “Fuck me. Definitely sprained.” He stood on one leg as Fringe went around him and bent down, and then he grabbed onto Fringe’s shoulders and hauled himself up onto his back, locking his legs around his hips.

Fringe let out a steadying breath.

“If you go quietly I may be convinced to heal you later,” Elros allowed begrudgingly, and as they finally trudged out of the tent he followed them.

He left the bag atop a crate, all too aware of the alarm ward that someone had set at the boundary of the tent.

The low building that he directed them to was ramshackle; only a few years old, and yet the wood it had been built with was weak and it had no real amenities to its name. He had never entered it himself, but it was familiar nonetheless.

He strode up and knocked on its door, pretending ease and ignoring the whispering going on behind him.

“Come in,” a tired voice called. “But what could it be, at this hour?”

He slid open the door and stepped to the side, gesturing jerkily for the thieves to escort themselves in. Fringe looked sheepish, but Ankles was more alert than he had been back in the little storage tent.

“Sorry to intrude so late,” Elros said, stepping in after them and sliding the door shut firmly. “I caught these idiots attempting to do something stupid, and dealing with it is above my pay grade.”

“What, so you brought them to our door?” Maglor said with a little smile that did not reach his eyes. He put down a roll of bandages and shifted so that he faced the door more fully, hiding a bloodied hand from view within his shawl. “Fair enough! Tell me; what rats has my kitten hunted?”

“If you didn’t call him that, he might visit you more often,” Maedhros grumbled from the corner, pulling a wet rag off of his face and levering himself up to a sitting position on the camp bed. “Hello, Elros.”

“Hello,” Elros returned shortly. He hadn’t seen either of them face-to-face in five years, and had been glad of it; he was in no hurry to reestablish camaraderie.

Fringe let Ankles down, pushing him over to a crate that sat closed nearby so that he could sit. Ankles thumped down on it and straightened, putting a foot on the ground and leaning on his bent knee. Instantly, he looked completely comfortable, and his insouciance made Elros simmer.

“So? What have they done?” Maglor asked casually as his eyes wandered over them. “No one is at death’s door, I trust?”

Elros already regretted his choice to bring them here, but he’d have to answer for it anyway if he let the brothers leave now. “I found them with the Silmarils,” he admitted, bracing himself for the response.

No, I will not say where they are, he immediately directed at Maglor, who had straightened. I left them there; we don’t have them with us. I should think you’d know if we did!

Maglor frowned, but Maedhros merely sighed and leaned back on the pile of fabric he was using as a pillow.

“You must know that meddling with the Silmarils is a fool’s errand,” Maglor said lowly. “What were you to do with them? Who sent you on this errand?”

“Only ourselves,” Fringe said quickly, “and we intended simply to provide a compromise – an acceptable solution to all parties. We have no mercenary wish to keep them for ourselves, I swear it.”

“I cannot believe it,” Maglor told him. “You will understand why! So explain yourselves, and Elros, if you please, I would like to know why you thought that we were the people to bring this to.”

Elros crossed his arms, leaning back. “Well, listen to what they told me.”

Fringe sighed, a mirror to Maedhros, and Ankles waved a hand to take over the conversation. “He doesn’t believe us, you see! But I am Eluréd, and my brother here is Elurín. You’ve seen our parents; surely you can admit the resemblance?”

He rolled his shoulders and went on, heedless of any reaction. “I’ve been privy to some of the arguments around camp in the last few days, and the way I see it, you’re pitting yourselves against the Valar, and only one of you can come out of this with any satisfaction, or no one can. And wouldn’t it be a neat solution if someone came around who could claim the stones and satisfy both parties’ complaints? You want your oath fulfilled; Eönwë wants the Silmarils in any hands but yours. Do we not fit that bill?”

In the silence that followed, Elros caught Maglor’s eye and threw out his hands as if to say Do You See??

Ankles turned to Fringe. “Did I forget anything, pickypants?”

“Yes,” Fringe said tiredly.

Maglor leaned forward. “And how, exactly, would the circumstance of Dior’s children taking possession of the Silmarils fulfill our oath?” he asked with bright interest. “I am exceptionally curious to know, and particularly because I don’t believe its precise wording was ever circulated. What are your grounds? Have you a lawyer or sage?”

Fringe clasped his hands together. “Bear with me a moment, if you please. Assumption the first: the children of Dior are close relations of Fëanor. Assumption the second: Close relations of Fëanor – to the degree of parents, direct children, direct grandchildren, and perhaps full cousins – come under the aegis of ‘Fëanor’s kin.’ Assumption the third: the possession by ‘Fëanor’s kin’ of the Silmarils must suffice to fulfill your oath, given that Fëanor himself is dead and will not any more be coming amongst the living to possess them himself.”

“And following that: oath fulfilled? No more kinslayings,” Ankles declared. “Assumption the fourth.”

“Thank you,” Fringe told him dryly. “Lord Eönwë should also be satisfied, for we are one-quarter blood of the Maiar and subject in part to his own power. I would also point to the example of Lord Eärendil, who has been allowed to hold a Silmaril and towards whom Eönwë shows no signs of wanting to deprive him of the thing.”

He finished; and upon no sign of continuation from Ankles, a silence ensued.

Maedhros rose, bracing himself on his left hand, an uncertain expression on his face.

“Well,” Maglor in front of him said steadily, ears flicking, “I certainly cannot fault you for not having thought these assumptions out. But it remains-”

“How did you survive?” Maedhros asked softly, cutting his brother off as easily as if he had shouted. He was searching their faces, eyes flicking from silver hair to rounded ear-tips to the moles they’d inherited from Dior. He looked unmoored, gripping the bedframe as if it might dissolve from under him.

Maglor blinked in surprise and turned to him. “What, you believe it?”

Maedhros stared a moment longer and then sat back, tension leaching out of him. “They have King Dior in the face, if not Queen Nimloth,” he assented. “You cannot hear it?”

Maglor’s mouth thinned. “No. If anything, they sound like…” he shook his head. “No, I cannot find any resemblance. But if you see it…”

Elros stepped forward, around Fringe’s side. “You believe them?” he asked furiously. “Be sure that you are not clinging to a false hope!”

Maglor turned to him. “You brought them here,” he said mildly. “What were you hoping for, child of Elwing?”

Elros pressed his lips together and turned away. Somehow, Maglor always made him feel like a gawky adolescent fool.

Why had he brought these idiots to Maglor? What had possessed him?

“He still has hope!” Maedhros murmured to his brother. “We did not beat it out of him, it seems.”

Maglor snorted and turned back to the other two. “Well? Will you answer my brother, and then myself? How did you survive, if indeed you are the sons of Dior; and more importantly: how do you claim relation to our father?”

Fringe had been whispering to his brother again; he turned back to them and straightened. “Answering milord; the night that you and your brothers killed our parents, we were left deep in the woods by two soldiers who called each other Lindis and Ausir. I remember it very well. We nearly starved – nearly died,” he said, lifting a hand and brushing aside his fringe. Under it was grisly scarring and an empty socket. Elros drew a breath; that kind of wound could kill an adult, and Fringe – Elurín? –  had implied he received it as a young child.

“We learned to speak to the animals around us, the birds especially,” he continued. “They would bring us to their caches and to fresh water, and we learned to hunt for ourselves. We ran as far away as we could, after that; which was only Ossiriand, along the Legolin,” he added with a self-deprecating tone. “When the war began afull, my brother saw some of Gil-Galad’s people passing through and joined them. I came with.”

“You never attempted to contact your family?” Maglor asked with suspicion.

“We thought our sister was dead,” Ankles – Eluréd – said gruffly. “Didn’t hear otherwise until we were full grown and heard she’d had kids of her own and that you killed them, too. Forgive us for not reaching out, hmm?”

“Indeed,” Maedhros agreed, leaning back against Maglor’s desk.

“And the lord Galathil? Celeborn?” Maglor pushed. “Elmo? You have living relatives yet.”

“Again, we for a long time thought them dead,” Elurín responded. “And afterward… We do not have much interest in living amongst others. Perhaps one day we will make ourselves known to them.”

“What about us?” Elros asked suddenly. “You said your brother had fought with me. Neither of you have ever tried to introduce yourselves until I caught you in the dead of night at thievery; it seems to me you might never have made yourselves known, and that it is very convenient for you to suddenly have such an excuse when caught red-handed.”

Maglor, for all his annoying habits, for once did not suggest that he stop talking. He only tilted his head and looked to Elurín as if waiting for an answer.

“It is the truth. But…I suppose it is because we wouldn’t have come to you at all, unless pressed,” Elurín replied slowly. “We are…complicated, milord. I am not sure that knowing us would be a boon.”

“Relationships don’t have to be boons,” Elros said through gritted teeth. “Either you want to know us or you don’t, so just say it.”

“Now’s not a good time, pipsqueak, and that’s quite a large decision,” Eluréd cut in. “Ask us tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, when you’ll have run away before dawn touches the sky? No; you’ve shown your mettle!”

“Elros,” Maglor said quellingly, in that way he had where his voice was soft and yet muffled everything else. Elros tsked and carefully did not let his hands curl into fists.

“Tell me how the sons of Dior could possibly be the kin of Fëanor,” Maglor said to Elurín quietly. “Tell me that there is a way through.”

Elurín gave a brisk little nod, looking off into the space between Maglor and Elros quickly. “King Dior was not our father, but our mother. We were sired by Turkafinwë, son of Fëanáro, son of Finwë Ñoldoran,” he said in perfect Quenya. “This is why you hear him in our voices, Uncle.”

Chapter Text

Elros turned, dazed, and made his way over to a stool in the corner. He shoved off the fabric on it and sat down heavily, rubbing his face. “What in the void,” he whispered.

Elrond. Elrond, I know you’re mad, just come here. I’m with them. You need to be here, he told his brother. I don’t know what’s happening anymore.

In the middle of the room, Maglor was standing face-to-face with Elurín and arguing. To the side, Eluréd and Maedhros observed. Eluréd’s eyebrows had raised, and occasionally he glanced over at the looming form beyond Maglor. For Maedhros’ part, he looked more alive than Elros had seen in many a year.

I’m on my way, Elrond replied. And I am still mad at you. Should I bring the king?

No!

With the promise of his brother on his way, Elros refocused.

“What does the Oath recognize, then?” Elurín was asking intently. “Who can be considered kin? Does it not take the recognition of the three parties we have considered: ours, yours, and that of our people? What does it mean for one person to be bound to another?”

“It matters not! We cannot be blood-related,” Maglor insisted wildly. “If so-”

“If so, then neither were Fëanor and Fingolfin, and yet is it not said that they were full brothers in heart, and for that did Fingolfin not follow you into the wilds of our land?”

“They were related, actually,” Maedhros muttered as if knowing he would not be heard; and at the same time, Maglor spoke over him. “You are not my brother’s children!”

 “Are we not the scions of Elu Thingol, then; Elu brother to Olu of the Sea-Folk, father of Eärwen, wife of Finarfin?” Elurín interrupted. “Are we not the direct kin of Elwë, who spoke of Finwë as a brother? If all you wish for is the bond of ancestry, I think we are well and full of it.”

Maglor started to open his mouth.

 “No, wait! my accounting could be fuller still,” Elurín went on. “Are we not also the uncles of the children you have taken as your own?”

Maglor opened his mouth, closed it again, and then made a noise like a kettle hissing. Behind him, Maedhros laughed bleakly, and Maglor swung around and glared at him.

“Would it be worse,” Maedhros asked him, “if indeed the kin we slew were our own brother’s spouse and child?”

Maglor gaped. “They killed each other!” he yelled, bristling. “For all that we have done- for all that he did; you think that he could have killed anyone he loved? Do you think that Dior, child-king, star out of the Girdle, Lúthien’s jewel! – that he could have killed the father of his children? His daughter? My god, Nelyo!” he shook his head, disconsolate, and paced away.

Eluréd watched him wail for a moment and then leaned forward over his knee. “They weren’t married,” he provided. “And Celegorm did love him, and yet they did battle. He was insane.”

“I know that,” Maglor said bitterly, running his hands through his hair. “You think we are not the same?”

Elurín shook his head. “Not like him.”

Maglor turned to stare at him. “You are arguing with me over hearsay? His brother, who knew him best? What did you think would happen when Elros brought you to us?

“You think you are in good straits? You think the lords Eönwë and Earwendil would do worse?”

Maglor is threatening murder, Elros informed his brother with a profound sense of exhaustion.

What, again?

“Well, he says that you’re a self-obsessed ass,” Eluréd announced in an annoyed tone. “And that you should probably listen to us, because we’re the best chance you have of getting out of this alive and happy.”

Maglor goggled. “What- are- you- talking about?”

Maedhros put a hand on his shoulder and turned to them. “Please stop trying to get a rise out of him,” he admonished. “It will make no-one happy.”

Elurín looked abashed on his brother’s behalf, but Eluréd only turned toward him him and frowned. “Well, what do you want me to say, then?”

Elurín moved as if trying to hush him and then faced Maedhros and Maglor. “Look- when we were very young, and almost died,” he said quickly, “we truly were close to death, and yet found that we could not die. It was-”

“We were wraiths,” Eluréd said bluntly.  “Something about our heritage from Melian, we think.”

Elurín granted him this. “While we were in that state, we found that we could perceive the Houseless. Your brother had found us some time before and had been following us, mad though he was; but only once we were closer in form to him could we see and hear him.”

“He’s the one that taught us the language of the sparrows,” Eluréd added.

Their elders stared, aghast.

“Am I meant to take from this, and your behavior,” Maedhros said slowly, “that Celegorm is present with us here?”

“Not really his- well,” Eluréd stopped, scratching his head. “Not all of him? The Houseless are more like memories of a person. He’s here, but not here, you understand?”

Maglor whirled toward them. “You are telling me that the soul of my deceased brother is in front of me, but I cannot see it; and that to communicate, I must trust the word of two-!”

Maedhros had squeezed his shoulder, cutting him off. Maglor looked up over his shoulder at his brother and grunted, assenting with some difficulty.

“Well?” Eluréd challenged, sensing the whisper of a win.

Maedhros shook his head and closed his eyes. “Give us a moment.” Maglor’s expression went flat, signaling that they were conversing via ósanwe and did not want to be read so easily.

I am outside, Elrond said.

Oh, thank the Valar. 

Elros groaned, turning toward the entrance. “Elrond, come in!”

His twin slid the door open and stepped inside, pushing his long hair over his shoulder as he did so. He bowed perfunctorily to all and came to stand next to Elros.

“I apologize for interrupting,” he said politely, his gaze a little too sharp to be elven. “I am Elrond; I serve as the King’s herald. My brother thought that my assistance might be helpful.”

Elurín had turned to look at him, and behind him, Eluréd leaned back over the crate to make him out. “Hello,” he said, more cheerfully than Elros felt the situation warranted. “Come to rescue him?”

“Indeed,” Elrond agreed. “And you are?”

Elros grabbed his arm and with his other hand waved so that Eluréd wouldn’t get any ideas about responding. “No, I’m handling this. Let us have a minute too!”

Eluréd laughed, returning rudeness for rudeness, but Elros ignored him and spoke to his brother in the privacy of their own minds. He started to explain the situation and then realized it was a lost cause; it was easier to let Elrond fall into place in his mind and see it for himself.

Hmm, Elrond mused. This may be the solution that Ereinion was hoping for.

Elros expressed indignation.

Houseless or no, can we prove that they are not Celegorm’s children? Elrond asked sensibly. For whether they truly know a Fëanorian can be tested; I am sure that Maglor has questions to ask, and their answers will tell him the truth. But as to their degree of blood relation…? Míriel was kin to Olwë, but so too was Nimloth; either might have given the silver hair.

Maedhros says that they resemble Celegorm, Elros reminded him.

Yes, but could it not be wishful thinking? And do not forget what I have just said about Míriel and Nimloth.

I hardly want them to be our uncles!

Elrond pressed against him gently, mind-to-mind. They would not be the first to abandon us to our fate. If you alone remain-

-then I can yet be happy, Elros finished. I know.

They had been missed; Maglor sent them a look which Elros felt was unjustified given his own earlier behavior.

Maedhros looked grave. “If we accept the – granted, somewhat absurd – supposition that you are my brother’s sons, and also that you are the lost heirs of King Thingol, then the only matter lies in establishing that your possession of the Silmarils would indeed be amenable to every party, the oath we swore being foremost because of our inability to compromise regarding our intent in its swearing.

“We spoke of friend and foe, Maia and Elda; the race of the keeper mattered not. Our words allowed only for the kin of our father, and by my estimation, the children of his sons would do very well. We would not keep the Silmarils from Tyelpe, I warrant.”

“I would not test it,” Maglor muttered. “It has ever allowed us so little leeway. He did not swear it, and these two were not born yet to do so. Did we not consider only those who swore to be trusted?”

“Surely we could not have thought to exclude future kin, Káno.”

“Acceptance by virtue of omission from the excluded group,” Elrond muttered, tapping his chin. “Tenuous, but it could work.”

“You don’t know the wording of their oath,” Elros reminded him lowly. “What if it doesn’t?”

“The only–” Maglor broke off and coughed into a handkerchief, spotting the cloth red. He wiped his mouth, but a limning of crimson remained at the seam of his lips.

“The only reason that these boys are anything halfway to acceptable is because you have given up,” he spat at Maedhros. “That is not cleaving to our true intent. You think this will satisfy our oath?” He shook his head, tucking the dirty cloth back into his tunic. “I cannot- cannot imagine that it will.”

His voice was rough, and he did not resist as Maedhros pushed him down into his chair.

“He’s a mess,” Eluréd said to the twins. “Elros, could you not heal him?”

Elros threw him a disgusted look.

Elrond peered around his brother at Eluréd. “Do you not have power of your own?” Elros let him, but batted away the strands of hair that had tried to wrap around his arm.

“Eh,” Eluréd shrugged. “We can heal ourselves, well enough. I wouldn’t try it on anyone else.”

Elros exhaled through his teeth, recalling what they had just been told about wraith-states. “I am very tired, and Maglor is not dying.”

His cough is worse than it was yesterday, Elrond commented heavily. Maybe I will try again, later.

You’ve done enough for other people! Elros snapped, and immediately felt his brother put distance between their minds. Fine. I’ll shut up, then.

Maglor had his eyes closed and a hand over them. “I am very close to knocking all of you out and going to steal the bedamned things myself, no matter where it gets me,” he said miserably. “I only wish I could be amused that you think I could not trace their power on you back to Eönwë’s hiding-place!”

“We must try this, or something like it,” Maedhros said softly to him. “And if that is truly your fallback plan, then I must exhort you to take this all the more seriously.”

Maglor only turned his face away, but Elros had the distinct feeling that he was speaking to Maedhros nonverbally. There was a great deal of that going around at the moment.

“Lord Eärendil expressed the wish to meet tomorrow evening,” Elrond broke in. “Perhaps that would be an appropriate time to test their proposition?”

Maedhros nodded to him. “Can you stay the night? We must ensure that this is water-tight. You as well, Eluréd; Elurín.”

“Of course,” Elurín agreed. “But note – we are Elrun and Eldun, if you must refer to us while around others.”

Elros might have made a face, but Elrond was already bothering him in their heads.

You don’t need to be here; you brought them here to be rid of them in the first place. Go back to your tent and sleep. You look awful.

Elros pursed his lips and threw him as disdainful a look as he could summon. “I wish you all luck,” he said stiffly. “Doubtless you know where to find me if needed.” He made for the door and then paused at the threshold. They had all clustered together already, and he called to Elurín.

“I feel obliged to warn you off of further theft; there is security around the stones, whether you realized it or not. It would be a pity for you to run afoul of the lords before we have the chance to make your acquaintance properly.”

Elurín’s eyebrows raised. “Many thanks, and a good night to you, Elros.”

Why be nice now? Elrond asked with interest. Do you actually want them to-

Elros snorted and cut him off as he walked away from the building. No. Enjoy your confabulation.

You’re an idiot, Elrond replied, and it was with less meanness than had been there the day before. If I can keep them from spilling more blood, I will do it to the very best of my ability. You’ve been awake too long to be reasonable at a conference-table, anyway. Go drink your tea and sleep.

Elros rubbed his eyes and nodded in agreement as he watched the first streaks of dawn light the horizon.

Chapter Text

-588-

A summer day in Amon Ereb

--

Elrond shifted on his chaise, turning so that he could rest his head on his shoulder and watch Maedhros. “What would you have done if Elurín and Eluréd’s idea hadn’t worked?”

Maedhros looked healthy for the first time since the twins had known him. He reclined on a couch of his own, pulled out from the ruins of a solar, and his hair was sticking to his face in the sweat of the summer sun. His right arm, laying along the armrest and pointed toward Elrond, still bore a gauntlet, but it was of light leather only rather than the black iron contraption they had been so wary of as children.

(He had told of the oath’s release as if an ache had lifted, one so long-held that it had wound through every part of him unknowing. He could breathe again, if through scarred lungs, and the air had a taste.

Elros had left quickly, unwilling to watch this new freedom, but Elrond had been entranced. He could see the lines of light retreating.)

“Why would you ask such a thing?” Maedhros murmured, eyes closed against the brightness.

“Because we came so close to it,” Elrond murmured. “If they had not been so prepared – or had they not come at all…”

Maedhros let out a sigh. “It would no longer have been a ‘we,' I think.” He did not say anything for a minute, allowing him to draw his own conclusions. “My brother would have ensured that you were far away from whatever happened next.”

“A fourth kinslaying?” asked Elrond curiously. “I don't know. I think we could have given you a run for your money if you attacked, at this point.”

Maedhros closed his eyes, clearly choosing to ignore him, and the sun glittered off of his lashes. Elrond admired the sight for a moment, content to let it rest, and then sent a thread of thought to his brother across the settlement.

Do you think they really are Celegorm’s children?

What a question to ask, Elros thought in annoyance. He seemed to be working on a bit of carpentry, helping to re-roof a building which had crumbled away in the decades they had been gone, and was disgruntled to be interrupted.

Elrond cast his glance over their once-guardian, eyes traveling over fading scars and whitening hair. Bigred could have lied to littleblack, when he said that they resembled him.

Elros considered the possibility. I suppose he could have. Is that why you are asking me, instead of him?

The same reason that fringe and ankle did not tell any of us where they have hidden the stones, I think, Elrond admitted.

His brother shrugged. It’s a fanciful story, after all.

I know how you feel about it.

Yes. And for Dior to have borne children?

Those reliefs in Sirion of the king and queen dancing nude….

Elros shrugged. I wouldn’t ever bring it up, if I were you.

And their conversations with Celegorm?

Oh, I would believe that more readily! If anyone is likely to haunt the people they’ve killed, it’s the sons of Fëanor, Elros thought with black humor. Pray we never find out for truth.

Elrond sighed, but sent the feeling of agreement.

-493-

In a grove along the banks of the Gelion

--

“I have heard of the wonders of Menegroth,” Dior said softly. “The stone walls carved into the beeches of Oromë, and Vána’s flowers in relief upon the ground.”

“But you have never been?”

“No,” he admitted. “My parents have lived in Ossiriand since ere I was born.”

“Ah, well,” his silver-haired lover sighed. “Why long for it, when we have the trees around us, and flowers spring where you tread?” He leaned in, seeking for a kiss, and Dior granted it.

“Take me again,” he pleaded, running his hand along his lover’s strong neck. “Take me as Oromë; as if I were Vána herself!”

“Ai,” his lover shook his head fondly, color suffused upon his dusky cheeks. “You think the lady does not do her share of the taking?” he nuzzled into Dior’s chest, nipping and sucking. “Perhaps I wish for someone else to do all of the work, this eve.”

Dior gasped as his lover reached for his cock, stroking it with nimble fingers. He luxuriated in the sensation for a long moment and then pushed the hand away. His lover allowed it, curious, and Dior closed his eyes, willing for the change.

His lover drew a shocked breath.

“Is this alright?” Dior asked hesitantly. “I only- I know I have taken you, before, but it seems to me that it might be something new if I-”

His lover kissed him hard, full of tongue, and suddenly he was out of breath.

“You may take over the work presently,” the older nér informed him with a wide grin. “For now, I find my ethic renewed, and my interest no less strong!” He looked delighted; and with that, he bent down, spread Dior’s legs, and applied his mouth to the dripping cunt he found there.