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It was a nightmare.
The noise had started low but quickly rose until it could no longer be ignored — shouts of anger, cries of dismay, and the ringing of swords unsheathed. As Elrond blinked the sleep out of his eyes and gazed into the darkness of their tent, he saw that his brother was already up and pulling on his boots. He scrambled to join Elros, hastily pinning his cloak at his shoulder and pushing aside the tent flap to see what was happening.
It was still the dead of night, but there were many lanterns and torches held aloft. They cast strange, unnerving shadows upon faces that would otherwise be familiar. It seemed that half the camp was already awake, armed, and on the verge of violence. And in the center of it all stood two dark figures, easily recognizable despite the shadows — Maedhros and Maglor.
At their feet lay the bodies of two guards — dead.
“No,” whispered Elrond. He glanced at his brother, whose features had hardened like granite, stern and cold. But there was fear in his eyes.
Maglor had a small, nondescript wooden chest tucked under one arm. With his other arm, he brandished a deadly blade. Maedhros stood just ahead of him, sword held aloft in his only hand, reflecting the red flames from the torches. His other arm was outstretched, as if to protect his brother — or perhaps to protect the treasure he held.
Maedhros was a notoriously fearsome warrior, and Maglor’s voice had brought many an enemy crumbling to their knees. No one else had yet ventured within reach of Maedhros’ blade. But even they could not be expected to last long alone against an entire host of soldiers.
Elrond swallowed. He wanted to look away, but could not bring himself to do so. Somehow Maglor’s eyes met his, past the surging crowd. No words passed between them, but there was heartbreak in his eyes.
Elros was looking somewhere else, above the heads of the crowd. Elrond followed his gaze and realized what he was looking at: a watchman armed with a bow and arrow, poised and making ready to shoot.
Elrond knew with certainty, the way he often knew such things, that if that arrow was loosed it would find its mark in Maedhros’ heart. Maglor’s death would surely follow moments thereafter. They were about to be orphaned once again, truly and completely this time.
The archer drew his bow.
“No,” cried Elrond again, louder this time. But his voice was buried by a more powerful one.
“Hold!” called Eönwë, the herald of Manwë, and his voice seemed to carry the rumble of distant thunder.
Everyone froze.
And then somehow, miraculously, they let Maedhros and Maglor go. Elrond barely heard what the herald said, so loud was the blood roaring in his ears. But he saw the crowd stand back as the Fëanorians fled the camp, Maglor casting one last look behind at Elrond and Elros. Maedhros did not look back.
They left the corpses of their victims on the ground behind them.
“Hurry up,” said Elros. He shoved an empty pack into Elrond’s arms before turning back to rummage for additional supplies on his side of the tent, a whirlwind of activity.
Not much time had passed. It was less than half an hour since the Fëanorians had been caught in their last kinslaying.
This was enough time for them to learn more details about exactly what had happened — about how the Fëanorians had disguised themselves as guardsmen, killed the real ones, and absconded with the Silmarils. (In other words, it was enough time to understand that once again, Elrond and Elros were being abandoned for jewelry by their guardians.)
Evidently, this was also enough time for Elros to shake off his brittle coolness and leap into action. Elrond supposed this should come as no surprise. After all, Elros was always ready for adventure, eager for whatever would come next.
Meanwhile, Elrond still felt numb. He sat on the edge of his cot, gripping the pack in his hands and watching his brother.
“Hurry up!” said Elros again. “They already have a head start. We need to get going if we’re going to catch up.”
Elrond stared at him incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”
His brother’s eyes flashed. “I will not be abandoned again. I am not saying that I want to follow them after we find them. This time, perhaps I will do the leavetaking. But I will not be left. Will you come with me?”
“Yes,” said Elrond, the words leaving his mouth before he gave them permission. “I want answers. He told us they regretted their deeds. So how could they do this again? And…”
He trailed off, and did not finish his thought aloud. But the twins were so close that he was sure Elros still heard his thought, mind to mind: And I love them.
“It’s the Oath, obviously,” said Elros. “What other answers do you want?” But he did not comment on the matter of love.
They had not mentioned their departure to Gil-Galad, or anyone else for that matter. (“With so much chaos in the camp at the moment, Gil-Galad has enough to worry about without us bothering him about a brief excursion,” Elrond had said, quite reasonably. Elros, quite reasonably, had agreed.)
Finding the Fëanorians’ trail was not too difficult in of itself. Elros had always been an excellent tracker, and besides, Maedhros and Maglor had been focusing on speed rather than stealth. They made good time too, as they had their horses, whereas the Fëanorians had presumably been on foot. The only trouble was that a heavy fog had settled over the environs, with trees and boulders suddenly appearing out of the mist at every turn.
The sun was just dawning when Elros abruptly pulled back his horse, and Elrond saw that a deep chasm lay just ahead of them. Many such fissures had formed lately, with the very earth seeming to rebel against itself. The bottom of the chasm could not be clearly seen, but Elrond glimpsed an evil red glow at its base. Here they dismounted and walked parallel to the chasm, leading their horses alongside.
It was actually Elrond who noticed it first — a brilliant halo of light, shining through the mist on the ground some yards away. And then they saw what the light was coming from.
His stomach flipped. The last time he had seen a Silmaril, he had been only a child. But he could never forget the way that light shone — so pure that it was painful, so beautiful that it hurt. So much better than anything else that it made you forget everything else.
These two Silmarils looked identical to the one his mother used to wear. But they lay haphazard on the ground, like discarded trinkets. The small wooden chest that had held them was nearby, resting half-open on its side. Elrond did not particularly want to touch them — he did not particularly even want to look at them — but it did not seem right to leave them, either. After a silent exchange of glances, Elros deftly picked them up with a gloved hand and reposited them in the box, which he then slipped into his pack.
“Something is wrong,” Elrond said. When Elros shot him a look that clearly pointed out the absurdity of the understatement, he clarified: “I mean, more so than usual. More than the general disaster that is life in Beleriand.”
“They must be nearby,” said Elros. “They wouldn’t just leave the Silmarils unaccompanied.” He shifted uncomfortably. Neither of them mentioned that even if the Fëanorians were nearby, there was no good situation in which they would willingly let the Silmarils out of their hands, let alone their sight.
“Maybe they were attacked,” said Elrond, brow furrowed. He started to unsheathe his sword, but it remained the unassuming color of steel; there was no bright glow to warn of nearby orcs.
“We’ll keep looking,” said Elros. “But carefully.”
Not much later, they began to hear a soft wailing noise drifting through the mist. It was pitched too high to be an Elf; if anything, it sounded more like a wounded animal. As they got closer, they began to hear intermittent shushing noises as well, particularly after some of the louder wails. The twins cautiously redirected their course towards the sounds, until finally they saw the source.
Elros’ jaw dropped. “Am I looking at… what I think I’m looking at?”
Elrond was staring too, unable to look away, but he made an attempt at brotherly banter nonetheless. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what a child looks like, Elros.”
And this was, without a doubt, a child. Two children, as a matter of fact. One of them might more accurately be called a baby, or perhaps a toddler. They were both quite small, but one looked to be a little older than the other. The smaller one was crying softly, while the older one was holding him, patting his head clumsily but sweetly, and occasionally shushing him. They both clearly had delicate pointed ears, and even when smudged with dirt and tears, their faces were full of grace.
Elros was still gaping. “Yes, I’ve seen children of Men before,” he said. “But I’ve never seen an Elfling. Not with the War.”
It was a fair point. Elf children were rare in the best of circumstances, and the past several decades (or even centuries) had been far from adequate. Plus, these children did not look to be just any children… but he refused to entertain that notion yet. Instead, Elrond tamped down the rising panic and gave them his most reassuring smile.
“Hello,” said Elrond. “My name is Elrond, and this is my brother Elros. What are your names?”
The children stared blankly at him. Elrond kneeled down so as to be less intimidating, and tried again in Quenya. This time, the older child answered, pushing several wayward strands of bright red hair out of his eyes.
“My name is Maitimo. This is ‘Laurë. Do you have anything good to eat?”
Elros’ first instinct, when confronted with the unexpected transformation of his erstwhile guardians into tiny Elflings, was apparently to kidnap them.
Elrond’s first instinct, as it turned out, was to follow his brother’s lead.
Elros later pointed out that it isn’t exactly kidnapping if the children’s parents or guardians are nowhere to be found. Elrond had to concede the point, especially because he had made exactly the same argument in times past to people who questioned his affection for Maglor.
Regardless, they soon found themselves riding into the wilderness — away from the camp rather than towards it — each with a child in tow. Maitimo sat with Elros, his sharp eyes watchful and ever turning towards his brother. Makalaurë was with Elrond, and his wailing had been replaced by happy humming as he petted the horse’s mane with his chubby hands.
Convincing the children to come with them had been disconcertingly easy. Any child of Beleriand would know to hide from strangers, or at least to be afraid. But young Maitimo and Makalaurë were shockingly trusting, especially after Elros produced some lembas from his pack and gave it to them to nibble on. Makalaurë’s tears had quieted after that, and Maitimo seemed to relax too once he saw that his brother was content. Elrond supposed that as children of Valinor, they had yet to learn all the ways they could be hurt. (It may also have had to do with the fact that the alternative was sitting hungry and alone in the mists of a strange world, on the brink of a fiery chasm. Even terrifying strangers might be less terrifying compared to that.)
“How much do you think they remember?” whispered Elrond to Elros. Then using ósanwe, he conveyed his deepest concern — were these children carrying the weight of the trauma of the past age? A grown Elf could hardly be expected to do so unscathed, let alone a child. (The versions of Maedhros and Maglor that they knew best certainly had not been managing it very well, despite their best efforts.)
“I don’t think you have to whisper,” replied Elros aloud in Sindarin. “I think we can just talk. They don’t speak the language yet. Anymore. You know what I mean.”
“And I suppose that answers my question for me,” mused Elrond. “They don’t speak Sindarin, and they don’t remember us. So they must have forgotten it all during their transformation.”
“And their scars are gone,” added Elros. He nodded towards little Maitimo, who was clutching the edge of Elros’ cloak with both hands. Recognizing Maedhros in the unmarred, unscarred face was almost as strange as seeing him as a child.
They rode on in silence for a few more moments before Elrond spoke again.
“So are we going to talk about the fact that we are running away from the Host of the West with Maglor and Maedhros?” he asked. “I thought you were angry at them.”
“Of course I’m angry at them,” Elros replied. “But I’m not angry at them,” he said, indicating the children with a nod of his chin.
Elrond looked at them worriedly. “I’m just not sure we are prepared for this. We’ve never even met an Elfing before, and now you want us to raise them in the wilderness?”
“We’re resourceful,” said Elros.
“I know we are,” said Elrond. “But wouldn’t this be a little easier back at the camp? Maybe we could even get help from Erestor or some of the others.”
Elros shook his head. “They wouldn’t be safe there. Too many people who might want to take vengeance against kinslayers — even if they are only children. Elves have long memories.”
Reluctantly, Elrond had to concede the point. After all, even they had been subject to certain dark glances and mistrustful whispers for being perceived as excessively Fëanorian.
“So we will just have to make our own way,” concluded Elros decisively. “We’ve done it before, after all. The four of us, together against the world.” And despite the dire circumstances, Elrond couldn’t help but smile at that.
Makalaurë seemed to be at that stage of young childhood where intelligible words were beyond him, but he did babble quite fluently. It also became apparent that the quiet whimpering from their first meeting was an anomaly. Normally if Makalaurë wanted to voice a complaint, shout a paean to the joy of being alive, or even have a normal conversation with his brother (who somehow seemed to understand the nonsense words), he would do so very loudly indeed.
This quickly became problematic.
The closest call happened when Makalaurë’s vocal stylings attracted a straggling band of orcs, fleeing the devastation of crumbling Beleriand. Elros immediately leapt into the fray, sword blazing. Elrond scooped up the children and placed them high in a tree, nestled into the branches as securely as possible. “Close your eyes and sit quietly,” he told them in whispered Quenya. “Don’t move. Everything will be all right. Maitimo, look after your brother.” Then he jumped down to join his twin in the fight.
The orcs were desperate, and their desperation made them strong and dangerous. But the Half-elves were desperate too, and they had been taught to fight by the most dangerous Elves in Arda. In the end, they dispatched all the orcs and emerged unscathed. But it was a close thing, and Elrond felt deeply shaken afterwards. His heart was in his throat until he saw the children safely where he had stowed them, eyes obediently shut.
The twins were even more vigilant after that, refusing to let the children out of their sight for a moment. But it was exhausting to keep such a careful watch, and it was impossible to keep Makalaurë quiet for very long.
This was not the only challenge. For one thing, they had come with enough food for two Half-elves on a daytrip, not two Half-elves and two ravenous Elflings living in the wilds indefinitely. Hunting yielded inconsistent results in these ravaged lands, and foraging for wild fruits and mushrooms was as likely to result in poison as sustenance. Most nights, Elrond and Elros went short to make sure the children had enough. This seemed manageable enough for now, but thinking ahead to the changing of the seasons, Elrond wondered what they would do in winter.
Shelter was also difficult. The kinds of shelter that would be adequate for Elrond and Elros were not an ideal home for small children, and it was hard to protect them from the damp and the cold. Besides this, Beleriand was literally breaking apart, so all their paths were rough and circuitous. At the end of every day, even Elrond and Elros began to feel the aches of their travels.
Maitimo and Makalaurë were remarkably good children and rarely complained, instead seeming to view it all as a grand adventure. But Elrond was still dismayed to see the twigs and dirt gathering in their hair, and the bruises accumulating from resting on tree roots and rocks. They tried their best to ensure that the children were safe and well cared-for, and to cheer them with lighthearted stories and songs (when it was safe to sing aloud). Some of the stories were fairy tales about their parents, or far-fetched fables to explain how they had suddenly come to be in an unknown land. (“It’s not really lying,” Elros reasoned, “since we don’t actually know how this happened or what is really going on. It’s all speculation, after all.”) Makalaurë would always laugh and sing along, and even Maitimo could be convinced to smile at Elros’ antics.
Anyone who saw these children would not doubt that they were loved. But increasingly as the days went on, the twins began to worry that it was not enough.
One night, they managed to find a spring in a clearing that seemed relatively unsullied. They bathed the children and washed their clothes, while Makalaurë sang an extemporaneous tune that seemed to be an ode to bathtime.
Elrond was braiding Maitimo’s clean, damp hair in the regal Fëanorian style that Maglor had taught him many years ago, when he noticed that the child had silently begun to weep.
“Am I pulling too hard? What’s the matter, my dear?” asked Elrond.
“Nothing,” said Maitimo at first. But then a few moments later, he admitted in a small voice: “I miss my ammë.” He started to cry in earnest. Elrond rocked him gently, while he and Elros looked at each other in horror.
I’ve never seen Maedhros cry before, said Elros to his brother, mind to mind.
This was, of course, the moment when the wolves came.
This time, the attack came too quickly for them to even hide the children away somewhere safe. Their entire attention was taken in fighting for their lives, doing their best to keep the wolves away from their little campsite. But when the wolves were all dead or gone, defeated by fire and steel, the clearing was all too empty.
“Where are the children?” cried Elrond.
Elros looked back at him with wide eyes. The next three hours were spent wandering the darkening woods, calling for the children in tones of increasing panic. Eventually Elros found them, not far from where they had started. Maitimo and Makalaurë were cowering in a hollow under a fallen tree, covered in mud. As they swept the children into their arms, it started to rain. The boys seemed none the worse for the wear, other than being covered in grime, but Elrond felt shaky for a long time afterwards.
Later that night, after the children had been put to bed, Elrond and Elros sat and stoked a small fire.
“I have a newfound respect for Maedhros and Maglor’s parenting abilities,” said Elros grudgingly.
“This is not working,” said Elrond. “We tried this your way. Now let’s try things my way.”
“This is ridiculous,” muttered Elros. “You expect us to waltz back into camp a week later with two newly acquired children, and nobody to have any questions?”
“Shut up,” said Elrond through a brittle smile. “This will work.”
“My lords!” cried a dark-haired Noldo, approaching them. “You have returned! We’ve all been worried sick. How glad the king will be to know that you have returned!” He looked them up and down again, and frowned. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you, Lindir,” said Elros drily.
“Where have you been?” asked Lindir, undeterred.
“We were… distressed by recent events,” said Elrond. “What with seeing the Fëanorians again, and witnessing their dark deeds… We needed some time on our own, to work through our emotions.”
“It’s been a sennight!”
“We had a lot of emotions to work through,” said Elrond.
“Besides,” interjected Elros, “we found something while we were gone. Or rather, we found someones.”
He lifted the edge of his cloak to reveal one of their precious burdens — Maitimo, fast asleep, with dark brown locks curling around his face. They had both agreed that Maitimo’s copper hair was too likely to draw attention, and Elros had taken it upon himself to dye it using walnut shells. (Of course, now Elros’ hands were likewise stained brown, and he was obliged to wear his gloves at all times to hide the evidence.) Elrond had also Sung a simple disguise over them — not one that changed their actual appearance, but instead one that encouraged the viewer not to look too closely. With the Song in place, it was easier to let one’s eyes skim past the children rather than actually notice the resemblance they bore to a certain pair of notorious kinslayers.
“They were alone in the wilds. We think they lost their parents due to all of the violence,” said Elrond carefully, revealing that he too held a child. Makalaurë was awake, but mercifully was in one of his rare quiet moods, gazing solemnly out at the world. “We thought we could look after them.”
“A war camp is no place for children,” said Lindir sternly. “It is hardly a place for the two of you, young as you are. But of course, that is not a decision for you or me to make. We must ask the king.”
Elrond inclined his head. Gil-Galad had taken a surprisingly keen interest in their doings ever since Maedhros and Maglor had sent the twins to him for safekeeping. Although as Half-elves they were arguably well past their majority, it was reasonable that they might require the king’s approval for something as momentous as adoption. They were expecting this. Fortunately, Elrond in particular had already gained some experience in talking Gil-Galad into things. (For example, at Elros’ behest he had convinced Gil-Galad to let them accompany him and his soldiers in joining the Host of the West.)
But then Lindir was leading them away from Gil-Galad’s tent, towards an entirely different part of the camp.
“Lindir,” called Elros, “where are you taking us?”
“To beg an audience with the king, as I just told you,” replied Lindir. “Quickly, please — High King Finarfin is a very busy personage!”
“Oh no,” said Elrond hastily. “I don’t see why we should need to bother him with this! Maybe we could just speak with Gil-Galad?” He applied his most winning smile.
“But their eyes,” objected Lindir. “They shine with the Light of the Trees. Which means they must hail from Valinor, and therefore be subjects of King Finarfin. Though of course, that cannot be the whole story — children this age should never have seen the Light of the Trees at all, regardless of where they were born. So you can see why this must be a matter for King Finarfin to deal with. There are strange happenings afoot — very strange indeed!”
“Oh,” said Elrond, dumbfounded. When they had planned their disguise for the children, they had not considered that their very eyes might give them away. Even Elrond’s Song could not obscure the Light of the Trees.
“Oh, indeed,” said Elros scathingly. But they had no choice but to follow Lindir to the tent of the High King of the Noldor in Aman.
“Welcome, Peredhel,” said Finarfin.
Elrond and Elros bowed dutifully. Elrond took the opportunity to subtly make some observations.
Like the king himself, the royal tent was resplendent with rich fabrics and detailed artistry — majestic, yet still warm and welcoming. Although the Host of the West had taken its fair share of wear and tear throughout the war, still everything from Valinor seemed shining and golden compared to the tattered remnants of the Elves of Middle Earth.
Finarfin smiled politely at them. “It is a joy to finally meet you. Are you cold?” he asked, tilting his head towards Elros’ gloved hands.
“Er, no,” said Elros, placing one hand behind his back. “Thank you, my king, but we are quite comfortable.” His other arm was occupied with holding little Maitimo as he slept. By this point, Makalaurë had fallen asleep too. (It was no surprise the Elflings were exhausted, given the grueling pace they had set in their trek back to the Host of the West.)
“And these must be the children Lindir mentioned,” said Finarfin. “How fortunate that you discovered them in the wilds! May I see them?”
Elrond and Elros looked at each other. There was nothing for it but to pull back the cloaks. As soon as they did so, the children’s sleeping faces were clearly illuminated by the golden lamplight.
Finarfin stiffened. “Many long years have passed, and long has the house of Finwë been divided asunder,” he said slowly. “But did you truly believe I would not recognize my own nephews?”
“How did this happen?”
Finarfin was pacing back and forth within the tent. Elrond and Elros were sitting on a low bench in the corner, thoroughly chagrined. Maitimo and Makalaurë were likely the only ones to be truly happy with the situation; they were slumbering in the king’s bed, where he had tucked them for the time being while the adults talked.
“Everyone assumed they were dead, or at least long gone,” Finarfin continued. “Their weapons were found at the edge of a chasm.” He gestured to a large wooden chest nearby, where Elrond now saw a stack of familiar swords and knives, emblazoned with the eight-point star of Fëanor.
“A king is not supposed to grieve for murderers. And yet I grieved the loss of my last nephews. So tell me: how is it that you came to find them alive? And not only alive, but… like this?”
“We can’t exactly explain it,” said Elros. “We just found them like this, the morning after the last kinslaying. And this, too.” He revealed the small box he had been carrying since that day, and tried to hand it to the king.
Finarfin shook his head. “Those jewels have never been heirlooms of my house,” he said. “One for each of you — it almost seems like fate. Keep them for now, unless Eönwë would have them back.”
Elros nodded reluctantly and tucked the box away. Meanwhile, Finarfin was still pacing as he asked, “So what would you have me do with them? You are entitled to recompense, but please remember — they are only children.”
“Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding,” said Elrond. “We don’t want to punish them. We want to care for them. After all, they cared for us when nobody else was there.”
“They were the reason nobody else was there,” Finarfin pointed out. But he did seem a little less tense, after learning that the twins were not demanding vengeance.
“That is true,” said Elros. “But even so, love grew between us.”
“I am glad to hear that your childhood was not entirely without love,” said Finarfin. He was silent for a few moments before he continued. “It is generous of you not to seek punishment. And yet, still they must be punished. They have proven themselves murderers and thieves, time and time again. Their crimes are not only against you. And these are not all distant crimes! They slew Elves barely a week ago.”
Finarfin sat heavily on the side of his bed, and gently stroked the children’s hair. “Justice must be done,” he said. Elrond could not see the king’s face from this angle, but there were tears in his voice. “I cannot show favoritism just because — just because they are my close kin.”
Elros stared at him incredulously. “Are you suggesting that you would punish children? For something they can’t even remember doing… as adults?”
“What would you even do?” asked Elrond. “Imprison them? Worse?”
“Of course not,” said Finarfin. “But we must find a way to return them to their proper ages. Or failing that, we must let them grow up. When they are older, they may be tried properly. But they must go to Aman. It would not be safe for them to stay here.”
Elrond felt a little dubious about the safety of Aman, since it seemed to him that Aman was where the entire trouble of the past age had started. But Middle Earth also had not proven to be particularly safe, and so the twins had to admit that Finarfin’s plan was not unreasonable. The next step would be to see if Eönwë felt the same way.
As it turned out, Eönwë seemed surprisingly open to the idea that the Fëanorians had been transformed into children, and surprisingly agreeable to having them return to Aman. He insisted on taking the Silmarils back as well, which was a bit of a relief. But much like Finarfin, he did have some questions about how this had come to pass.
“Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about this,” said Elrond, exchanging glances with his twin. “I think I have an idea about what happened. The Silmarils were hallowed by Varda, were they not?”
Eönwë dipped his head in acknowledgment. “That is correct. The light purifies, burning away whatever is unclean, imperfect, or evil.”
“But that’s just it,” said Elrond. “Marring isn’t only something that happens all at once, with one spectacular fall from grace. Of course there are moments of greater evil, and some wrongs are much worse than others. Not all of us are kinslayers. But we have all done wrong — and had wrongs committed against us — even if just a little. We are all broken from the start. But there is beauty in the brokenness, and good to be found in the midst of evil. I know this, because I have seen it. It has been the truth of my entire life.”
He braved a look at Finarfin, who nodded encouragingly, before continuing on. “So when Maedhros and Maglor held the Silmarils, I think the gems tried to burn away whatever was marred within them. But they couldn’t untangle what was evil from what was good, and so they just erased entire experiences — or rather, time itself, going back and back and back. It is fortunate that Maitimo and Makalaurë — I mean Maedhros and Maglor — did not hold onto the gems any longer than they did, or they may have disappeared entirely.”
Elrond stopped abruptly, suddenly acutely aware that arguing philosophy with a Maia might be taken as a little insulting. His brother squeezed his shoulder in encouragement.
Eönwë’s face was noncommittal, betraying nothing. “An interesting idea,” he said. “If this is the case, it may be unlikely that the process can be reversed. It may be that we must simply wait for them to become older, before they face judgment.”
“The lives of the Eldar are long indeed,” said Finarfin peaceably. “We have time to wait.” (Elrond could not help but notice that he did not seem to be in a hurry to bring his family to trial.)
“Still,” said Eönwë thoughtfully, “it seems a cruel thing to let a death sentence linger for so long. Would it not be a kind of torture for them, to know that they are growing up only to face their doom?”
“And why should it be a death sentence?” said Elros angrily. “You say that justice must be done. But justice means restoring what was taken, not just causing more destruction and grief. Killing them wouldn’t fix what has been lost.”
Eönwë, chief of the Maia, herald to Manwë himself, fixed his burning eyes steadily upon Elros. Impressively, Elros stood his ground, but Elrond was standing near enough that he could sense his brother trembling.
“And how, Peredhel, would such restoration take place?” asked Eönwë. “Can Maglor raise Sirion back from the ashes, or un-burn the ships of the Teleri? Can Maedhros bring your uncles back to life, resurrect Dior, and give a happy childhood to your mother? Can either of them reverse the pain caused by the deaths of the guards they killed outside of this very tent? Some ills cannot be remedied. How could they ever restore what was taken, even if they labored for a thousand yéni?”
“At least they could try,” argued Elros. “If you let them live, at least they could try. But if they were dead, there would be no hope of restoration at all.”
“Besides,” said Finarfin lowly, “Nerdanel deserves better. Even if Maedhros and Maglor don’t.”
No one could argue against that.
“Nerdanel shall raise the children. And they shall face trial in Aman,” said Eönwë finally, “when they are adults. And if their deaths are called for at that time, then so be it. But who can say? Perhaps mercy can be found, even for such as these.”
Elrond let out the breath he had been holding.
“If it helps,” added Elros, “I think they’ve already faced justice for the crime of kidnapping us. We have paid them back by kidnapping them in return.”
“Honestly, it was not very satisfying,” said Elrond. “But we will accept it as recompense.”
The day to say goodbye came sooner than expected. Little Maitimo and Makalaurë hugged the twins tightly, and dutifully suffered their cheeks to be kissed and their hair smoothed back. Elrond’s Song had worn off by now, so they were able to take a long last look at the children as they said farewell. Maitimo seemed to understand at least a little of what was happening, and was somber as he said farewell. Meanwhile, Makalaurë was taking great delight in waving enthusiastically at every Elf, Man, and Maia in the harbor. They were brought aboard the ship by King Finarfin himself, whom the children seemed to recognize as a trusted figure (regardless of the infamous tensions within the family).
Elrond stood on the dock next to his brother, trying his best not to feel abandoned (but not exactly succeeding). From the bereft expression on his face, Elros seemed to be feeling the same.
“I hope one day they remember us,” said Elros wistfully. “I hope they remember everything. I know there was pain. But there was good too, wasn’t there?”
“Yes,” said Elrond. “There was good too. I hope we see them again.”
“You will,” said Elros, with a certainty that surpassed natural knowledge. Elrond noticed that he said you and not we, and thought of the Choice that lay ahead of them both. And although they were no longer children, he took his brother’s hand and held it as they stood together, watching until the ship disappeared over the horizon.
Many, many years later, Elrond himself stood aboard a ship, facing west. In a bag slung over his shoulder, he carried many letters, the oldest of which was thousands of years old and written in a hand he knew as well as his own. Looking to the shore, in the midst of the gathering crowd, he could just make out two beloved figures. They were already waving, welcoming him home.