There He Sails

by Strange_Relics

Summary:

"Where did we first meet?"
"Seaside...you gave me water."

Galadriel happens upon a lone warrior by the shore, outnumbered and injured but defiant against such odds. Rescuing him brings unexpected joy in the midst of war-torn Beleriand.

Or, the first meeting of Elrond and Galadriel, the Rings of Power version.

*Tagged as Graphic Depictions of Violence only because of battle in the first chapter, and largely to be on the safe side of things, as nothing is too graphic.

Chapter 1: Battle in the Sands

Galadriel had not intended to do battle with orcs for a second time in less than a week, but when the harsh clashing of steel reached her ear she tugged on the reins of her horse and urged it faster, following the sound so she might lend aid to whomever was in peril. She had wished for a moment of peace in the twilight, a quiet ride through the marshes and grasslands bordering the sea at the setting of the sun, with nothing but the salty wind in her hair and the soft cries of gulls in her ear and the gentle light of emerging stars for company.

Increasingly shrouded as Beleriand was in the darkness of Morgoth, she should have known no peace could be found, even by the shore. Her horse swept through the tall grass, flecks of mud leaving dark spots across her boots as it was kicked up by frantic hooves. She was not wearing her armor, only the tunic that fit beneath it and the belt that carried her sword, as this was meant to be a simple ride, where protection against arrows and stray daggers was left to distant thought and not to practicality. And yet, battle had found her anyway, the sounds louder now, singing steel and sharp cries of pain and the harsh shouting of orcs as they closed in on prey. Galadriel’s horse thundered onto the soft sand, sending small plumes of the stuff flying in all directions, and she got her first look at the shape of the conflict.

An elven warrior stood alone against eight foes, tattered brown cloak streaming behind as they ran sluggishly along the shore, waves lapping at their boots. Galadriel had to admire them, for three bodies lay strewn across the sand already; they were wise to draw near to the sea, for orcs hated deep water and feared it ardently, and only a few of this hunting party were brave enough to follow the warrior so near the salty spray. Even so, the orcs had all but cornered them. Their only hope lay in breaking for the cover and confusion of the tall grass, but that would mean sacrificing the swiftness and sure footing of hard sand near the sea for the slower pace of the soft dunes, and the greater chance of being caught. The other choice was to run indefinitely beside the sea, until the orcs matched their pace or they exhausted themselves and fell in that manner. Galadriel thought that might happen sooner rather than later, as the warrior was clearly injured and already moving slowly. Their sword dripped black ichor into the crashing waves, but red slipped from the hand pressed to their side and shone dully against the cloth binding a limping leg.

She unsheathed her own sword, brandishing it high so that the silver of the blade might shine out in the rapidly fading light and get the attention of both elf and orc. It worked, and grey eyes framed by soaked curls snapped toward her, narrowing first in suspicion but quickly widening in relief even as they stumbled in the surf. There was something familiar about the curve of the elf’s features and, close as she now was, Galadriel found that who she had mistaken for a seasoned warrior was really just a young boy, not yet grown to full height and likely not even come of age. Growls and shouts of anger in the foul speech of orcs met her as her horse swept past the boy and made for the nearest enemy; with a single swing of her sword the orc dropped lifeless to the sand. There was grim satisfaction in the action, and she quickly lost herself to the ebb and flow of battle.

These few must have fled from the fierce tumult that had occurred several days ago, when a legion of orcs had met Galadriel’s own forces and had quickly learned they were no match for the elves under her command. She could picture it now, these orcs stumbling across each other in their retreat and banding together, unable to resist the pull of revenge when they found the boy alone, resorting to hunting him mercilessly. She thanked the Valar he had chosen to run south and not north, for then their paths would never have crossed.

She leapt nimbly from the saddle, pulling her brother’s dagger from its short sheath and sinking it into the neck of the orc attempting to rake its rusted sword across her mount’s flank. The animal kicked at another attempting to sneak up from behind, snapping the orc’s spine and sending it sprawling into the sand. Freed from the confines of doing battle from atop a horse, Galadriel all but danced across the shore, her two blades flashing across darkened armor and pitted chainmail, splintering shields and shoving twisted, dying forms into the waves they so hated.

The boy joined her at some point, lending his quick sword to defend when she was engaged with more than one enemy. He had some training, for his technique was perfect, if hindered by his injuries, and he quickly fell into place beside her, fighting alongside Galadriel as though they had been doing so for decades. She stopped an arrow going through his shoulder only for him to block a dagger aimed at her side a moment later. He wielded a weapon with more ease than some thrice his age, and she wondered what had befallen him that he should be more proficient with a sword than the proper trappings of youth.

Galadriel plunged her blade into the chest of the orc charging toward her, letting the corpse slide free of the weapon as it fell, blood seeping into the sand and staining it black. A sharp cry sounded behind her and she spun to find the boy’s sword slipping from bloodied fingers, the last remaining orc sneering with a wicked smile as it towered over him, observing the ragged wound it had made along the boy’s forearm with something akin to delight. She did not hesitate as Finrod’s dagger left her hand, throwing it with so much strength it sank to the hilt in the creature’s skull. It sank to the ground, hideous expression frozen in death.

She barely looked at it, instead letting her sword fall from her hand and grabbing the boy by both shoulders as his leg buckled, steadying him with soft words as she knelt alongside him in the soft sand. His breath came in thick gasps, sides heaving as he reached for his weapon. Galadriel gently stilled his hand with her own, shaking her head. “Peace, child, the enemy is vanquished. There is no further need for a sword in your hand.” Clouded grey eyes looked up at her briefly, brow furrowed as he glanced at their surroundings, finding only the bodies of slain orcs littering the shore and being claimed by the waves. His features relaxed, the tension leaving him all at once, and he tipped to the side, eyelids fluttering. She quickly caught him, shifting so that she might brace him against her lap, and brought a hand to his cheek to rouse him, nearly recoiling at the heat she felt beneath her fingers. Eyes not only clouded with exhaustion or pain, then, but with fever, also.

She assessed the damage, eyes lingering on the wrap circling his middle that was clearly old and yet stained with fresh blood that dripped scarlet. The one on his leg fared no better, and the recent gash across his arm stained the blue of his tunic dark. More alarming to her, however, was the feel of bone through tunic and cloak both, the way his clothes seemed over-large on his body, despite the fact they had clearly been tailored for him. How long had the boy been injured and alone?

He did not faint, but neither did he fully open his eyes. “Easy,” Galadriel muttered as she slowly maneuvered herself from beneath his thin form, resting him against the sand. “I will return as quickly as I can,” she soothed, noting that he did not respond, before straightening and sprinting to her horse, who had run clear of the battle after she had leapt from its back and was returning now that it was over, as trained. She grabbed her waterskin from the saddle and ran back to the boy, the horse following at a slower pace. Carefully lifting his head, she brought the edge of the waterskin to his cracked lips and slowly tipped it upward, letting a bit trickle into his mouth. The effect was instantaneous, his eyes opening further and good arm groping for hers so he might have more. “Slowly,” she coaxed, giving him as much water as she thought was wise, not wishing to make him any further ill. He nearly choked on it, swallowing as quickly as he could and making her wonder when he last had anything to drink.

After he choked for the second time, Galadriel set the waterskin at her side and lifted him into her lap once more, hoping the elevated position would ease the work of his lungs. He swallowed more easily, eyes clearing a bit, and she risked a question. “What brought you here?”

He looked up at her, dark curls hanging limp and dusted in sand, blood flecked across his cheek. “I was told…elves marching under the High King’s banner could be found in the south,” his voice was hoarse, weak to her ears, “near the sea.”

“Then you have found what you sought,” she smiled, “for I am one of them. But what of the orcs? Your injuries?”

“Two days ago, they found me.” He shook his head. “I was reckless…not paying attention. They have hunted me since.”

Galadriel’s admiration for the boy swelled; to have outmaneuvered orcs for two days while ill and injured was no simple feat. It was a wonder he was not in the Halls of Mandos and still remained on the shores of Beleriand. “There are many far older than you who would not have managed such a thing.”

At that, he smiled, though the light of it did not reach his eyes. “I have been told I am…stubborn.”

“What of your family? Your parents? Your father? Where are they?” From the way his body tensed she knew the answer to the question and regretted asking, but after a moment grey eyes left her and searched instead the heavens, flitting from one brightening star to the next.

Eventually, he looked over her shoulder and lifted a trembling hand, voice subdued as he muttered, “There he sails.”

Galadriel raised confused eyes to the line of the sea in front of her, thinking the boy mistaken at having pointed behind her, over land, and looked for a ship among the waves. When she could find nothing in the dimming light of the evening, she followed his outstretched hand and the finger pointing into the sky before it fell weakly back against his chest. The sky was quickly coming alive with bright pinpricks of light, but one shone clearer than all the others: Gil-Estel, the Star of High Hope. Not a star at all, but rather the light of one of Fëanor’s coveted Silmarils, carried across the heavens in the ship Vingilótë helmed by Eärendil the Blessed.

There he sails.

Her eyes widened as understanding flooded through her. “Elbereth,” she breathed the name of Varda in quiet exclamation, twisting to gaze at the boy lying half-dead in her lap. The familiarity Galadriel had felt upon first seeing him returned in full force as she studied his features: the proud brow that the line of Finwë often boasted, common among them all; the chin that so reminded her of her cousin Turgon and his daughter Idril; the dark curls and cheekbones of Beren; the soft light behind grey eyes that whispered of Melian’s lineage; he had Eärendil’s smile and Elwing’s expressions, and the stubborn tenacity of all his family who came before him. This was one of the lost princes of Sirion, for whom they had searched unceasingly for long years since the fall of the havens. “You are one of Eärendil and Elwing’s sons,” she did not question herself, shaking her head in wonder at the blessing before her.

He nodded, expression closed and guarded as he said softly, “I am Elrond.”

“And…your brother?” she found herself scanning the horizon, hoping his twin would appear, and dreading what his answer might be.

A shadow fell across his features and Galadriel feared the worst, her mind flitting through scenarios, each darker than the last, that saw one brother perish and the other survive. “Alive,” with one word her heartbeat regained a steadier pace, “but not with me. He is well…and safe.” It was more than she had hoped for, even if the mere mention of his brother made the light behind Elrond’s eyes dim.

Elrond. The Valar had sent her and all elves, even men, joy unlooked for in these ever-darkening days, for here was a child of both the Sindar and Noldor, and of the three houses of the Edain, thought lost forever and returned out of sorrow. “Forgive me,” she shook herself. “I have not told you who I am. Well met, Elrond,” the smile upon her face was perhaps the most genuine it had been in years, “I am Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin.”

He stared at her for a long moment before a soft smile curved his mouth and broke his guard. “Well met…distant cousin?”

She laughed, a quick, bright sound that she had not heard in decades. “Indeed.” Elrond made to say something in response but his features suddenly twisted in a grimace as pain overwhelmed him, instantly sobering her joy. “A distant cousin who has neglected to properly treat your wounds in favor of asking questions.” She appraised anew the blood marring his clothing and seeping from gashes across his body. A sinking feeling formed within her as she glanced to the body of the nearest dead orc, eyes tracing the length of its crude sword and finding traces of that which she had hoped to avoid. “Your older injuries, the two that are wrapped,” Galadriel searched his face once more, noting the sheen of sweat and the bright flush across his cheeks, “the blades that made them, were they—”

“Poisoned,” he confirmed in little more than a whisper, interrupting her. “I did what I could…with what I had. It was not enough.”

“We must return to my camp at once. It is not far, and there is a healer in our company who has more skill than I possess,” she looked for her horse, relieved to find it only steps away. “Can you stand?”

“We shall see,” Elrond lifted a shaking hand to her, determination lighting a fire within his eyes, and she took it in her own, guiding him first to sit and then to stand. He made it to his feet before he faltered, eyes shuttering closed as he gripped her arm in an attempt to remain standing. She supported him as he gained his balance, most of his weight shifting to his good leg, even as he trembled. “Forgive me,” he muttered, “what strength I held on to seems to be fading.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Elrond. Have you slept at all these past two days?”

He turned exhausted eyes upon her and that was answer enough, even without his soft exhale of, “There was no time.”

“Come,” Galadriel helped him the few steps to her horse, where he placed a hand against the saddle. “Though the journey will be short, you can rest on the way.”

He turned his head toward her, nodding. “If you are quick, I think…I think I can manage to stand on my own, and allow you a chance to mount.”

“No, you go first,” she guided him forward, despite his furrowed brow. “I will ride behind, the better to catch you should you fall.”

“Have you so little faith in me, cousin?”

She smiled at his humor, grateful to know his spirit was not entirely broken. “Only in your ability to balance,” she quipped, bringing a smile to Elrond’s features as well. He gained the saddle slowly, with a sharp hiss of pain and a sigh of relief when he finally slumped against the horse’s neck, mane gripped in shaking fists. “There. The difficult part is over,” she encouraged.

“Galadriel, my sword,” he straightened slightly, frantically searching the ground for it. “Please, it was a gift.”

“Peace, Elrond” she soothed, gripping his hand. “I would not leave it behind, nor my own.” She abandoned him for a moment, lightly springing to where their weapons lay, sheathing her own sword and retrieving her brother’s dagger from where it remained buried in an orc’s skull. Elrond’s she brought to him, slipping it into the sheath at his belt and leaving the cleaning of each blade as a task she could perform later, when they were away from the stench of blood and death and Elrond was being properly looked after.

“Annon allen,” he whispered as she vaulted behind him, slipping an arm around his too-thin waist to steady him, mindful of the wound that lay there.

“There is no need to thank me,” she responded softly, gripping the reins in her free hand and gently nudging her horse forward. “Rest, if you can. I promise you, no harm will come to you.”

He did not answer, but as the soft sand gave way to grasslands and then slowly to low bushes and sparse trees, his body began to relax in her hold, until at last he slumped forward and would have fallen if not for Galadriel’s steadying arms. She urged her horse faster, and soon they were flying beneath the limbs of trees twisted by the sea winds. She could not help but look to Eärendil’s star in the night sky, wondering if he could see his son and know that he was safe at last, with those who would treasure him.

She had been there, the night Sirion fell and Elwing was lost, her children missing and presumed taken captive or slain by the sons of Fëanor. It had been an echo of what had befallen Doriath, and she had been there, too, shepherding Elwing, nearly a child herself, out of Menegroth and leading as many as she could to the havens of Sirion.

With thoughts of both nights haunting her, Galadriel tightened her hold on Elrond, praying to the Valar that this time, she would not fail in keeping this child safe.

Chapter 2: The Elven Camp

Galadriel did not see the sentries keeping watch over the ways that lead to her camp, but she knew when they saw her, for elven horns rang clear in the night air, sending word ahead of her: the commander had returned. An answering note sounded in the distance a moment later, and she had no doubt her lieutenants would be gathered in the command tent upon her arrival, awaiting her report. The moment of peace she had sought by the waves had not been first without errand, for she had volunteered to take the place of one of the scouts they had sent into the lands surrounding their position, hoping to catch sight of enemy advancements long before they could pose a threat.

Clutching a trembling Elrond closer, she had never been more grateful that she had been the one to take the route that passed near the sea. She had strayed from the chosen path to be nearer Ulmo’s realm, searching a wider area than had been intended, and she dreaded to think what could have happened had she not. Another scout might well have done their duty as ordered, never passing close enough to the shore to hear the clash of steel as she had, never getting the chance to ride to Elrond’s defense. The boy before her would have remained lost to the sorrow of Sirion. Thank the Valar, it had not been so. 

Firelight reflected dully from cream-colored tents and sparkled brilliantly against silver armor just ahead, and with a few swift strides her horse galloped into the outskirts of the camp. Many looked her way in alarm, hands straying to weapons before realizing it was Galadriel and relaxing their guard. She noticed many puzzled expressions following her hurried pace through the well-ordered tents, and more than one elf’s keen eyes strayed to the form in front of her, but she paid them no mind. There would be time enough for explanation later, after she had seen to the care of Elrond.

She passed by the command tent to the confusion of the two guards standing just outside the entrance, making instead for her personal tent only a few paces away, slowing her horse. Before she had managed to fully stop the animal one of the guards was rushing over to take the reins, long copper hair shining in the firelight, eyes straying to the boy with worry and confusion. Vorohil, her mind distantly supplied the name, thinking it fortuitous that he should be stationed here this night. He had been of the people of Turgon and had served Tuor in the guard of the White Wing, fighting at his side in the fall of Gondolin and passing through perils uncounted with the family to reach Sirion. Throughout the shifting years that followed he had remained with them, continuing in his duty until it was only Eärendil and Elwing and their two sons who were left. When the havens fell, Vorohil had nearly fallen with them in defense of Elwing and her children. He had spent the years since looking for any sign of the twins, chasing rumor and never giving up hope that they would be found. He was reckless at times but fiercely loyal, and exactly who Galadriel wanted at Elrond’s side in the days and weeks to come.

The horse came to an abrupt stop and Elrond shifted in front of her, groaning softly at the discomfort. His entire body tensed, head lifting from where it rested against her shoulder, unfocused eyes fluttering open and taking in his dim and unfamiliar surroundings. His hands immediately strayed to the sword at his side, gripping the hilt with weak fingers. She gently grasped them with her own even as he began to struggle, guiding him away from the weapon with soft words, “Shh, Elrond. You are safe.”

Vorohil’s gaze snapped to her at the name before returning with renewed focus to the boy, eyes widening even as he whispered an almost reverent, “Elo!”

Elrond relaxed in her hold at the sound of her voice, breathing heavily as his hands shook. “Galadriel?”

“Yes,” she soothed. “We have only just arrived in my camp. If I dismount, do you think you can remain steady?” He seemed to think for a moment but nodded his assent, and before he could second guess himself she gently unwrapped her arms from around him and slipped to the ground, landing lightly and immediately reaching up to place a supporting hand against Elrond’s already swaying frame. Galadriel smiled up at him, encouraged when she got a small one from him in return. “I suppose that asking if you can stand would be a waste of words?” He only nodded, weariness bowing his head. “Very well. Come, then. I will carry you.” Elrond all but fell into her arms as she guided him from the saddle, eyes squeezing shut as even that quick movement caused him pain. “All shall be well soon,” she promised, swiftly making her way toward her tent, brow furrowing and mind reeling as she felt how light a burden Elrond was.

The second guard had come to offer his assistance and Vorohil passed the reins to him at once, springing ahead of Galadriel and pulling the flap of her tent aside so that she might pass easily within. The interior was warm and softly lit with burning candles, a brazier in the middle kindled to full flame. Someone must have made preparations for her when they heard the horn signaling her return, and she silently thanked whomever had seen to the task. Vorohil anticipated her needs once more and stepped past her to turn down the blankets that lined her cot, where she carefully lowered Elrond a moment later, heart aching at the soft whimper that seemed to fill the entirety of the quiet tent.

Vorohil turned at the sound and made for the entrance, eyes glistening and expression crumbling. “I will fetch the healer,” he said, voice unsteady as he left. Her admiration for him only grew, knowing that he must have a thousand questions for her but instead seeing to the needs of Elrond before his own. The healing tents were not far, positioned near the center of the camp in case there was need to defend them and their occupants against surprise attack, and the healer rarely strayed further than her purview, loathe to part from any within who needed aid. Galadriel had every confidence Vorohil would return with her shortly.

In the meantime, she unfastened the sword from Elrond’s belt, setting it to rest against a nearby table covered in unfurled maps of southern Beleriand she had been pouring over earlier. His eyes remained closed as she deftly unhooked the pin from his cloak, setting the edges to either side of his thin shoulders and wincing at the blood that covered his side, both old and fresh. His tunic was a ruin, faded blue cloth stained dark and torn in long gashes, though the bleeding along his forearm seemed to have stopped. Sweat lined his pale brow, body shivering, and though she knew the healer would likely reprimand her for it, Galadriel pulled one of the thick blankets over him, tucking it beneath his chin. She could not watch him suffer, knowing she could offer at least some comfort. A weak hand reached out and captured her arm, and she looked up to find fevered grey eyes staring intently at her as Elrond swallowed thickly. “Galadriel…you won’t…you will not leave me?”

She shook her head at once, grasping his hand. “I would not dream of it.”

He nodded, features softening in relief as his eyelids drooped closed again. “Thank you,” he breathed, hand going slack against her arm.

“I shall not leave your side,” she soothed, gently slipping his hand beneath the warmth of the blanket and smoothing tangled curls from his forehead. “You have my word.” He looked his age like this, vulnerable and innocent and so very young, a sharp contrast to his demeanor and appearance on the shore when she had first seen him. The grace of Lúthien mingled with the fire of the line of Finwë, she thought, and smiled to herself.

Hurried footsteps sounded just outside, and Galadriel turned to find the healer ducking beneath the canvas entrance of her tent, a bag slung across her chest. “Commander,” she nodded her greeting, “Vorohil said it was urgent.”

“Nomiel,” Galadriel acknowledged with a quick nod of her own, stepping aside and allowing the healer to take her place at Elrond’s side, where she immediately knelt and began assessing the boy. “He spoke the truth.”

“Indeed, he did,” Nomiel murmured, brow furrowing, “and this foolish blanket will not help matters,” she shook her head, giving Galadriel a stern but sympathetic look as she gently removed it and placed it with the others. She started with the cloth wrapped around his middle, frowning as she took a knife and gently cut through the layers. “This and the one upon his leg seem older than the wound marring his forearm.”

“They are,” she confirmed. “He said they were made two days ago by enemy blades, and that he cared for them as best he could. And that they were poisoned.”

Nomiel glanced back at her with a wince. “Then that will make my work twice as difficult. Two days ago, he said? It is a wonder he is not worse than this, with the poison of the orcs coursing through his veins so long.”

“He told me he did what he could with what he had available to him. It seems that was enough to grant Elrond the time to make it to us.”

“Elrond?” Nomiel looked up at her sharply. “Our Elrond? The lost son of Elwing?”

“One and the same,” Galadriel nodded. “The Valar have been merciful.”

“Merciful, yes,” the healer returned to her work, cutting away the last of the soiled cloth, “but perhaps soon to be seen as cruel, to give us such a gift only for Námo to take him to his halls,” she muttered, looking upon the wound now exposed. Upon seeing for herself, Galadriel simply closed her eyes and hoped Nomiel was wrong. She had seen many wounds in her time upon Middle-earth, leading troops into battle and helping retrieve them from the field after; this was but one more, and yet it felt different when it had happened to one so young. She had watched many recover from injuries such as this, but even with that knowledge her heart still raced fearfully.

She heard Nomiel stand, and she opened her eyes to find the healer staring at her intently. “I am skilled, Galadriel, and I will do all that I can, but if this is indeed Elrond then I must suggest we take him to the High King’s camp at first light.”

At that, her brow furrowed. “Would not the journey endanger him further? He needs rest.”

“We must risk it,” Nomiel was adamant. “His leg is likely the same as his side, and that means more infection he must resist and overcome. He is of the peredhil, that is, the half-elven. I have never treated men and therefore do not know how the orc’s foul poison works in them or to what extent it would affect Elrond, but the High King has those of the Edain with him, and their healers. Together, we might be able to save him.”

She did not need to hear more to convince her of approving the journey. Galadriel immediately turned to the entrance of her tent and stepped outside, where Vorohil stood waiting. He was at her side in an instant, his concern of before only more pronounced. “What news, my lady?”

“Find Limarth and bring him here at once,” she ordered quietly.

“The messenger?”

She nodded. “I have need of his haste. See to it that he is given the swiftest horse.”

“As you ask,” Vorohil inclined his head, though he hesitated after taking a step away. “My lady. Elrond…is he—?”

“He is very ill,” she explained, not wishing to hide the truth from him, this warrior who defended and cared for the last of Turgon’s line even now, “but I have every hope that we will see him through this. Gil-galad must be informed, for we make the journey to his camp as soon as the sun crests the horizon.”

His chin lifted even as his shoulders tensed. “I shall accompany him.”

He did not phrase it as a question, merely a fact, and Galadriel could not help but smile softly in response. “I would expect nothing less, Vorohil. Now go, quickly.”

He sped away and did not look back, his grey cloak streaming behind him as he went in search of the messenger. Galadriel followed his example and quickly retreated back inside her tent, heading not for Elrond but for the desk that was piled with blank sheets of paper. Nomiel was already hard at work repairing what damage she could as Elrond slumbered on, and Galadriel was grateful that he was not awake for this. She trusted the healer could handle matters while she wrote a quick letter to the High King for Limarth to deliver. The full explanation she would save for when she arrived, and so she added little detail beyond that which he needed to know. She had only just sealed it when Vorohil entered, casting a quick glance at Elrond and Nomiel before coming to her side.

“Limarth is here, as requested, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she rose from her chair, following him out. The messenger stood to the side, dark hair braided back and cloak fastened at his throat, armor gleaming beside the speckled grey coat of his horse.

He inclined his head as she came toward him. “Commander.”

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Limarth. I fear I will need you to fly faster still, however,” she handed him the sealed parchment. “This must reach Gil-galad with all haste. Much depends upon it.”

He nodded as he slipped the rolled letter into a cylinder at his side. “I will see to it, Commander.” He quickly mounted, gathering the reins in his hands and coaxing his horse into a trot. Galadriel watched them disappear around a tent a moment later, the sound of hoofbeats fading into the distance.

“May the Valar watch over him,” Vorohil muttered beside her, and she found herself echoing the simple prayer, and adding to it.

And may they watch over Elrond.

Notes:

My apologies for the delay! It was, sadly, unavoidable. Simply know that I have been hoarding little moments to work on this story ever since the first chapter was shared, and know that I wish I could have added more sooner.

Anar kaluva tielyanna!

Chapter 3: A Joy Unlooked For

Elrond jerked and startled awake, his mind screaming at him to get up and keep running, keep fighting. He had only meant to rest as long as it took for his legs to stop shaking and his breath to come less harshly, and yet he had fallen asleep. He reached for the weapon at his side, sure that orcs would ambush him at any moment, only for his hands to meet empty air where there should be the hilt of a sword. Had the orcs managed to capture it the last time he had beaten them back? But no, that had been the quiver at his back that rough hands had grasped and that he had been forced to cut away and abandon lest he be captured with it. It was his bow he had cast aside, useless without the singing arrows that accompanied it and too much of a burden to carry without the hope of finding more. He clearly remembered the dagger he had left behind in the chest of an orc, in danger of being overwhelmed had he attempted to retrieve it.

To have lost his sword as well…without anything with which he could defend himself, he was doomed. A strangled, desperate sound fell from his lips as his fingers fumbled for any trace of the blade he knew should be his. Instead, strong but gentle hands took his captive, and it was only because they were gentle that he did not immediately lash out. “You are protected, Elrond. The enemy is far from this place, and none here shall let harm come to you,” a soft, almost pleading tone followed the gesture.

This voice, he knew. Not in the way he knew the voice of his brother Elros, always familiar and grounding in a world that had never been so for either of them; he knew this voice in a way that spoke of safety and of comfort. Waves crashed, sand shifted beneath his feet, and a face framed by golden tresses came to mind paired with a name. “Galadriel?” he tried to say, but it came out as little more than a whisper.

“I promised I would not leave you,” her hands tightened around his in response. Elrond blinked, straining against the heaviness that seemed to invade all his senses, and she came into focus, a small smile softening her features, though the look in her eyes was pained. “It is good to see your eyes again.” Black blood still streaked her clothes, small flecks of it marring her cheek and brow. He doubted he looked better than she did, though the rough, scratchy feeling of his travel-worn and battered clothing had been replaced with a soft coolness. He looked to where his hands were clasped with Galadriel’s, slipping his good arm from her hold and eyeing the cool white sleeve that had taken the place of his blue tunic. “I do hope you were not attached to your clothes,” there was a teasing lilt to her voice.

He sighed, smiling softly as he let his arm fall back to rest atop the thin blanket covering him. “I will not be sad to see them go,” he reassured, annoyed that he seemed incapable of lending any strength to his voice, “though I might have begged for something warmer, had I known they were to be replaced.” Elrond’s entire being seemed to shudder as a chill raced throughout his body, and he twisted the blanket in his hand, seeking any meager warmth it might provide.

Galadriel brought a hand to his forehead, frowning at him. “We thought your fever had subsided,” she said, shaking her head, “but it seems to have returned stronger than before.” She took the blanket and gently slipped both his arms underneath it, pulling the fabric beneath his chin and tucking it around his shoulders.

“Not supposed to,” he muttered, even as he shook again and gratefully huddled beneath its warmth. At the confused look she sent his way, Elrond clarified, “Blankets…bad for fevers.”

She laughed, a short, bright sound that seemed to echo in the otherwise quiet tent. “I do believe you will become one of Nomiel’s favorite patients, Elrond. You have now both chided me for offering you comfort.”

“Nomiel?”

“Our healer,” Galadriel explained. “She has tended you as best she can and left only a short while ago.”

His eyes were growing heavier with every moment that passed and he struggled to follow her words, comprehension of them coming only after several long moments. “That explains…several things,” he mumbled, searching for the pain that had been his ever-present companion the last two days and finding only dull aches where there should be raging fire. The healer must have given him something, forced a concoction down his throat to ease his hurts; Elrond did not mind that he had been unaware of it happening, the aftertaste that lingered along the edges of his tongue and the back of his throat warning him that whatever it was had been one of the foulest things he had ever tasted.

“She cleansed and closed the wounds,” Galadriel explained, “though she warned me they may need to be reopened, should the poison continue to fester.” Elrond only nodded, well aware of the extent of his injuries and the procedures required to heal them. “To that end, we are leaving at first light for Gil-galad’s camp.”

He blinked up at her, sensing the undertone of worry that laced her words and considering it for a moment. “The High King?” he finally asked, choosing to ignore the implications of her concern for the time being, and she nodded.

“Nomiel does not believe she can heal you fully on her own, and Gil-galad has many accomplished healers in his service. With all the skill at his disposal, she expects you to make a full recovery under his care, as do I. He will see that you are well cared for.” She spoke of the king with such familiarity and warmth, Elrond could not help but feel slightly fond of Gil-galad without having yet met him.

“How far?” he asked, weary already at the prospect of more travel, the heaviness in his limbs almost doubling just at the mention of it.

“A full day’s ride, perhaps longer, if things should go poorly.” She must have seen the defeat in his eyes, because she quickly reassured, “But the passage between this camp and the king’s has been clear of orcs for many weeks; I do not foresee a problem of that nature arising. If it does, however, we will not be making the journey alone. Many have already volunteered to escort us there.”

He did not know how to respond to that, realizing there were elves who had never spoken to him who were willing to protect him at great personal cost. “Please tell them they each have my thanks,” he finally said, irritated that it had taken so long to string such simple words together when he was normally so quick with them. The headache that had plagued him for the last day and a half began to build again at the base of his skull, even as another chill swept through him, rendering him a shuddering mess.

“You may do so yourself when we depart,” Galadriel said. “Dawn is not so far away now.”

Even with the uncomfortable but welcome revelation that he had slept most of the night away, one side of his mouth tipped upward as he looked at her. “I will not be awake long enough to do so.” He could feel what strength he had managed to regain quickly leaving him, the tent and his surroundings taking on a blurry, indistinct shape.

She brushed a hand through his hair, the action soothing in a way that had his eyelids drooping closed before he fully realized it had happened. A moment later, he felt a quick kiss pressed to his forehead, followed by a quiet, “Sleep, Elrond.” He had not felt this protected and comforted in many long years and, even as his fever worsened and he felt more miserable than he ever had, he allowed himself to do as she bid and drift away, knowing Galadriel would keep him safe while he could not do so himself. As he dreamed, he did not reach for his sword again.

 

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Galadriel continued to run a hand through Elrond’s curls, watching over him and looking for any sign that he was uncomfortable. Nomiel had assured her that any pain would be minimal after she had administered the relief for it, but she still worried. She had borne her own share of injuries and knew the discomfort it brought, but what if they caused more hurt to one who was half-elven? She had known Dior, the fully mortal son of Beren and Lúthien, and had watched his peredhil children grow up in Doriath before it had been attacked, but before that dreadful day there had never been injuries to tend to or sicknesses to heal among the three children.

She had been less present in Sirion than she had been in Doriath, splitting her time between the havens there and those on the Isle of Balar under the leadership of Círdan and Gil-galad. What little role she had continued to play in Elwing’s life had not been enough to grant her familiarity with her health or that of her children’s. She was entirely unaccustomed to the natures of peredhil, and it was all too apparent now that she had rescued one.

Elrond, at least, seemed at peace. For much of the night he had tossed and turned, never gaining a restful sleep. Many times he had opened his eyes without truly seeing, reaching for weapons that were not within reach and fighting against enemies that no longer existed. Each time she had patiently settled him, doing her best to keep him from tearing carefully placed stitches and reopening wounds in his fevered dreams. Nomiel had returned from her preparations for the journey to find her charge properly resting for the first time all night, even if she frowned at the blanket still draped across his shivering form. She had allowed it to stay, however, citing the thinness of the fabric as the reason, but Galadriel reckoned it was done more so out of pity.

The flap at the entrance to her tent was pushed aside, and she turned slightly to find Vorohil stooping beneath it, helmet tucked under his arm. He inclined his head as he straightened, brow wrinkling as he glanced at Elrond’s sweat-soaked features. “We are ready, my lady,” he said. “All is in order; we may depart as soon as Elrond is able.”

“Then let us leave,” she replied, standing and gesturing for his helmet. He handed it over without a word, even if his expression betrayed his confusion at the request. “Will you carry him to my horse?” she asked, slipping the helmet under her own arm. “It will be easier for one alone to carry him, so we do not move him too much.”

“Of course,” Vorohil was at Elrond’s side in an instant, kneeling and wrapping his arms around the boy with a tenderness Galadriel had not known him to possess. He lifted him from the cot, blanket still wrapped around him, and gently positioned Elrond in his arms so that he might be secure and in no danger of falling. Vorohil whispered soft words to him as he stood, so quietly she could not entirely make out what was said beyond that it was meant to comfort. Nomiel looked on from her place nearby, seemingly content in the manner he was being transported.

Galadriel led the way out of her tent, holding the canvas aside so Vorohil could pass unhindered, much as he had done for her only last night. The sun was rising swiftly in the east, the stars already fading and the black of the sky lightening to a deep blue. With any luck, they would be riding into Gil-galad’s camp before the stars returned.

She gazed at the gathered horses and warriors outside, grateful for each of them. Word had spread quickly throughout her host that Elrond had been found, and when it had been decided that he should be sent to Gil-galad there had been so many volunteers to make the journey that many of them had to be turned aside. The party could only be so large without drawing undue attention to their passage while still having enough swords to defend themselves if attacked, and the positions had been filled within moments.

She quickly made her way to her horse, handing Vorohil’s helmet to the person holding the reins and mounting in one swift movement. She turned to find Vorohil already at her side, Elrond clutched protectively in his arms, features still relaxed in deep sleep with no indication he knew he had been moved. Galadriel reached for him and Vorohil was quick to lift him toward her, mindful of keeping him as still as possible. She settled Elrond in front of her as Vorohil took his helmet from the guard she had given it to, slipping it over his copper hair and turning to his own horse nearby. He would be riding right behind her, the closest to protect Elrond should any danger befall them.

Nomiel stood next to Galadriel’s horse, watching Elrond intently for any sign of distress as the two of them finally settled comfortably. “The blanket,” Galadriel asked, “should we keep it around him like this, with his fever? It is a long road ahead of us; I would not wish to make him worse.”

The healer seemed to think about it for a moment but eventually shook her head. “It does not make much difference now, I think. Let him keep it, if for nothing else than a shield against the wind. I can reassess him when we stop to rest the horses.” Galadriel nodded, reaching for the reins the guard was holding up to her and grasping them in one hand, the other secured around Elrond’s waist. “If you feel anything is amiss,” Nomiel continued, “halt the company immediately. It is important we reach the High King’s healers but I would not risk Elrond in the process. If this journey takes longer than anticipated, then that is our fate.”

“I will,” Galadriel assured her, and with a short nod the healer retreated to her own horse, mounting with ease. The other members of their party were already seated on their horses, spears held in readiness, banners swaying in the soft breeze that stirred the early morning air. She did not bother with a speech, nor did she speak at all; each warrior here knew the risks and the purpose of the journey. She simply spurred her horse forward, navigating through the tents and marveling that it looked as though not a single elf was resting. The way out of her camp was lined by warriors in full armor, all standing at attention as though they were preparing for battle.

She recognized those from Doriath, and others from Gondolin, and still others from the remnant of Fingolfin’s people in the north; most had called Sirion home before it fell. Nearly halfway to the edge of the camp hundreds of voices rose as one in soft song, a soothing melody that spoke of rejoicing at the return of one thought lost forever, of swift healing and a safe journey, of celebration beneath the stars and of hope rekindled in many weary hearts.

Galadriel felt herself moved by the outpouring of so much love, and Elrond seemed to relax further in her arms at the song, lulled to deep peace. The song followed them far past the last visible boundaries of the camp, swelling in volume until it eventually faded into soft whispers of sound. A horn sounded from behind, one long clear note bidding them a final farewell as the horses picked up speed and flew toward the rising sun in the east.

 

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Ereinion Gil-galad had only just donned his attire for the day when one of his guards stepped hurriedly within his tent, golden armor glimmering in the light of the many candles burning at his desk. “My liege,” he bowed, “a messenger has just arrived from Commander Galadriel’s legion. He says it is urgent.”

Gil-galad stepped forward, curious to know what tidings would require sending a messenger riding through the night. “Send him in,” he ordered, and the guard bowed again before leaving to fetch the elf in question. His mind was already conjuring dire warnings of approaching armies from the north, and before he realized it he was calculating how many of his own troops he could spare to send to Galadriel’s aid.

The messenger stepped inside his tent a moment later, bowing even as he reached for the cylinder at his side and opened it, reaching within and offering the rolled parchment to Gil-galad. “High King,” he greeted, “I was urged to reach you with all haste and deliver this message.”

“My thanks,” he nodded in return. “Did you ride through the night?”

“Yes, my king.”

“Go now and rest. I will see to it that you are given everything you need.”

“My king,” the messenger bowed again, retreating back outside at the dismissal.

Gil-galad knew his guards would care for him without needing to be asked, and so he took the letter and sat at his desk, carefully breaking the seal and unrolling it, setting small weights at each corner so he could more easily read what was written. Something must be truly amiss, for Galadriel’s normally elegant and pristine writing was anything but; it seemed as though this missive had been hastily put together, for even the ink had smeared in places, as though it had been rolled before being properly dried.

The sun had not yet fully risen, the interior of his tent still largely draped in shadow, so he pulled a candle closer, the better to decipher the letter. It was shorter than most of her others, and it read simply:

 

Ereinion,

I will forgo the usual diplomacy of these letters between us and speak plainly, for I have not the time for anything else.

I have found one of Eärendil and Elwing’s sons. After these many long years, Elrond is returned to us by the grace of the Valar. I shall recount in full detail the nature of his discovery upon my arrival, for we are even now making the journey to you. He is injured, perhaps gravely so, and the foul poison of the orcs taints his wounds. My healer is doing what she can but believes he would be better served by those under your command, both elven and mortal alike.

With any luck, and with all hope, we will arrive in the evening of the same day you receive this message. Make what preparations you must with haste, for he worsens even as I write.

Anar kaluva tielyanna,

Galadriel

 

He read it twice more before he could bring himself to truly believe the words written on the parchment, sure this was a cruel joke on Galadriel’s part. But she was not one prone to jokes, and certainly not since the fall of both Doriath and Sirion. Elrond. By the Valar, he had long searched for even a trace of the twins. Too late his ships had come to the besieged havens with aid, and it had haunted him ever since. Her letter had not mentioned the other son, Elros, and he could only hope the child was somewhere safe or, if not, within the Halls of Mandos, far from the uncertainty and death of Beleriand.

Gil-galad read the letter again, a smile starting to turn the corners of his mouth at this joy unlooked for, even with the ill news that accompanied Elrond’s sudden return. He may be injured but he was alive, and that was an outcome Gil-galad had not allowed himself to hope for in many years. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would not learn of the twin’s fate until he himself came to Valinor, that it would linger in the back of his mind for millennia before the mystery could be unraveled.

He left the letter on his desk and went to fetch one of the guards standing just outside. They were surprised to see him, though both inclined their heads and waited patiently for their orders. “Quickly,” Gil-galad said, “send for the best healers within the camp, of both our kind and of men. And send for Círdan. He will want to be included in this conversation.”

“At once, High King,” one of them hurried off to relay his orders, golden cloak flowing behind him. The sky was turning a brilliant shade of blue, the stars beginning to fade. Gil-galad’s gaze found the Star of High Hope with practiced ease, and his soft smile returned at the thought of finally being able to save one of Eärendil’s lost sons.

Chapter 4: A Second Chance

Vorohil loved the freedom of riding on horseback. He had spent many days in the bliss of the noontide of Gondolin riding across the plains of Tumladen, the white towers of the city reaching into a clear blue sky, the walls shining in the bright sun. On such a day many would flock to the singing fountains that graced every courtyard, the water appearing as glittering gems falling into deep pools. Rarely had he done as others, preferring instead to saddle his horse and fly across the green valley, and yet he could hear the music of the fountains even now, could smell the scent of the wildflowers crushed beneath pounding hooves, could feel the warmth of the sun on his face in that refuge. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine he had returned, a gentle breeze sweeping across his face, pushing stray strands of hair beneath the curve of his helmet.

Almost, were it not for the grip of fear twisting his heart and the labored, wheezing breaths of the boy lying in the shade before him.

All had been well the first time they had stopped to rest the horses, even if Elrond seemed tired and annoyed as Nomiel did her best to tempt him with a bit of food alongside his water. He had slipped in and out of sleep during the journey so far, speaking occasionally and rarely making any other noise, save a sharp intake of breath or a low groan that drifted toward Vorohil as he rode beside Galadriel. He had kept a close eye on both the path ahead and on the commander and her charge, and so he had known the moment something had changed by the way the line of her shoulders had tensed. Before she could order the halt he had done so himself, and Nomiel had been quick to bring her horse alongside them. She had studied Elrond as she did, her brows furrowing as none of them could elicit a response from him; she had ordered another rest, then, not for the horses this time but for him.

She had ordered the blanket draped around his shoulders removed, his cheeks flushed bright with fever. Not long after they had dismounted, she had asked Vorohil to carry him through the trees to the banks of the rushing creek they had been following for the last hour, Galadriel at their heels. The water was cool to the touch, and he and Nomiel had quickly waded into the shallows, lowering an already-shivering Elrond into the current.

Vorohil hoped never to witness such a thing again. It had taken all his strength to keep Elrond where he was, not because of the boy’s thrashing, but because of the pitiful whimpers that tugged at his heart’s desire to protect him from harm. He felt as helpless as he had the night Sirion fell, watching the last sons of Fëanor ride into the dark clutching two young peredhil before them as he lay nearly senseless upon the ground, his helmet dented and arrows piercing his chest and abdomen. He had thought it a trick at first, the last of his senses conjuring the worst outcome to torment his spirit on the way to Mandos. But he had woken three days later to the terrible truth: Elrond and Elros were taken captive. He had failed.

He was determined not to do so again, now that there was a second chance to save one of them.

His clothes had long dried in the warm sun and Nomiel was kneeling next to Elrond, nearly finished with the last of the wrappings on his wounds. Each had needed to be replaced after their swim in the creek, and the healer had taken the opportunity to apply more salve and check for further infection. Whatever she surmised from her ministrations she kept to herself, and Galadriel was beginning to pace next to him, her nervous energy contagious. Vorohil felt his own patience starting to waver, glancing at the warriors that circled them, eyes roaming the trees, searching for any sign of attack. The longer they stayed in one place the more susceptible they were to discovery and, even though no sign of the enemy had been seen between the two camps for weeks, orcs had a talent for appearing with no warning where they were least expected.

“We should not linger here,” Galadriel finally said, stopping beside Nomiel as she tied off the last bandage.

“I am aware,” the healer did not bother to look up at her, simply adjusted the damp cloth on Elrond’s forehead and gathered her supplies, voice defeated, “but the choice is to linger here for a little while or potentially doom him to die on the road.” She finally met Galadriel’s fierce gaze, not bothering to soften her words, and Vorohil felt immediately ill at the prospect.

He turned to Elrond, noting anew his pale features and sweat-soaked skin, his harsh breaths and limp hands. He had been still as stone since they had at last pulled him from the creek, unnaturally so. He needed a proper place to heal and to rest, not this halfway point between refuges. “We will have to fly to the High King’s camp,” Vorohil heard himself saying, and he looked up to find the attention now on him. “No more rests for the horses or for Elrond. If we leave now and push ourselves, we can get there in mere hours.” It was already past midday, and they had traveled far since departing that morning. “He will not regain his strength here any more than he would on horseback. Let us waste no more time.”

Nomiel grimaced, but eventually she nodded all the same. “It is the only course of action left to us. Alone, and with only the things I could take with me, I can do no more for him,” she sounded grieved.

Galadriel was quick to rest a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You have done your best, and that has already proven enough,” she soothed. “Do not let imagined thoughts of what might occur in some distant hour darken your mind.”

Nomiel’s features smoothed slightly, her shoulders relaxing and her eyes hardening with a determined look. “Aurë entuluva,” she said, and Vorohil heard the echo of that cry on a battlefield from over seventy years ago, one that had ended in unnumbered tears and the host of Gondolin concealing itself once more from the darkness that threatened Beleriand.

Day shall come again.

“Aurë entuluva,” he repeated, and Galadriel smiled. “Mount up!” he shouted, and the rest of the company was quick to do so, breaking their formation and forming a new one as cavalry.

Vorohil fell at once into what had become his routine, carrying Elrond to Galadriel’s horse and helping her arrange him comfortably before her. No matter how many times he did so, however, he could not get used to how light the boy was. All of his questions about where the twins had been leapt to the forefront of his thought but he refrained from asking, for Galadriel had already told him all she knew. His mind conjured bleak scenarios where they had grown up in a cell, hostages that would never receive payment for the ransom set against them. But beyond the injuries and the clear lack of proper sustenance, Elrond did not seem in as poor a condition as one would expect from such a fate. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Vorohil cursed the sons of Fëanor. His decision to leave Valinor he would not place at their feet, or their father’s, for that had been his alone and he did not entirely regret it; but for Sirion and the destruction that followed, he would always hate them.

He mounted his horse, twisting the reins in his hands and spurring the animal forward after Galadriel, listening for any sound or sign from Elrond that he was waking. The only sounds that came to him were the songs of the birds in the trees and the wind in the leaves and the water of the creek rushing over its rocky bed, hooves pounding across packed earth and leather saddles creaking, metal plates of armor scraping against themselves. If he only closed his eyes, Vorohil could almost imagine he was in Gondolin. Almost.

 

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Gil-galad stood outside his tent gazing intently to the west, hoping to see a cloud of dust or hear the horns ring, some sign that Galadriel was nearing with Elrond. He did not expect them for at least another hour, knowing the route between the two camps, but he was eager to see them safe behind the lines of his army. A company of archers and swordsmen had departed around midday, a force he had sent in the hopes of meeting Galadriel’s party on the road and bolstering her defenses. It was perhaps unnecessary, but he refused to take any chances when the life hanging in the balance was so dear to the Eldar and Edain alike. Even Eärendil seemed anxious to see his son to safety, for the Star of High Hope had appeared above the eastern horizon nearly an hour ago, hastening across its course long before its usual arrival, shining bright even in the full light of the sun.

There was a rustle of cloth behind him, followed by light steps and a soft laugh. “I have not seen you this excited nor this apprehensive since I first allowed you to train with a spear,” Círdan smiled as he came to stand next to him.

Gil-galad remembered that day well, and it brought a small smile of his own to his face. He had begged Círdan for months to be trained with the spear as well as the sword and bow, uncommon though it was for one of his rank. Swords had seemed too unwieldy for him, even if he was proficient across their many varieties, and even though he could usually hit the target he was aiming for with his arrows, it was always a test of his patience. Neither came as easily to him as they did to others; but from the moment he had held his first spear he had felt the rightness of it, as though the weapon had been created solely for his purpose. Now, many years after that first day of training, he was nigh unstoppable with it on the field of battle, even if his guardian still insisted on his wearing a sword at his side, if not for decorum then at least as a secondary weapon, should he be disarmed. Círdan had ever been the wisest among them, always preparing for the unseen future and taking everything as it came.

“Have we prepared enough, do you think?” Gil-galad asked, smile slipping as he thought through the list of all he had gathered for Elrond during the course of the day. The healers waited even now for the horn that would signal Galadriel’s approach, a summons also for them to return to his tent. Or, rather, what was now both his and Elrond’s tent. Gil-galad had not wished to place him with the other wounded in the communal healing tents; nor had he wished to leave him alone, as unwell as Galadriel’s letter had deemed him, in a tent of his own without friend or kin. To that end, he had removed his desk and another table to the command pavilion and had a proper bed, with sheets and padding and pillows, brought to reside opposite his own. He was not gifted with foresight, but he had a persistent suspicion that once he laid eyes on Elrond he would not wish to let the boy out of his sight until he was well again, and perhaps not even then. Departing his ship and setting foot on the docks of Sirion only to hear that the twins had been taken haunted him still, and now that one had been returned Gil-galad would not lightly allow harm near him again. As soon as he was well and able to travel he had every intention of putting Elrond on a boat to Balar, where many of the Eldar still sought refuge from Morgoth’s hordes and where he would be better protected.

Círdan only shook his head and smiled further. “Settle your mind, Ereinion. You have done all that is within your power. What happens next, for good or ill, is out of your hands.”

It should have been comforting, being told that something, for once, was not his ultimate responsibility, as everything so often was. But in this instance he would much rather have full control over the outcome of the situation. He trusted the healers in his service implicitly and yet the herbs, salves, and tinctures arranged neatly inside his tent had never seemed so useless.

He wanted to trust that all would right itself, but was it worth it to believe so? To hope, only for it to be shattered if Elrond died? To rejoice, only for it to turn to mourning a second time? He let out a soft sigh, emotions in turmoil within him as Círdan continued to stand calmly at his side, arms crossed over his chest, by all outward signs entirely content. “I wish I could know your peace,” Gil-galad said quietly.

Círdan’s white beard shone in the dimming sunlight as he turned and placed a gentle hand on Gil-galad’s shoulder. “You can. One day you will,” he chuckled, “but, until then, you may share in mine.” Horns suddenly sounded in the distance, interrupting their conversation, and he felt his entire body tense as the answering note was blown nearby. Círdan’s hand fell silently back to his side as he looked to the heavens. “They must not have stopped as often as they should have, to be here already.”

Gil-galad had thought the same and his heart sank at the implications, but he said nothing, the two of them lapsing into silence as they awaited Galadriel. The healers appeared only minutes later, bowing slightly toward him as they took up their positions. Calendil, the elven healer, slipped inside the tent, his golden hair braided intricately back from his face, and Adanel, the woman who was chief of the healers of the Edain, followed after him, no doubt to look over everything they had gathered earlier and ensure all was in order. If they should need anything, however, there were runners stationed nearby who could retrieve whatever had been overlooked.

The steady beat of hooves trampling packed earth heralded Elrond’s arrival, and a moment later he and Galadriel came flying around the curve of the path leading to Gil-galad’s tent, only barely slowing in time to avoid running past it. There were two others who accompanied them, a swordsman with copper hair and a maiden with a bag slung across her shoulders, but he did not pay them as much attention as he likely should have. Before he could even move, Galadriel had dismounted and had pulled Elrond from the saddle with her, cradling him in her arms. The look on her face told him all he needed to know about how the journey had gone and how the boy currently fared.

His own heart all but shattered as he got his first good look at him. Elrond was entirely pliant in Galadriel’s hold, the pink flush across his cheeks stark against his pale skin. There was a rattling wheeze that Gil-galad finally attributed to his breathing, and his own chest seemed to ache in response. Dark curls in need of a washing hung in tangled strands across his forehead and around his face, and for a moment the very ill boy in front of him was replaced by an image of the healthy child he had last seen him as, on one of the occasions Elrond and his brother and father had been visiting Círdan on Balar.

“The guards told me to bring him here. Where are the healers?” Galadriel demanded and, as he blinked, Gil-galad was returned to the moment at hand, where a desperate commander and dear friend was staring at him with barely restrained hope in her eyes.

“In here,” he shook himself, holding a hand out toward his tent and the help within. She swept past him and he followed at once, Círdan behind him. His entire world narrowed to the activity within, and as Galadriel carefully lay Elrond on the bed nearest to them he frowned at the total lack of response from the boy. He had expected him to be unwell, but not like this. Another person entered after them, the one with the bag, and Calendil and Adanel immediately began plying her with questions; only belatedly did he realize it must be the healer from Galadriel’s camp.

He took a step forward only to stop at once, noticing the way Galadriel kept a firm but gentle hold on Elrond’s hand, hovering over him worriedly as she glanced back and forth between the three healers. She knelt at his side, rubbing a soothing thumb across the back of his hand as they continued to talk and, though he could see no discernible response from Elrond, he realized that the tense line of her shoulders had begun to relax slightly. That was, until Adanel sympathetically asked her to step back so they could care for him. It took her several long moments to finally let go of Elrond’s hand, and even then it was clear she did not wish to leave his side. She retreated only as far as she must, which was exactly where Gil-galad was standing, as he did not wish to be further from him, either.

He glanced at her, her lips pressed thin, features stern and yet, anguished. “I have not seen this side of you since…I have not seen you act in this manner for a long time,” he said quietly, choosing his words carefully, for her ears alone. She was being gentle in a way he had only ever witnessed in Doriath, on the rare occasion he had visited the once-protected realm, after the departure of Melian. Before the sons of Fëanor had descended upon them and her family had been lost.

Her shoulders tensed somehow further before they sagged altogether. Galadriel looked to him briefly before returning her full attention to Elrond, and when she spoke her words were subdued, “He reminds me of…of Celebrían. He is not much younger than she was when….” A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she did not bother to wipe it away. “You know what I lost in Doriath, Ereinion. Having Elrond here, now…it feels like a second chance.”

He nodded, understanding her entirely. “Then let us not waste it. Tell me everything.” And so, as the healers began their work, Gil-galad and Círdan listened to every word Galadriel said as she recounted the finding of Elrond and all that had transpired since.

Notes:

As I was writing this one, Gil-galad decided it was also time for me to work on his portion of the Restored series I've been plotting since October, so please place any and all blame for the tardiness of this chapter being posted at his feet.

And if you noticed me placing the foundations for yet another fic in the sentences of this chapter, well. Perhaps you did. I'm doing my best to fit everything into the Rings of Power version of events, and that requires a bit of tweaking to the actual canon timeline.

If anyone ever wishes to discuss this fic (or anything lotr/rop) or drop suggestions/asks/questions, you can always find me @strange-relics on tumblr!

Chapter 5: A Bond Restored

There was a voice calling to him just beyond the dark cloak that seemed to surround his senses, pitched low and soft and clearly distressed. Elrond could understand the tone well enough but not who was speaking or what they were saying, though it was likely Maglor; he only caught his own name repeated from time to time, and that was not enough to tempt him closer to waking fully. He was warm again, a welcome change from the numbing cold that had seeped into his very bones, and he was tired. He ached in a way that made him think he was either ill or injured, perhaps both; it would not be the first time. He decided he was not concerned enough with the prospect to think on it further, the soft pillow beneath his head and the gentle hand smoothing hair from his brow slowly dragging him back down into deeper sleep. Maglor could whisper comfort and hover at his bedside all he wished, and Maedhros could pace a groove into the stone before the hearth in his worry, but no amount of pleading from either of them could compel him into leaving the blissful haze he was resting in.

Elrond?

The new and all-too-familiar voice in his mind, ringing clear where the other had been muted, seemed shocked, but he ignored it as he often did. He never could bring himself to shut his brother out entirely, reliant as they both were on each other’s presence as a soothing balm to their tethered souls. On the rare occasions they were separated by too great a distance and their bond became unnaturally silent, neither quite knew what to do with themselves. The only comfort they had when that happened was that they were still aware of each other, though no speech or thought could be exchanged. It was a remote sort of awareness, in the same way that a person was always aware of the light of the sun or the moon or the stars, but until they looked up and found them in the sky they had almost forgotten where the light found its source.

His bond with his twin had been like that for awhile, but he could not remember why. Had Elros gone on another hunting trip with Maedhros and Maglor? But then, Elrond would have gone, too. There was a hazy memory, only half-formed in the back of his mind but  growing clearer as he focused on it: a sunny day and a blue sky and the curls at his temple flying in all directions as he raced his brother through a meadow on horseback. The joy of a kind summer afternoon, perfect but for the arrows that had flashed across the sky and sunk into the soil and into flesh all around them. Sunlight sparkled along his blade as he pulled it from an orc’s chest, side burning where a long knife had found its mark. An ambush, then. But how many days ago had it been?

Elrond, answer me!

His brother was insistent, no doubt in league with their guardians to force him awake. Go away, Elros, he mumbled back, that simple sentence a tiring thing even within his own mind. 

Ai, there you are at last! Elros sounded relieved, and Elrond could easily imagine him letting out a dramatically long sigh. A merry chase you have led me on these many weeks, and full of peril they have been. Where are you? You…you do not seem like yourself.

Do not attempt to trick me. I can hear Maglor speaking even now and Maedhros is likely not far. If you wish to see me awake then wait but a few hours and I will do so of my own accord. It is a simple cut, it will heal well enough and faster if I am left to rest in peace.

There was a long, unbroken silence where Elrond could feel his brother’s thoughts churning, his panic rising as they quietly observed each other across their bond. Clearly he and the sons of Fëanor had not thought their plan would be so easily hindered. Elrond, what is the last thing you remember? he finally asked, voice subdued and mood anxious.

Let me sleep, he groaned.

Just…tell me, his twin’s ire appeared to grow.

Why?

Elros sighed, this time so Elrond could hear. Because I asked. And because it might be important. And because you and I promised each other long ago never to keep things from one another, no matter how trivial a thing it might seem.

It was Elrond’s turn to sigh. Very well, he acquiesced, though I am convinced it can serve no purpose. We somehow managed to convince Maedhros and Maglor that we could be trusted to accompany them on the hunt, but, as the last thing I remember is an orc sliding a dagger across my ribs, I doubt they will allow us to do so again any time soon. I had hoped our first time battling orcs would result in neither of us getting hurt. He thought of what life might be like over the next few weeks, Maglor tracking his every step in case he should need help, Maedhros doubling the guard in case of further attack. He almost laughed, but the horror he could feel slowly building in Elros stopped him doing so. What? he asked, his stomach sinking. Are you injured, too? Ai, they will never let us out of their sight if we have both managed wounds.

No. No, I…Elrond…, his brother’s voice was heavy with fear, that was five years ago.

He would have thought it a joke but for the tone in which the words were spoken. Elrond had only ever heard his brother sound like that on two occasions: the first, when Sirion was sacked and they had watched their mother leap into the ocean; the second, many years later when Maedhros had returned to the fortress with what they thought had been a dying Maglor in his arms. Though they had at first hated the two sons of Fëanor, they had eventually come to love their long-sundered cousins as they were in turn loved, and the prospect of losing one of them had reduced both Elros and Elrond to terror. The same terror that was slowly filling Elros now. And Elrond would do anything to keep his brother from feeling that way again. If he said it had been five years, then it had been five years. And…where am I now? he tentatively asked.

That is precisely what we have been trying to puzzle out for the last six weeks, Elros said. You and I split up to cover more ground and you and the company that went with you disappeared and never returned. Maedhros and his guard found only their bodies and trampled earth three days later, and we have been a step behind ever since. You have no idea where you might be?

None, he confirmed, though even as he said it he saw a glimpse of the sea and starlight shimmering across golden tresses. That same feeling of safety that had permeated his senses earlier washed over him anew. But I do not believe I am in danger. There are gentle voices surrounding me, and a hand at my brow, and warmth that can only be from a fire. There was something a moment ago…salty air and crashing waves.

Yes! Yes, I am by the shore now. There are bodies here, bodies of orcs. Ai, you must be close, far closer than you were before. What more can you tell of your surroundings?

Nothing, save that there is no ocean breeze here. I smell only herbs and woodsmoke.

Can you open your eyes?

I…perhaps. But even thinking about doing so made Elrond feel heavy and weak.

Take strength from me, brother, Elros said softly. Together, we may accomplish what one alone cannot. With his words came assurance and a sense of fortitude, and Elrond found himself trying his best to leave the confines of his stupor.

It was not easy, even with his brother’s help. His body was weaker than he had imagined it and as he struggled toward waking the hurts he had accumulated protested loudly. It took several minutes and a constant stream of encouragement from Elros but his eyes finally began to listen to him, and as his eyelids fluttered open he caught quick glimpses of faces peering at him and a fire crackling in a brazier nearby under the smooth cream-colored canvas of a tent. He forced his eyes to stay open and the blurred figures slowly came into clearer focus.

The person nearest to him wore a genuine smile, long dark hair sweeping across his shoulders and brushing against Elrond’s fingertips where his hand was held fast in a strong but gentle grip. The matching hand, the same one he had felt earlier brushing curls from his brow, did so again as a quiet laugh sounded. “There you are at last,” came the deep, soothing voice. “I was beginning to think you would not wake today, despite Galadriel’s insistence that you would.”

Elrond felt confusion stir within him, even as recognition flared suddenly bright from Elros. He understood barely a moment later, and breathed, “Ereinion,” at the same time as his brother. The visage before him could be easily mistaken at first glance for that of the same person who graced the portrait in Maedhros’s quarters and who had been the subject of many a story told to two peredhil twins before bed. And yet this was not Fingon the Valiant, with his dark braids intertwined with golden ribbons. This was his son, who wore gold in his clothing instead of his hair: High King of the Noldor East of the Sea, Gil-galad.

Gil-galad, who was smiling even as his brow furrowed in his own confusion. “That I am, though seldom do I hear my right name uttered, nor did I expect to hear it from you.” 

Someone shifted behind him and Elrond’s attention snapped to them, golden hair shimmering in the firelight cast by the brazier. His eyelids were drooping again, his strength almost spent even with Elros’s help, but he saw the smile on Galadriel’s features all the same. “Go back to sleep, Elrond,” she said quietly. “We will still be here when you return.” He cast a last look at Gil-galad, who seemed relieved but disappointed, and let himself sink back into the warmth of the blankets around him and into the waiting embrace of his brother.

Well, Elros said after a moment. You are safe, at least. But this…this complicates matters.

He was only partly paying attention to his twin, another memory resurfacing now that he knew where he was and who he was with. A memory of soft starlight and a sudden arrival and of a warning spoken and a spark of hope imparted and a choice to come. I was trying to find them. He knew he had been, just as he knew the sun rose every day in the east and set in the west.

We both were, his brother sounded almost annoyed. And I have yet to do so still, though I at least know now I need to turn my path inland.

You should come across Galadriel’s camp, Elrond said, suddenly seeing a cluster of tents nestled within a large clearing in the woods, only a few hours from the shore. They can give you direction to the High King.

Very well. I will come for you as quickly as I am able, Elrond. In the meantime, pray to the Valar that I can convince Maedhros and Maglor to stay behind when I enter both camps. They were not supposed to come in the first place.

They are…with you? Elros, if they enter Ereinion’s camp—

I know, he sighed. I know. I will do my best to convince them. Though, judging by the looks currently leveled in my direction, that will take all my skill.

I do not envy you the task.

Elros laughed. No, I would not, either. Rest, brother. You are clearly not well, and even this has taxed you beyond your strength. Recover as much as you can, for I will be at your side soon enough and then I will berate you in person for worrying me.

He laughed in response and a moment later Elros’s presence receded, though only slightly. Elrond knew his brother would be keeping a close eye on him, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice if he felt something amiss. Safe in that knowledge, he allowed himself to drift, falling quickly into the deep sleep that had earlier been interrupted so suddenly.

Notes:

Life, friends. Life. You may blame it for such a late update, along with my brain for wanting this chapter to encompass several things at once, and being unhappy when it didn't immediately deliver that for me. But I've finally found a few spare moments and made it work!

As always, you can find me on tumblr @strange-relics if you want to chat! And yes, I fully intend to write the events alluded to in this chapter about the twins' first battle with orcs. I had hoped to share it simultaneously alongside this new chapter but, alas. Life, again.

And a very happy Tolkien Reading Day to all who celebrate! I'll be re-reading some of The Silmarillion to mark the occasion!

Chapter 6: An Unexpected Arrival

Gil-galad had set a chair at Elrond’s bedside the moment the healers had allowed him to do so two days ago and he had done his best to remain there ever since. He frequently lost his place to Galadriel whenever he needed to attend to matters elsewhere but, as he could easily take up residence at the foot of the bed and stand guard there upon returning, he did not count it as too great a loss. It had taken no small amount of persuasion but, the morning after she had safely delivered Elrond to his camp, Gil-galad had managed to make her see the sense in cleansing the blood from both her face and her clothes and attempting to rest. She had retreated to the tent that always stood in readiness for her, not far from his own, for less than four hours before returning refreshed in a gown of deepest blue, and that was how he knew she would not be talked into abandoning Elrond again. These days, Galadriel only donned a gown when she did not fear imminent battle and intended to stay in one place for longer than a handful of days.

She had tied her brother’s dagger with a sash at her waist and glared at Gil-galad when she entered his tent as though defying him to make her leave again. The two had lapsed into an unspoken agreement after that, rotating their guard over Elrond between sitting in the chair at his side and standing at the foot of his bed. Not that he needed guarding. The sentries along the border had all but doubled overnight without Gil-galad ever having ordered it done. Word of Elrond spread quickly and men and elves alike had rallied behind him, the extra eyes on the fringes of camp the least thing they had accomplished. Within a day, Gil-galad had been forced to order that no more blankets, spare cloaks, or extra clothes be brought to his guards for the boy. Naturally, in lieu of those necessities, little trinkets had begun to appear for Elrond instead: a small ship carved from the birchwoods of Nimbrethil, a cloak pin wrought in the likeness of a nightingale in flight, several books composed of the songs of both the Sindar and Noldor, a silver circlet with a dark sapphire at its brow, and many other things for which Gil-galad had not planned. Having no desire to keep his people from expressing their love for one so dear, he had simply sighed and ordered a new tent to be pitched near his and Galadriel’s, for when Elrond was on the mend and likely desired his own space. When the time came, he would no doubt be surprised to find it filled to bursting with gifts.

Until then, however, Gil-galad was more than content to keep him here where he could set a watchful eye over everything that happened. The healers assured him there was no longer anything to fear and that Elrond simply needed rest, but he would feel much better if the boy would open his eyes again and stay awake for more than a minute. His palor was improving with each passing hour and his breathing had steadied but there was still much healing to be done.

It was Gil-galad’s turn to sit in the chair while Galadriel hovered nearby, and he had not let go of Elrond’s hand since he had taken her place. Without consciously thinking of it, too intently focused on every minute twitch of a muscle or flutter of an eyelid, he was rubbing a soothing circle across the back of Elrond’s small hand as he had been doing since the boy had first arrived. What little food they had managed to ply him with had done nothing for his painfully thin frame, and that was another reason Gil-galad would be glad to see grey eyes gaze at him again. The sooner he could tempt Elrond with plentiful, hearty meals the better.

He was contemplating what foods the boy might like when he felt Elrond’s weak hand curl ever so slightly around his own. Gil-galad leaned forward immediately, searching his features for signs of waking, and a moment later his brow furrowed, a low groan turning slowly into a name, “Elros….”

Gil-galad’s heart sank as quickly as it had been lifted, aching to know where Elros might be so he could pull Elrond’s twin behind the lines of his army and protect him, too, reuniting him with his brother. He had nearly sent patrols out in all directions in search of Elros, but Galadriel had deemed it a fruitless cause based on the short explanation she had received from Elrond about his whereabouts. He had relented only because one blessing from the Valar for the doomed Noldor seemed too much to ask, and he dared not risk that blessing in search of a second that may never be found.

“Shh,” he soothed, placing a hand against Elrond’s brow and searching for the warmth that signaled the return of his fever, relieved when it was cool to the touch. “All is well,” he murmured, and the boy seemed to relax slightly.

As if to contradict his statement, a guard strode into the tent, his posture stiff and words clipped. “High King,” he said as softly as possible so as not to disturb the quiet, “you are needed at once. One of the scouts has…seen something. Something that requires your immediate attention.”

Galadriel had already moved to take his place before the guard finished speaking. “Go,” she said. “I have matters here in hand.”

Gil-galad nodded, carefully removing his hand from Elrond’s ever-tightening grip and following the guard out into the sunlight, casting a last glance over his shoulder before leaving the tent entirely. There was an elf pacing beside a lathered horse just outside, and as soon as he saw Gil-galad he stepped closer at once with a short bow, mouth set in a grim line. “Sire,” he greeted.

“What have you seen that has caused such distress?”

“I…,” the scout seemed to hesitate before shaking his head and plunging on. “I saw them, High King. The Sons of Fëanor.”

It took everything in him not to outwardly react when his blood seemed to run cold in his very veins. The mystery surrounding the finding of Elrond and his obvious flight from danger seemed clearer now, and the ice that creeped down his spine turned at once to fiery anger. Was this the true reason behind his ragged clothes and starved body? Had he finally managed to escape his captors and flee into the wild, only to be hunted as they pursued?

“Are you certain?” he asked, trusting the elf before him but needing to be absolutely sure before he ordered any action to be taken.

A haunted look twisted the scout’s features. “Maedhros Fëanorion killed my sister in Sirion. His is a face I am doomed never to forget.”

Gil-galad placed a steadying hand on the elf’s shoulder. “I am sorry, for your loss and for the unfortunate chance you were the one to stumble upon them.”

“They and their company are in a clearing not a league from here, to the northwest, and all are armed as though for battle. They seemed travel-worn and restless.”

News that a small party of Fëanorians stood idly in the nearby forest should have been cause for fresh alarm, but he could only wonder what they hoped to accomplish with so few against the bulk of the elven army. Did they hope to steal into camp in the dead of night to whisk Elrond away yet again? Why risk coming so close to the camp if their goal was stealth?

Instead of pondering it further, Gil-galad released the scout’s shoulder and nodded. “I see. Thank you for alerting me so swiftly.” The elf lowered his head in deference, expression clearing slightly before retreating swiftly, returning to his horse and leading it away toward the paddocks. Before he had managed more than a few steps Gil-galad turned to Galadriel’s copper-haired swordsman Vorohil, who had refused to leave the spot he had claimed as his own alongside the guards. The only way to make him leave was to give him a task that would benefit Elrond and, even then, he would stay away only as long as it took to complete. “Fetch Círdan, quickly,” he ordered, meeting Vorohil’s fierce and determined gaze. He said nothing in response, simply turned on his heel and sped away, disappearing almost instantly among the winding paths crossing the camp.

Gil-galad stood a moment longer in the sunlight gathering his thoughts before retreating back inside his tent, where Galadriel had vacated the chair at Elrond’s bedside to sit instead upon the bed itself, laughing at something the boy had said. Gil-galad stopped short, eyes darting between the two as his mind slowly comprehended what he was seeing: an awake and lucid Elrond. The two looked his way at the intrusion, Galadriel’s smile never slipping, and he had the sudden, aching realization that he had not seen her this happy in decades. Elrond’s was more subdued but no less genuine, his eyes tired and his voice weak as he said, “Ingaran.”

Gil-galad was quick to shake his head and step to the boy’s side, adopting a smile of his own. “You need not address me as High King, Elrond. You called me Ereinion before, and that will do just as well.” He could tell he had surprised Elrond, who shifted his head on the pillow behind him and grinned further.

“Ereinion, then.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Drained,” Elrond responded, “though I have been told I slept for nearly three days.”

“Strength returns in its own time,” Galadriel soothed, “and yours is already greater than it was while you slept.”

Before Gil-galad could offer his own assurances, footsteps could be heard fast approaching across the packed earth outside and Círdan swept through the entrance. A wide grin stretched across his bearded face as he saw Elrond and he brushed past Gil-galad at once to place a gentle hand atop unruly curls. “It is good to see you awake. You gave us a bit of a scare, you know.”

A bewildered Elrond looked up at him, clearly overjoyed to find the shipwright here. “Master Círdan?”

“It is comforting to know all those lessons were not an entire waste of time. You remember me, at the least,” Círdan chuckled.

“Remember you? Of course I remember you!” It was the happiest Gil-galad had yet seen the boy. “My brother and I spent many a day with you at our father’s side, and sailing is much of what occupied Elros’s thoughts afterward,” he said, his grin slipping a bit at the mention of his brother. “I daresay it still does.”

“He takes after Eärendil, then?”

“In more ways than you know,” Elrond’s grin had been replaced with a rather forced imitation of what it had been.

Círdan chose not to pry, only ruffled the boy’s hair and turned to Gil-galad. “Is this why you sent for me, or was this merely a happy coincidence?”

“A happy coincidence, as you say,” Gil-galad grimaced, and at his tone Galadriel looked up at him quizzically. He hesitated, contemplating whether he should continue this conversation in front of Elrond, but, as it largely dealt with his presence in the camp, Gil-galad decided it was better for him to be included. “A scout happened upon…elves in the forest. Elves from neither my camp nor Galadriel’s nor any of the other commander’s. I am assured it is Maedhros and—”

A loud groan from Elrond interrupted him and it took Gil-galad a moment of deep concern to realize the noise had not been one of pain or fright but, rather, of exasperation. “Tell me they were not foolish enough to come so near as to be spotted,” the boy sounded both fond and incredibly annoyed. His gaze went slightly distant for several long seconds before he seemed to come back to himself, shaking his head and sighing as he slumped further against the pillow. “Ai, they were.”

Círdan observed Elrond intently, a small, amused smile playing across his features as he seemed to come to a realization, but he swiftly hid his mirth behind an impassive gaze. Whatever he was thinking he did not share it with either Galadriel or Gil-galad, who were left to form their own ideas and conclusions. Galadriel, for her part, had gone completely stiff, even though her hand still grasped Elrond’s tightly. Hearing the name of Maedhros, her free hand had slid quietly to the dagger at her waist, fingers curled around the shining hilt as though he were standing just outside.

Gil-galad was simply stunned. The fondness in Elrond’s tone had upended all his ideas of a captive scared of his minders who had broken free and made a bid for freedom. He had hated the idea of speaking the name of Maedhros and Maglor in front of the boy, thinking it would cause him to flinch or cower, but instead of a frightened victim he had been shown a caring friend. “Elrond,” he began, incredibly confused and hoping to get some answers, “am I to understand that you are not frightened of the sons of Fëanor?”

Elrond’s brow furrowed slightly. “Well, based on the stories told to us, I believe I might be a little frightened of Celegorm. Perhaps Curufin as well, though with a son as kind as Tyelpë he does not appear quite so intimidating.”

Círdan smirked and Gil-galad pretended not to notice. “No,” he tried again, “I meant, all these years you have been missing…we thought the worst. Are you not frightened of Maedhros and Maglor?”

“We were at first,” he said quietly. “After a time, however, we came to forgive them both; and soon after that we began to care for them, until one day we found we loved them for the family they had become, and that love was returned.”

The tent had become eerily silent, save for the crackle of the fire in the brazier. Círdan was as calm as ever, but Galadriel was clearly working hard to restrain herself from speaking. Her mouth had pressed into a flat, angry line, and the storm gathering behind the light in her eyes promised to break with a startling fury if something did not occur to tame her spirit. Gil-galad himself was feeling slightly ill. He had no idea how to respond, torn between being perplexed and grateful. Perplexed, because the rumor of the last hundred and more years was that the sons of Fëanor were utterly ruthless in their hunt for the Silmarils and would stop at nothing to attain them, not even twin peredhel boys, as had been proven in both Doriath and Sirion. But he was grateful, joyful, even, that Elrond and Elros had been loved, that they had not spent their time with Maedhros and Maglor in constant fear and torment. They had not grown up as they should have, but the boy lying before him was kind and joyful and resilient, and that was more than Gil-galad had thought possible.

He was saved from having to say any of this aloud, however, as hoofbeats sounded through the canvas of the tent, long, quick strides coming to a sudden halt outside. His guards called a wary greeting and he heard Vorohil calm them as whoever was astride the horse dismounted, footsteps carrying them hastily toward the tent’s entrance. It was Vorohil again who told the guards to let the person through, his voice now strange to Gil-Galad’s ears. He turned at once to the front of the tent and saw why.

Striding within, cloak whipping behind him as he stalked toward the bed with a furious expression, was Elrond’s twin. Gil-galad’s lips parted but no sound passed them, his words refusing to form. He had to stare at the boy for another moment before he allowed himself to believe this was real. Elros was nearly identical to his brother, the same tall frame and piercing grey eyes and angular features. The only difference was the color of his hair; his curls were slightly darker than Elrond’s and, what was more, he seemed to be sporting the beginnings of a beard.

Galadriel sprang from her place at Elrond’s side and made way for Elros as he came nearer, her face reflecting Gil-galad’s own shock. Of the three elder elves, only Círdan seemed unfazed by the appearance of Eärendil’s second lost son. He appeared almost satisfied, as though a suspicion had been confirmed.

“What were you thinking, running off on your own like that after your patrol was attacked?” Elros nearly shouted as he stopped next to the bed, towering over his brother, who looked serenely up at his irate twin. “You could have gotten yourself killed, nearly did, by the look of you! When was the last time you had anything decent to eat? You look half-starved,” he talked quickly, clearly distressed as he gestured toward a softly smiling Elrond. “We were supposed to do this together, you know, and instead I have had to trail after you for weeks on end, terrified orcs or wolves or something else would find you before I did and look at you!” Elros suddenly stilled, shaking his head and drawing a deep breath as his eyes filled and he knelt, lunging forward and carefully wrapping Elrond in a tight hug. “Fool of a brother.”

Elrond’s free arm curled around him, giving Elros a soft pat on the back. “I missed you, too,” he sighed, and at the sound of his weak voice Elros only tightened his hold. “Ow,” Elrond murmured, features twisting in a wince. Elros was quick to release him, scanning him for every possible injury as he helped him settle back against the pillows.

“What happened?” Elros asked, tenderly pulling the blankets back into order and tucking them around his brother’s shoulders.

“Orcs,” Elrond answered, and Gil-galad saw Elros tense immediately. “I was careless and they happened upon me without warning, though I did manage to outrun them for two days after the initial fight. Galadriel helped, in the end,” Elrond smiled at her, seeming to notice for the first time that she and Gil-galad were staring at the pair of them with mixed awe and confusion. “Oh, right.” Elros turned, calculating gaze sweeping across them in turn. “Introductions. Elros, you recognize Gil-galad, and that is—”

But Elros’s gaze had at last reached Círdan, his lips parting in a wide grin. “Master Círdan!” He rose from his place at his brother’s side and stepped toward the shipwright, who opened his arms with a chuckle and returned the fierce hug Elros gave him. “I did not think to find you here, so far from the Isle of Balar,” he said as he pulled back.

“Every sword is needed in these dark days, even one so old as mine,” Círdan explained.

Elros accepted it without question, nodding. “A good thing we will have more soon, then,” he quipped, smiling again.

“You recognize me?” Gil-galad asked, tilting his head slightly. “I did not think either of you would remember me from so long ago, after meeting me only once.”

“I recognize you only from familial likeness, and from the brief moment Elrond opened his eyes yesterday,” Elros shrugged, as though it were a simple thing.

“You can share each other’s vision?” Gil-galad gaped.

“If we need to,” Elros confirmed. “It was much easier when we were younger; we were almost the same person, it seemed. But it is a useful tool for finding a wayward brother who has gone astray and gotten himself wounded,” he frowned at Elrond.

“What did you mean, when you said there would be more swords soon?” Galadriel spoke warily. No doubt she was considering the looming threat of Maedhros and Maglor and had attributed the comment to their weapons.

But Elros seemed confused. He stared at Galadriel for several moments before his eyes widened and he turned instead back to Elrond. “You have not told them?”

“I only just woke up,” Elrond said defensively, absentmindedly picking at a thread on one of the blankets.

“They know nothing?” Elros sounded incredulous.

“I was fevered and not in my right mind, Elros. How was I meant to tell them anything of importance when I could barely stay awake long enough to tell Galadriel my name? I—agh,” he had tried to sit up and had succeeded only in aggravating the line of stitches across his side, grimacing as he fell back against the bed.

Elros was quick to bring a comforting hand to his shoulder, even if he sounded stern when he said, “Do not do that again.” The look on Elrond’s face was annoyed, as though to say of course he would not be doing that again.

“What is it, exactly, you were meant to tell us?” Gil-galad interrupted the two brothers, sure another argument was about to unfold if he did not intervene. He had to suppress a smile at their antics.

“A great deal,” Elros sighed, bringing a hand to the back of his neck and rubbing it as though trying to release tension. He sank to the edge of the bed, taking the place Galadriel had vacated only minutes ago and gesturing toward the three of them still standing. “You had best find comfortable chairs to sit in; we will be here for quite awhile. The Valar have much to say.”

Notes:

Happy (slightly late) Yestarë! The elven new year is upon us and I thought it would be the perfect time to post the next chapter. Apologies that it isn't as lore-heavy as I had initially promised. I've ended up splitting this chapter into two portions because it got entirely too lengthy, even for me, and that's saying something.