First Impressions

by Scathach343

Summary:

Elrond and Elros Peredhil return from their time as hostages in Fëanorian hands -- no one is prepared for what to expect, least of all Celebrimbor.

But maybe he should have been. They were, after all, raised by his family...

 

Crack fic featuring adult!Elros and Elrond meeting Gil-galad and Celebrimbor for the first time, and Fëanorians' questionable senses of humor.

Notes:

Ok: so we all love a good kidnap fam fic, but I've always been fascinated by the thought of everyone meeting Elrond and Elros for the first time after they go to join up with Gil-galad. I've read some fics that explore the angst potential of that dynamic, but consider: the sheer crack potential of Fëanorian-trained Elrond and Elros interacting with Gil-galad and Celebrimbor for the first time.

If there was any doubt in Celebrimbor’s heart whether the twins were of his kin, it was dispelled within seconds of being in their presence.

 

Gil-galad and Círdan met him in front of the rooms where Gil-galad’s flustered guards had sequestered the twins upon their arrival.

 

“Are they –” Celebrimbor started to ask, but could not bring himself to decide how to finish his question.

 

“I do not know. We shall meet them together, and see for ourselves, I suppose,” the king said, and opened the door.

 

That the twins bore at least some Ñoldorin blood was immediately apparent. They were tall and lean, with the dark hair, clear grey eyes, and stubborn Finwëan facial structure common among Celebrimbor’s family. 

 

That they had been raised by Fëanorians was also immediately apparent.

 

One of the twins was standing, back to the fireplace, hands clasped at rest behind him. His grey traveling gear had seen hard wear, but the star of Fëanor still shone at his throat and the buckles of his belt and bracers. Tiny silver birds wrought of wire and blue gems decorated his dark braids.

 

The other, similarly outfitted, lounged across the chair beside him with all the liquid grace of a cat, boot propped against the hearth guard. A pair of mithril pins that Celebrimbor recognized as Maglor’s own caught his long hair back from his face.

 

The standing twin bowed slightly, as a prince to a king.

 

“Hail and well met, my lords,” he said. He had a deep, calm voice, like a well of still water, and an achingly familiar Fëanorian accent.

 

“I am Elrond, and this is my brother Elros. We are called the Peredhil, the sons of Elwing and Eärendil.”

 

“And also,” said the one identified as Elros, rising to drape an arm about his brother’s shoulders, “the foster sons of Maglor and Maedhros Fëanorion.”

 

His voice was lighter and clearer than his brother’s, but as though a current of equal measures laughter and violence ran always beneath the surface.

 

He sounded like Maglor. Like Celegorm, on a fair day in the forest, or even like one of the Ambarussa.

 

Celebrimbor dared to cut his eyes sideways to look at Círdan and Gil-galad; they appeared as dumbfounded as he felt.

 

Elros smiled, an easy grin that lit up his fierce face, “Ai, close your mouths, you’ll catch flies.”

 

“Elros,” his twin hissed, and elbowed him hard in the ribs, “manners.”

 

Elros dodged out of reach, “Aiii, my lord the king and assorted noble kinsmen of mine, please close your mouths. You’ll catch flies.”

 

There was a long moment of frozen silence, then Gil-galad burst into laughter.

 

Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed audibly, the disappointed sigh of a sibling who had hoped for the best, expected the worst, and been swiftly proven right in that expectation.

 

***

 

Later, Gil-galad hosted a small family dinner in his quarters. It was an odd, fire-lit evening of reunion – stories told, questions asked and answered.

 

“So,” Gil-galad began, idly swirling the wine in his cup, “you consider the sons of Fëanor your fathers, yet you come here to join us. You do not follow your adopted fathers’ Oath?”

 

Elros snorted, and stole a piece of cheese from Elrond’s plate.

 

“Lord Círdan already examined our minds and found them free of that bond. You know we have sworn no Oath, else we would not be here. And you assuredly do not know Atya or Atar at all if you think they would have let us take it.”

 

Celebrimbor privately found himself agreeing with that assessment from what he remembered of his two eldest uncles.

 

“Atya would cut his remaining hand off himself before he would let us even think of taking on grandfather’s Oath,” Elrond said, a hint of Maedhros’ quiet steel in his voice.

 

Gil-galad raised an eyebrow. Celebrimbor smirked, waiting for the morbidly Fëanorian punchline he knew was coming. 

 

The brothers did not disappoint him.

 

“Impossible,” said Elros, around a mouthful of stolen cheese, “he’s only got the one hand to hold the sword, how’s he supposed to hold the sword to cut his hand off and cut his hand off at the same time?”

 

One of the more distant Sindarin relatives made a noise of horrified shock. Elrond rubbed his chin contemplatively. 

 

“You make a good point. Atya would gnaw his remaining hand off himself before letting us take on the Oath.”

 

“Mmm, yes, very noble, very ‘Beren-getting-his-hand-bitten-off-by-a-wolf’ of him,” Elros agreed.

 

“Nothing about this is like that,” said Elrond, “except the missing hands. Your metaphors fall apart when you drink too much wine.”

 

“Your mother falls apart when you drink too much wine,” his brother retorted, rolling his eyes.

 

“No,” Elrond said solemnly, “she turns into a giant white bird and flies off into the sunset.”

 

No one else brought up the Oath after that, and the conversation turned awkwardly to speak of other things.

 

“Ah,” Celebrimbor thought to himself, smiling into his own wine cup, “they’re good. Maglor would be proud.”

 

***

 

“You need better advisors,” Elros said, hands braced across the map table in Gil-galad’s war room, “more brains, less orc-bait. Fear not, my king, that’s what we’re here for.”

 

Elrond kicked him in the leg. It had been a long day of meetings and tense arguing about the latest campaign, and the advisors in question had barely finished leaving the room.

 

“Ignore him, my lord,” he said, “he slept through all of Atya’s diplomacy lessons.”

 

The commander of Gil-galad’s cavalry was struggling to hide his laughter in his beard. Celebrimbor had given up on the attempt entirely.

 

Gil-galad sighed, and ran a hand tiredly across his face. 

 

“He’s not entirely wrong, unfortunately,” he said, holding out a hand to Celebrimbor, who silently poured him a glass of water.

 

Elros swung around on Elrond, “Ha! Score one for me, and I didn’t have to stay awake through Atya’s boring advice for that. Atar taught me the only things I need to know about diplomacy.”

 

“And what, O most wise of counsellors, were Maglor Fëanorion’s teachings on diplomacy?” Gil-galad asked ironically, tilting back in his chair.

 

Elros grinned, tossing his long braids back, and struck a dramatic pose, “I shall endeavor to relay Atar’s words as he passed them down to me.”

 

“Listen well, pityo,” he intoned, speaking Quenya in a passable imitation of Maglor’s voice, “I shall teach you the secrets of the Ñoldor: if you wish to kick the Enemy’s ass, you must first kiss the High King’s. Now, I’m sure Maedhros can do a better job describing Fingon’s ass than I can, but sadly that information is no longer relevant –”

 

Gil-galad choked on his water.

 

Without changing expression, Elrond grabbed his brother by the back of the neck and calmly introduced his face to the closest wall.

 

“If you insist on this mummery, brother,” he said, eyes sparkling with mischief over the sound of Elros’ indignant spluttering, “do not be surprised when I choose to play Atya’s role in it.”

 

Elros responded with several choice Quenya swears that Celebrimbor hadn’t heard in close to a century, and gleefully wrestled his twin into the ground.

 

Gil-galad turned for explanation to Celebrimbor, gesturing helplessly towards the pair on the ground. The brothers’ wrestling was punctuated by a seemingly endless variety of aspersions on each other’s parentage (Elros), physical appearance (Elrond), and fits of breathless laughter.

 

“Is this normal?”  

 

Celebrimbor was already pulling his hair back, “I will never regret leaving the House of Fëanor, but this? This I have missed.”

 

“Make room for your elders, children,” he called, laughing, and dove into the fray. The brothers welcomed him with open arms and cheerful insults regarding his age and hairstyle, and soon there was a scrum of three Fëanorians wrestling on the floor of Gil-galad’s war room.

 

Círdan poked his head through the door, drawn no doubt by the noise, and visibly decided this was not his problem.

 

Gil-galad let his head thump tiredly against the back of his chair. Maybe Maglor and Maedhros took refunds.

 

 

Notes:

Ok, I had way more fun writing this than I should probably admit to. There's just a darkly irreverent gallows humor that I headcanon would totally be a Fëanorian sort of thing, and it's very entertaining to write.

Maglor and Maedhros were totally like, "Ok boys, when you go off to Gil-galad's, you should probably be a bit low-key about this, maybe don't be calling us your fathers in front of people." And the boys went, "Yeah, ok, sure dad," and then totally ignored that at every opportunity. Elros in particular is very much "I got raised by Fëanorians, that's not a me problem, but I'd love to make that a you problem."

Celebrimbor didn't realize until the twins showed up that there were aspects of the chaos that he did, in fact, miss. He is most certainly entertained.

Gil-galad was not prepared, and has aged three centuries in the six months since the twins showed up.