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Chapter Text

Elrond reread the message on the small slip of paper and knew he had no time to waste. It was in Maglor’s handwriting. Maglor’s. 

He had returned to his cramped tent just moments before, wishing only for an undisturbed nap after his lengthy daytime shift at the infirmary. He’d scarcely believed his own eyes upon discovering the folded note resting atop a pile of half-read anatomy books. 

Out of nowhere, the past had come calling. Two years had passed without so much as a word, but now, at last, Elrond’s father was reaching out to him. 

Abandoning all thoughts of rest, Elrond swung a cloak around his shoulders, breathed in deep, and hurried back outside.

These days the High King’s war camp was ever bustling with activity and noise. It had been growing immensely lately. New bands of elves and small tribes of Edain joined with them almost every month, and as a result, they moved slower than ever. They had dwelled in this area since before Elrond’s birthday, which was more than two weeks ago, so Elrond had come to be well acquainted with the camp’s layout. 

Around him, uniformed soldiers made their rounds in pairs, their armor glittering in the dwindling afternoon sunlight. Vendors were closing their last deals of the day, trading vegetables for furs or chicken eggs for gritty brown bars of soap. Young children ran errands, maneuvering swiftly in and out of crowds and taking shortcuts between the many tents. 

Elrond headed straight for the settlements of the mortal men, keeping a brisk pace, overhearing bits and pieces of conversations as he made his way. 

“I tell you, the holy Herald Eonwë himself….”

“Freshly smoked sausages!”

“... those folks might cause the King more trouble than they’re worth, mark you my...”

A farrier hammered away as he shooed a horse. A small girl shepherded a flock of bleating longhaired goats across the path. On a corner, a lutist sang in praise of Valinor’s armies.

Elrond thought only of his discovery, the plan he was beginning to form. His head lingered far up in the clouds, till he reached the training grounds at the center of camp. There, he stopped in his tracks, hesitating. Out of the corner of his eye, he could spot the familiar figure of the High King. Tall and broad-chested, he held a longspear in his hand, sparring intently with one of his blue-clad personal guards. 

Elrond swallowed. Ordinarily, he would go and ask if he might join them, or at the very least, stop by to greet his friend and watch him drill.

The two of them had grown close throughout Elrond’s time in the army. Too close, Elrond had been telling himself lately. Erenion knew all about Elrond’s studies, how he rarely saw eye to eye with the master of healers, how his fellow apprentices made plans without him. He knew how some in camp, even now, after two whole years, whispered about Elrond's past, his reappearance, his true allegiances, and how Elrond did his best to ignore those people. 

Erenion remained the only one to know all that had taken place between Elrond and Elros. Despite the turmoil the King and Elrond had gone through this winter, Erenion had been the one he sought out and he'd comforted Elrond in his first forceful shock and hurt. The persistent anger that had come afterward, Erenion had mostly rejected. Though his sympathy was evident, he suggested to no end that Elrond swallowed his bitterness and sought his brother out.

While he hadn’t exactly listened, Elrond appreciated the attempt at advice for what it was. 

The confidence didn’t just go one way. Erenion had shared a few of his own personal matters with Elrond, trusting him to guard his secrets. For the most part, the two of them had come to rely on one another, and Elrond liked it perfectly well that way.

This, Elrond thought with a raw stab of guilt, was something else, an exception. The king hearing any news of Maglor would only bring danger upon them all. 

Figuring it might be better to avoid Erenion altogether, Elrond turned left, opting for a different path across the encampment. Their friendship might have been built on half-truths and omissions, but Elrond didn’t think he’d be very good at lying about his plan to his best companion’s face, the face of his King.

Elrond could recall their very first conversation as clearly as had it been yesterday. It had been more of an interrogation, in fact.

He and Elros had approached the army on horseback on an overcast spring afternoon, two years ago almost to the day. Soldiers in King Gil-galad’s service had been swift to apprehend them, understandably wary of outsiders.

Safe to say those watchmen had been astonished by what the twins had proceeded to reveal. 

Although everything had gone according to plan, Elrond hadn’t been able to suppress his alarm as his and Elros’ hands were tied behind their backs. The guards had walked them past rows and rows of tents into the very midst of the encampment. On the way they'd been faced by more people than Elrond remembered seeing before in his life. His throat remained dry, his breathing uneasy. 

Curious eyes, elvish and mannish alike, had followed him and Elros, getting the measure of them. Prisoners were seemingly a rare sight. Around the twins, a chorus of gossipy speculation surged and fell

“Trespassers?” 

“Spies!”

“Twins? Eärendil’s sons? The ones who… No, surely they would be younger.”

“You cannot mean the half-elven princes? The scions of Luthien?”

The commotion had reached its height when, at last, the crowds parted and made way for two eleven lords. Eight uniformed guards in close formation surrounded the pair. Despite never having laid eyes on either of the elves before, Elrond had little trouble telling who either was. He stiffened, feeling coarse rope tear at the skin on his wrists.

The one on the left was a sharp-eyed elf with a silvery beard and long pale green robes. He was like as not the renowned Lord Círdan, shipwright and loremaster. According to Maglor's warnings, he was learned and quick of mind as few.

The one beside him, Elrond knew, was High King Erenion Gil-galad.

Back then, the King had stood nearly a head taller than Elrond. His hair was long and honey-blonde, a few strands of it  braided back at his temple, the rest falling in waves past his shoulders. He wore no crown or circlet to indicate his status, but looked striking in burnished chainmail and a heavy ermine-lined cloak. One of his wrists rested lightly on the hilt of the sword at his side. 

For an instant, as they all came into proper view of each other, the High King beheld Elrond and Elros' identical faces with utter disbelief. His blue eyes were agape, his lips parted, a small furrow appeared between his brows. A strange expression, Elrond had thought to himself. It didn't seem to belong on the face of someone that regal.

Then, perhaps remembering himself, King Gil-galad had replaced his shock with a guarded thoughtfulness. Eventually, he turned his head slightly, giving the nearest of his guardsmen an order. 

When the guards proceeded to move to disperse the crowd of onlookers, Elrond felt a gush of fresh gratitude. It was further cemented when one of the guards came to free his and Elros’ hands.

Elros had done most of the talking, the very short version, sounding somewhat frantic, nearly as nervous as Elrond felt. At his side, Elrond nodded and added the occasional clarification. When the King finally nodded and called for the twins to undergo the rest of the questioning without the other present, Elrond had no clue if it was a good or a bad sign.

All the same, they had little choice in the matter. Just as they were escorted onward in opposite directions, Elrond had managed to catch his brother's eyes. Fleetingly, they exchanged a frightened, purposeful look.

The High King and his men escorted Elrond around a corner and inside one of the larger tents. “Leave us,” Gil-galad ordered, and the guards obeyed at once.

The place had to be the King’s personal pavilion, Elrond realized, looking around. It was spacious, costly adorned, not entirely tidy, but lived in. The chest of weapons stood slightly ajar, the embroidered bedspread creased slightly at the corners, a few unlit candles and an empty teacup rested on the desk. 

“Take a seat.”

Elrond did as he was told. He sat and did his utmost not to stare, not at any of the High King’s belongings, not at the King himself as he breathed in, shed his cloak, threw it across the back of his chair, and sat down opposite Elrond.

“Boy-king,” was how Maglor and Maedhros had often referred to him, dismissively and not without derision. To Elrond, it didn’t remotely ring true.

Throughout the war, Elrond knew, the Enemy’s forces had murdered their way through the Ñoldor's royal house, leaving a line of inheritance consisting mostly of dispossessed kinslayers and a few female heirs. Eventually, the crown had gone to Erenion Gil-galad, who had barely been of age at the time and whose royal lineage was known by most to be obscure at best and dubious at worst. 

Elrond found himself thinking that the Ñoldor might have made an astoundingly good call on that one. Seemingly without effort, the King radiated competence, dauntlessness. Elrond felt like a child, felt like a beggar in comparison. 

He badly missed Elros’ presence. The two of them might have been orphaned, destitute fugitives, but at least they were in accord, each other’s mirror images. They had the same half-gown frames and light grey eyes, the same worn and dirty traveling clothes, the same long plaits, day-old and frayed at the edges.

Inwardly, he prayed that Lord Círdan would be kind to Elros. He prayed that he and Elros would not end up accidentally contradicting one another. The slightest mishap might make these intimidating new people even more suspicious of them.

Somehow, Elrond had gone and forgotten how it felt to be a prisoner. He hadn’t missed the pressure on his chest, the fear coiling in his gut. They had taken away his sword, his hunting bow, and the knives he carried upon capturing him. Now Elrond yearned to have his weapons back, not out of any desire to use them, but simply to feel their cold metal through his clothes, to not be this defenseless.

“No,” he had told the king when asked, feeling awfully put on the spot. “No, sire. The Sons of Fëanor never harmed me or my brother.” 

It had felt like confessing to a crime. He had made himself meet the king’s ice-blue gaze and used the most neutral language he could think of. “We grew up in their custody and under their protection, sire. They fed and clothed us. When their garrison fled the Amon Ereb fortress, they brought us with them and taught us how to live in the wilderness.”

The King had clenched his jaw, surveying Elrond. “What do you believe could have motivated them to do that for you and your brother, Eärendilion?”

“I don't believe I can speak to that, sire. I’m not sure the Sons of Fëanor would be able to pinpoint an exact reason either. Lord… Lord Maedhros and Lord Maglor, neither of them ever seemed particularly… stable, I suppose. Sometimes their minds appeared sound. Other times it was… less so. It... It could be quite unsettling. I would never claim to comprehend their motivations.”

Elrond lowered his gaze, staring down into Gil-galad’s oaken tabletop.

“I see,” Gil-galad said. Elrond truly couldn’t decide what to make of him, couldn’t decide whether to respect this new ruler or simply fear his imminent judgment. 

He supposed the important thing was that the High King seemed willing to think the kinslayers mad and unbalanced, just as Maglor had predicted. Maglor had been the one suggesting this approach, sardonically assuring the twins that they could not blacken his reputation any more than he'd done himself. It made Elrond uncomfortable nevertheless. This was misrepresenting his family, distorting something he loved into something much more twisted. 

He felt as if he was simultaneously being unfair to Fëanor’s sons and to this King Gil-galad, who had done nothing to deserve this deception.

“I’m grateful to them, in my own way, for aiding us the way they did, but I'll always hold them accountable for everything else. Especially… Well, the little I remember of Sirion, of the massacre there… It will haunt me till the end of my days, sire.”

Gil-galad processed that. "Grateful, you say." The caution in his voice made Elrond fear he'd said the wrong thing. 

"I understand the Sons of Fëanor willingly let you and your brother go. I have to ask, son of Eärendil, did they order you to journey here, to seek out me and mine?”  

"No! I mean, Lord Maedhros… mentioned that this might be the place to go if we wanted a new start. Truly, sire, that's all Elros and I wish for. We both know we could never make it out there on our own."

Elrond raised his shoulders and whispered, "We just wanted to get away from them."

Gil-galad’s eyes softened slightly. “Have you truly been traveling with… with those people all these years?” Pity stained the king's voice. He sounded as if the fact disturbed and pained him.

“Yes, sire. We parted ways the day before yesterday. Two days’ ride east of here.”

Gil-galad’s brow furrowed, perhaps at the sheer recency of their split. 

“Eärendilion, I think I need not tell you that anyone concealing the whereabouts or potential plans of the surviving Fëanorians would be guilty of the highest treason, not only toward my authority but against all of elvenkind, against Beleriand’s free peoples.”

“I don’t know where they went, sire. I don’t have the faintest idea of what they mean to do, and that’s assuming they even mean to do anything.” 

That part had not been so far from the truth.

“If I possessed information akin to that, I would already have let you know, sire.” 

That part had been a flat-out lie. Elrond would never have revealed anything that might lead to a violent confrontation, but he’d felt as if he got away with the falsehood.

“They knew not to tell Elros or me anything vital. We were captives. They dragged us along, sure, but I don’t think they ever trusted us.” 

Elrond tried to add dislike and insult to his voice and found that it appeared fairly easily. “They knew perfectly well that we never had much sympathy for the Fëanorian cause.”

“No,” Gil-galad’s empathy was resonant now. “You wouldn’t have.” The last of his suspicions seemed to be fading away.

“We thought you dead and gone, Elrond Eärendilion, and little as you might believe it based on how I’ve received you, I am overjoyed to find that you and your brother live. I’m sorry we could not provide you with a warmer welcome, but I have a duty to protect my people from any who might threaten them.”

“We’re no threat to your people, sire,” Elrond insisted earnestly, pitch slightly higher than before. “I promise. We came here because we wish to contribute, to be of help.”

“Peace.” The King moved his hand in a small placating gesture. "I believe you." 

For a long moment, Elrond could feel his gaze. When Gil-galad spoke again, his voice was gingerly.  “I don’t know if you’re aware, Eärendilion, but I happen to know a thing or two about being an orphan.” 

An abundance of rumors surrounded the High King’s parentage and eventual fostering by Lord Círdan. Elrond, who had never been much for gossip, simply nodded.

“Still,” Gil-galad continued. “I always had Círdan, and by the time I was your age, I had the broken shards of a splintered kingdom.” He'd paused. “What you’ve told me just now… I can’t imagine.” He had shaken his head in horror before once again looking Elrond in the eyes.

Elrond shifted in his seat. In truth, he had not said much, only made implications. It had felt false and cruel to hint at neglect and hardships that had never truly taken place, but it was working, just as Maglor had insisted it would. 

It was vile but necessary.

“I’ll need to confer with Círdan, of course, and with my council, but know that you and Elros will be welcome among my people from this day on. You’ll be honored guests of my court, and I will do all that’s in my might to make the adjustment painless for you.”

Elrond was unable to hide his relief. “Thank you, sire!” He felt elated at the invitation and glad this charade of an interview might soon be at its closing. “You do us a great honor.”

The King’s lips quirked. “You are so very welcome. Now, is there anything else, anything at all, I might do for you, Eärendilion?”

He'd blurted out the very first thing he thought of. “You can just call me Elrond.”

Hearing that, the High King cracked a real smile, a handsome, almost boyish one. “Is that all?” 

Wispering a yes, Elrond returned the smile. 

“Then you must call me Erenion. At least when we are in private.” 

The High King - Erenion - had extended his hand.

Elrond had grasped it eagerly, and his new life had begun.

He had sworn fealty to Gil-galad the very next day, kneeling in borrowed robes in front of the whole assembled court, the ground cold and unyielding beneath him.

Even back then, Elros had been in the habit of disappearing, taking off mere seconds after the ceremony finished up. “He comes off a little restless, your brother,” King Gil-galad had remarked when he and Elrond made their way into the King's tent to mark the occasion.

“More than a little,” Elrond acknowledged, following him inside. “But I’d vouch for him a thousand times over.”

Their following conversation had touched on Elwing and Eärendil, Elrond’s lost mother and father, with whom the King had once been acquainted. An unavoidable, if painful topic. Thankfully, the King had been quick to pick up on Elrond’s thinly-veiled discomfort and change the subject.

When prompted, Elrond had explained his wish to start studying. “My formal schooling has been quite… fragmented, I suppose.”

Erenion had been happy to dismiss that concern, telling him, “That’s true for all of us.” It might just have been his politeness, but it had felt reassuring nevertheless.

Finally, the king had procured two small goblets and a carafe of some rich amber liquid. “You just pledged your life to me, Elrond. I believe treating you to a drink is the very least I can do.” 

Then, clearly, on second thought, the King looked Elrond over and asked him, “You’ve had alcohol before, have you not?”

“Obviously,” Elrond was swift to assure him, though that hadn’t been very often, in truth.

Erenion had smiled at him once again. The candlelight played in his eyes as he raised his chalice to his lips. Elrond followed suit, downing the liquor, fragrant and spiced in his mouth, feeling how it made his heart race.

Their friendship had come along gradually. Every so often, when they could find the time in their gruelingly busy schedules, Elrond and the King trained or talked or labored on separate projects in comfortable silence. Before long, they’d made a serious dent in Erenion’s stocks of honeyed mead. A few months in, the king had even taken to asking for Elrond's opinion on occasion, praising his eye for detail, and showing him some of the ropes of government.

Erenion was entirely singular, the first-ever friend Elrond had made for himself.

That thought never failed to make him feel wretchedly conflicted; gloriously warm and sick with guilt at once. Elrond had lied to Erenion, conned him when the two of them first met. He’d let his deception go on ever since.

And now I’m even more of a traitor, Elrond thought, keeping his head down as he continued his route through the city of tents. In Erenion's eyes, in the eyes of our people. No amount of goodwill from the High King could excuse him from communicating with Maglor Fëanorion, not even to speak of sneaking out of the camp to meet with him.

Elrond knew it well, but he couldn’t make himself halt. The hope of seeing Maglor tonight made his heart soar in his chest and gave speed to his feet. Though he’d attempted not to, he'd missed Maglor so damn much these last two years.

Erenion could never possibly understand that. Only one person could, Elrond knew.

At the distant end of the path, Elrond singled out his brother’s tent. Just earlier that day, the prospect of approaching Elros had seemed like an insurmountable obstacle, one full of tears and acid accusations. In the light of Maglor’s message, everything looked different. Elros wouldn’t want to miss this for the world.

If Maglor’s call couldn’t bring the two of them together once again, nothing could.

Chapter Text

The smiles and nods Elrond was receiving from the people he passed were a testament to just how well-liked his brother had become around these parts. A group of small children waved eagerly and called out greetings, an old man tipped his straw hat, and a woman whispered in her husband’s ear as Elrond walked by. It felt almost eerie. This sector of camp was where the Edain dwelt, and aside from occasionally patching them up in the infirmary, Elrond had few dealings with the camp’s mortal men. 

Elros, on the contrary, they all knew.

It had been so since the very beginning. Elrond could recall an incident from only a week after they had joined up with Gil-galad’s host. They had still been camped in the moorlands, the sun had been out in full force, and the king had been so generous as to invite Elrond and Elros to join him and his officers on the training field. 

They strolled through the camp at the King’s side, surrounded by young elves of noble birth, excited at the prospect of finally drilling again, until Elros excused himself out of the blue. To everyone’s bafflement, Elros had proceeded to sprint off in the opposite direction. Apparently, he’d been most eager to chat with some Edain tribesman he’d befriended and whom he had spotted in the crowd.

Left behind, Elrond had struggled to suppress his sigh of frustration, the roll of his eyes. He'd apologized with an awkward grimace. This was no way for Elros to be treating their new sovereign and benefactor.

Fortunately for him, Erenion only seemed amused by Elros’ antics. The rest of the company had happily followed his lead. “Your brother appears quite taken with the Edain.”

Inwardly, Elrond thought that it was partly that and partly Elros’ tendency to test out the limits, to always go a little bit beyond the established ways and dare them all to put a stop to it. It had never truly bothered Maedhros and Maglor, who were difficult if not impossible to scandalize, but Elrond wasn’t sure if Gil-galad would take as kindly to it.

He tried to shrug casually, but worry snuck into his voice. “He sure does.”

“But not you?” A casual observation, but accurate.

“No, not quite,” Elrond answered gingerly. He didn’t dislike the Edain by any means, having no cause to do so. It was however among elves, Noldor and Sindar alike, that he’d always found himself wanting to belong. Whether Elrond could ever belong in Gil-galad's camp had still felt very much up in the air at that point.

Gil-galad kept watching him as they walked on, his expression one of ill-concealed puzzlement. His attention should have frightened Elrond. To some degree, it did. The King might yet put the pieces together, realize how much the twins had lied about. Then he’d retract his promise of amnesty as quick as a whip. Regardless, Elrond felt strangely flattered. 

 “I mean, if anything I’m…” Elrond began, wanting their talk to go on, before changing his mind and going silent.

“What?” Erenion had asked with a grin, prodding very lightly at Elrond with his elbow.

“Uh, nothing.”

In the beginning, Elrond had stuck to wandering in and out between the pairs of elvish warriors on the training grounds, quietly studying their techniques as they sparred. Shouts and clangor filled the air as scores of blunted blades crossed. Due to the warm weather, Elrond soon shed his outer tunic, thinking no further of it, attention firmly on the fighters. 

Once done with his first set of impressive-looking drills, Gil-galad approached Elrond, asking for his first impression, with the air of a gracious host,

Suddenly, halfway through Elrond’s compliment, Gil-galad reached out to tug at the collar of Elrond’s undershirt. Elrond couldn't stop himself from flinching. Though gentle, the mailed hand was startlingly cold against his skin and so unexpected he staggered a step backward, raising his shoulders.

Erenion withdrew his hand at once. “Easy,” he said in a low, surprised voice. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to spook you. Are you alright?” 

Seeing Elrond’s bewildered nods, the King exhaled. A moment later, much more deliberately, he asked. “How did you come to get that bruise, Elrond?”

Elrond looked down towards the large yellowish mark showing on his right collarbone and shrugged. “That? Elros went a little overboard in our last sparring match.” 

The offhand words had left Elrond’s mouth before he realized where Gil-galad’s mind had gone at first sight of his injury. A knife-edged twist in his stomach was followed by a sour taste in his mouth.

Doing some panicked thinking, Elrond took a few quick steps away from the fighters and gestured for Gil-galad to follow him.

“I know what you might be thinking, sire, but, believe me, that isn’t what happened.” 

The harsh look remained in the King's eyes. Though seemingly not aimed at him, the hostility made Elrond’s whole body tense up.

“Maedhros and Maglor had nothing to do with this.” Internally, Elrond chastised himself for speaking of them without the honorifics he’d tried to habituate himself to.

It was a nearly impossible balance to strike. Elrond felt as if pulled in every direction at once. He couldn’t appear sympathetic or overly familiar towards Maedhros and Maglor, but he also couldn’t bear for Erenion to genuinely believe that they had beaten Elrond black and blue.

Dreading the prospect of causing a scene on his very first day of training, he tried to calm himself, to slow his frantic breath.

“I’m moved by your concern, sire, truly, but I wasn’t abused. It was nothing even resembling that. Injuries happen whenever we drill; it’s entirely unavoidable.” 

Elrond gestured weakly toward the officers at practice, all of whom had probably suffered bruises exactly like Elrond’s on occasion.

To Elrond's boundless relief, Erenion seemed to believe him at his word, breathing in and nodding stiffly. 

“I’m relieved. My apologies for assuming.”

Elrond averted his eyes and heard himself mumble, “It's no matter. I can’t exactly blame you, can I?”

“Please, Elrond,” Gil-galad then inquired under his breath. “I know this subject can't possibly be comfortable for you, but I have to know: Those sparring matches of you and your brother’s, did the Sons of Fëanor take part in those?”

Elrond knew the fierce animosity in the King’s voice was well-warranted, but it made him feel so ill at ease. He wasn’t prepared to think of a lie. “Now and again, yes,” he acknowledged, tugging at his shirt collar till the fabric was safely back in place.

“With a prisoner.” Erenion’s eyes brimmed with barely restrained outrage. The sunlight brightened each ring of his chainmail.  “A mere child. How could one possibly justi…”

All that protectiveness on Elrond’s behalf had felt simultaneously touching and unpleasant. “All is well with me,” he told Erenion, feeling overheated, still keeping his voice down. “With respect, sire, we’ve gone over this. It was crucial for me and Elros to practice, and we were never willfully harmed.” 

Elrond took in Gil-galad’s discontented face and hurriedly considered his options. The two of them had withdrawn to the very edge of the training field, and their private conversation had begun to attract curious looks. Half-desperate to draw the King’s attention away from the matter of his past, Elrond opted to voice a bold request. “Now would you prefer for me to remain a spectator, or do you plan on putting my abilities to the test, sire?”

Elrond gestured toward the training field, putting on a brave face, trying to merge courtesy with challenge. He wasn’t certain if his asking could be considered anywhere near appropriate. The High King could have his pick of any sparring partner in the camp; each and every one would be honored. Surely he had much better use for his time than chaperoning some newcomer, but Elrond had no clue what else to suggest. 

When the King spoke, he sounded more reluctant than dismissive. “Elrond…” His body language seemed to scream that striking Elrond with a sword, even in pretense, was the very last thing that he wanted to do. Waiting in place, Elrond tried to decide if he found that profoundly sympathetic or somewhat patronizing.  

“Very well,” Erenion eventually sighed. “Make sure you warm up properly first.”

King Gil-galad was famed as a spearman, but he showed exciting prowess at the sword as well; precision, dangerous force. Luckily, Elrond wasn’t unused to drilling with a much stronger opponent. His swordwork wasn’t as impeccable as he’d have preferred, he still felt somehow thrown off balance by the whole situation, but he didn’t by any means embarrass himself.

Getting back to his feet after having been knocked to the ground, Elrond dusted off his clothes and thanked the King for his time in between subdued gasps for air. “Consider me suitably impressed, sire.” 

“Erenion, remember?” The correction came accompanied by a tug at the corner of Erenion’s lips. Gentle, unhurried, out of place amidst the clanging of swords.

Elrond blinked, then straightened his back. “Again?” He suggested, somehow enlivened, lifting his borrowed sword.

“Once we’ve had some water.”

It’d had been exhilarating, sparing with him underneath a sunlight crown. That afternoon, they had gotten to know each other better than they ever could from opposite sites of a desk. It wasn’t wholly unlike sparring with Elros, only much less predictable and much more demanding. Elrond fought the best he could, dodged blow after blow, and still got knocked down a dozen times throughout the session. He’d taken it in decent humor, laughing and starting over, hanging on to every word Erenion spoke.

The few slim victories Elrond did manage to get in were entirely due to Maedhros and Maglor’s expert tutelage. Erenion had to have realized that much. Neither of them had called attention to it.

A few tents away from Elros’ dwelling, a group of young boys were goofing around as they polished their saddles and tacks. Moving closer, Elrond vaguely recognized them as his brother’s occasional companions, a loud but harmless crew. 

“The other brother!” one of them exclaimed as he caught sight of Elrond. He cheerfully waved him over. “Good to see you again! Looking for Elros, are you?”

One of the others smirked broadly. “Aren’t we all?”

“He’s back in his tent,” a third one supplied, gesturing with his dirty piece of cloth. “I’m fairly sure he’s busy, though.” He waggled his eyebrows, provoking laughs and protests from his friends. Soon enough, the whole group was bickering over one thing or the other. Playful punches and kicks across the shins were exchanged. None of them took note of Elrond turning on his heels and slipping away. 

Elrond wondered at the good-humored, if flighty, welcome they’d given him. He’d gone and assumed Elros would complain about their fight to his new in-crowd. Perhaps that had been uncharitable. It seemed Elros hadn’t done so. No one here appeared to be aware that the twins hadn’t been on speaking terms for weeks. 

Elrond had an inkling of what those boys might have meant by claiming Elros was so very busy. Hurrying the last bit of the way, he hoped he was mistaken. After all, Elros was constantly up to his ears in plans.

Years ago, Elros had begun his attempt to bring together and strengthen the camp’s Edain. Numerous mortal tribes and peoples had joined King Gil-galad, all seemingly with different unwritten rules and ways of life. They were clans of shepherds and hunters, planters, and bands of menacing outlaws. Most of them had spent more time this past century warring with each other than against Morgoth.

For reasons Elrond had never fathomed, Elros had chosen to get himself involved in that quagmire. Gil-galad and Lord Círdan had lent him their begrudging support, a gamble that had soon come to pay off better than anyone had dared to hope. The twins’ line of descent from the noblest of mannish chieftains, Elros’ status as an outsider, and the fact that he knew little fear had allowed him to act as a much-needed mediator. Gradually, his negotiations had borne fruit. 

In the beginning, Elros had often sought counsel from Elrond, from Erenion. Not so much anymore.

Elros had coordinated a council where representatives of each group of men could hammer out deals before infighting broke out. He’d found the people who knew multiple tongues work as tutors and interpreters, and arranged for common training sessions and workshops for crafts. The number of Edain in Gil-galad's camp had grown vastly under Elros' oversight.

As more and more tribes came to treat with him, Elros’ responsibility and influence had soared. It had quickly gained him friends, eager lieutenants, and countless admirers. And enemies - not to forget.

Elrond’s determined face fell as he reached Elros’ home. Sewn from animal skins, the way the Edain favored, the tent was large enough for several people to stand comfortably upright under its roof. At the door, Elrond stopped, struck by hesitation.

He sighed. He glanced inattentively at the surrounding campgrounds. He fiddled with a loose thread on the sleeve of his tunic. He recited the names of every bone in the hand in Quenya and was just about to do the same in Sindarin when he heard Elros’ voice coming from inside the tent.

The exact words weren’t discernible, but they were followed by the sound of a girl’s laughter. Elrond’s frown grew. He didn’t want to interrupt anything, but he was supposed to be in a hurry, and he had stood around like an idiot long enough.

“Elros?” he called out, his heart up in his throat.

A long moment went by. Then Elros pulled the tent fabric aside with an abrupt movement and appeared at the door.

“What do you want?” 

Elrond completely lost the thread. He stared at his brother, mouth open. Dumbstruck, he got out, “What have you done to your hair?” 

Someone had shorn Elros’ long, smooth hair off just above the shoulders. The sight stole Elrond’s attention away from his brother’s narrowed eyes and surly mouth. It wasn’t homely, only radically different, and it oughtn’t to have affected Elrond so. Standing on Elros' threshold, he couldn’t help but dwell on the realization that they’d never looked this dissimilar before in their lives.

Perhaps Elros had felt like really driving home the point.

“Graweth cut it,” Elros muttered, perhaps with a hint of self-consciousness. He gestured inside the pavilion, where a young girl stood about.

“Are you coming inside or what?”

Though it wasn’t much of an invitation, Elrond followed his brother into the cavelike tent.

“Graweth, this is Elrond, my brother.” Elros was forced to forego some of his sullenness for the sake of making their introduction. “Elrond, this is Graweth.”

The girl - Graweth - looked caught off guard. Her eyes fluttered keenly between their matching faces. She had thick, dark hair that fell in spiraled curls and wore a brown dress sewn from rough goat wool. Her neck and wrists were adorned with jewelry made from bones and clay beads. “It’s a pleasure,” she told Elrond in accented Sindarin. 

Elrond vaguely recalled seeing her before. If he wasn’t mistaken, her people had arrived at camp very recently, and she’d been translating for the emissaries they’d sent to bargain with Gil-galad. He hadn’t remembered her name, nor had the faintest idea that she and Elros were close.

“You too,” Elrond replied, not without hesitation. 

Silence settled. Judging by the girl's careful expression, Elrond thought she might have some idea of what had him and Elros at each other’s throats. She stood a handsbreadth from Elros, supportive. Could Elros have told her about the choice? About their fight? The thought left Elrond rattled.

“Why are you here?” Elros demanded to know, lips thin with impatience.

“I’ve got something to show you,” Elrond said with emphasis, hoping it might get Elros to ask this Graweth to take her leave so the two of them could talk in privacy.

Elros crossed his arms, looking unmoved. Graweth didn't move. Elrond sensed his brother's dismissal. His posture seemed to tell Elrond, "Whatever you want to tell me, you can say it in front of her or say nothing at all."

Elrond briefly hesitated, then stepped forward, rolling his eyes. He practically showed Maglor’s slip of paper at Elros, wanting to wipe that haughty look off his face sooner rather than later.

Looking puzzled, Elros took the note and held it to the light in order to read it. 

It was easy to pinpoint the exact moment he recognized the penmanship and put the pieces together. His face lit up with surprise and joy. Elros beamed at Elrond. “Where did he…”

“It was in my tent,” Elrond revealed, finding Elros’ grin to be contagious. “On my books!”

“I can’t believe it!” Elros' voice was full of vibrant appreciation. Elrond knew exactly how he felt. Momentarily, all was well between them.

Elros reread the note.“Uncharacteristically brief, don’t you think?”

“That’s what I figured too.”

All the paper said was: Midnight. The Dual Waterfalls. 

That was a landmark not far from where they were camped. The river split into two, and each stream fell a few meters before reuniting with its other half. Some called it the Twin Cascades, Elrond remembered. Maglor had likely found it poetic. Now, Elrond found it only strung at his heart.

Elros turned toward Graweth, and soon the two of them were talking conspiratorially. If Elros was explaining the situation to her, Graweth got it frighteningly fast. Her eyes shone with understanding after only a few seconds. Elrond knitted his brows. How much did this girl know?

Elros’ attention returned to him. “How do you even think he… got this to you?”

Elrond wasn’t certain, but he had a suspicion. “Remember what we used to theorize about?” 

Maedhros and Maglor’s knowledge of King Gil-galad’s doings, his movements, had always been a little too precise. They had too much confidence in their information to be relying on guesswork. Any attempt of the twins' to inquire about it had been met with a playful, “Don’t worry your pretty little heads about it,” from Maglor and no response at all from Maedhros.

“Someone in camp reports to them,” Elrond concluded.

Elros looked to agree. Graweth looked thoughtful.

“Perhaps that might explain why…” She began, fiddling with the beads of her necklace and looking from twin to twin. “Why the contact was made with you, Elrond, and not you.” She looked at Elros with hesitation. “Your… Your father’s spy would likely be an elf, would they not? They’d have a hard time sneaking in here unnoticed.”

Elros nodded. “That could make sense.”

The reasoning was sound enough. Elrond had gotten plenty of stares and curious comments from the Edain just trying to visit his brother. Any unfamiliar elvish visitor would likely be asked to state their errand. However, that wasn’t what Elrond fixated on.

Graweth knew about Maglor. She’d called him Elros’ father. 

To never tell anyone about Maedhros and Maglor had been the one rule they had set for themself before coming here. Lie, deflect, say nothing, imply something atrocious. They’d performed it to perfection for two long years. 

Now, apparently, Elros had spilled all their secrets to some daughter of Men whom he couldn’t have known for more than a few weeks. Why? How could he do such a thing? It was such a blatant breach of trust on top of everything that Elrond couldn’t even figure out how to be properly angry about it. 

“So,” He turned to Elros, face warm with frustration. “Are you coming with me?”

“What kind of question is that?” The coldness was back in Elros’ voice. Perhaps the words had come out harsher than intended because his tone was softer when he added, “We’re coming.”

We. Elrond couldn’t believe him.

“Well, walking to the Twin Cascades will take us at least three hours.”

“Horses would get us there faster.”

“How would we get them out of camp, though?”

“I know the guards on the night shift here. They’ll let me out. Graweth and I can bring some food with us.”

Elrond nodded. “I don’t think I’ll be able to, but well... I’ve got some wine I might bring.”

“Fine. We’ll meet three and a half hours before midnight by the smiths’ workshop. It’s just up the street.”

“Deal,” Elrond agreed. This talk hadn't gone as he’d expected, but at least now they had a plan. A treasonous plan, perhaps, but one Elrond was desperate to see through

Graweth nodded along with them. “Elros, it's getting late. I’ve got to be on my way. It was good to meet you, Elrond.”

“Likewise,” he told her, still not quite sure if he meant it.

She had to get on her tiptoes to kiss Elros on the lips. She sent him a fond half-flustered grin, ran a hand through her hair, and took a few steps backward to the door. “Don’t forget,” she said, cheekily dramatic, pointing a finger at Elros. “You never saw me.”

“Saw who?" Elros joked back, affection clear in his voice. She blew him one more kiss before disappearing, mane of curls trailing after her. 

Elros, the fool, didn’t stop smiling for a full minute.

“What was that about?” Elrond eventually asked, curious despite himself. "In what world are you not seeing each other?”

Elros’ grin faltered. “It’s her father,” he muttered, voice serious once again. “I’m not exactly his favorite person at the moment.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Elrond told him without even thinking. That couldn’t be easy. Perhaps the upside of not taking any lovers, Elrond thought to himself, was that there were never any in-laws to deal with.

“How bad is it?” he asked after a moment, voice careful.

Elros let out a bitter laugh. “Let’s just say I've been perfecting my ability to duck.”

“He’s tried to hit you?” Elrond could hear how horrified he sounded. For the millionth time, he wondered if Elros knew what he had gotten himself into.

When he caught Elros’ gaze, his brother only looked irritated. “Since when do you care?"

That was entirely uncalled for, but Elrond still felt a pang of helplessness, of guilt. If it ever came to real fighting, fifty-odd Edain boys would be ready to join the brawl on Elros’ side before Elrond even heard the news of it. 

Elros was the one who had left him, he reminded himself, his mouth dry. Elros was so very busy with his grand new life. More than a year ago, he'd moved his bedroll out of their tent without even giving Elrond a warning. He was going to keep on leaving him...

Elrond watched his brother with a defeated expression. No amount of hostility on Elros' part could make Elrond forget how much he'd missed him. “Do you realize,” he began, voice low, gaze wavering. “This is the longest we’ve ever gone without talking. It’s been…”

“Fifteen days, I know.” Elros' words betrayed no emotion.

“The second longest time was…”

“Eight days. You and Maedhros were snowed in at Belegost.”’

Elrond went quiet. When the worst of the snow had been cleared away, they’d cried tears of joy, holding on to each other with every bit of their childish strength. How very different everything looked now...

The prospect of meeting with Maglor had brought them both happiness, but as soon as either of them remembered the choice, they’d start snarling at the other. Trying to talk about it, as Gil-galad had optimistically suggested, would likely only lead to them crying and shouting at each other all over again.

Finally, Elros raised an eyebrow. “Is there something you want to say to me, Elrond?”

He was fishing for an apology, Elrond knew. Now? After everything? No. He refused to entertain it. 

“You know, I could ask the same thing of you."

“Get out,” Elros said through gritted teeth.

“See you tonight,” Elrond told him cheerlessly, slipping out the door.

Chapter Text

Back in his tent, Elrond made a half-hearted attempt to sit down and study, turning page after page in his textbook without registering much. When he at last struggled to keep his eyes open, he gave up, put a bookmark in between the yellowed pages, and put the tome down.

A couple of hours of sleep would have done him wonders, but Elrond worried that if he allowed himself rest, he might not wake up in time to meet with Elros.

Instead, he went to get dinner, a bowl of steaming hot soup from the kitchens. Elrond knew those of the other healer’s apprentices who were not on shift ate together just a few tents over. He purposefully went the other way as he scurried back to his own tent, head hung low. He didn’t necessarily think any of them disliked him, but he’d never figured out how to talk to them outside of class without the conversation descending into stilted stares and silence. It seemed like a waste of effort to attempt it tonight, when his mind was so occupied elsewhere.

He ate slowly and in silence, turning the wooden spoon over and over in his hand as he waited for time to pass. His mind wandered off to their secret plan for the night, and then on to Erenion, to what the King might be doing. 

By now, he had to be long finished with those spear drills of his, Elrond thought, putting his empty bowl down beside him. Perhaps Erenion was meeting with his councilors or captains, as he often favored to do after dinner. Or perhaps he, like Elrond, was spending the evening by himself.

Any other night, Elrond would have simply dropped by to find out. Tonight is different, he repeated to himself, lamenting his own stupidity. His every thought was accompanied by its fair share of guilt and frustration. How could he simultaneously be betraying his king and daydreaming about him?

He halfway considered picking up the anatomy book again just to have something to occupy himself with. In the end, he settled for cozying up with a blanket and watching through the open tent door as the sun set over camp, painting the sky.

When the last of the light had disappeared, Elrond got up, gathered his weapons, and put on the warmest of his cloaks. The weather had been mild these first weeks of spring, but it’d likely get much colder as the hour grew late.

He dug the bottle of wine he’d been hiding amidst his clothes and placed it safely in his backpack. Good wine was near impossible to come by these days. Elrond had been gifted this a few months earlier by some minor lord who’d wanted to curry favor with Gil-galad. He’d never gotten around to sharing it with Erenion, and he knew how much Maglor would appreciate it. On an impulse, he also packed what he had of salves, balms, and bandages. The Feanorians might appreciate those even more. 

After blowing out his candle, he snuck out, looking over his shoulder as he headed down the narrow path. There wasn’t any formal curfew in Gil-galad’s camp, but they weren’t exactly encouraged to leave their tents and go strolling after nightfall. 

In what felt like a stroke of horrendously bad luck, Elrond hadn’t made it past more than a few tents when he heard someone call out his name.

“Eärendilion!"

Elrond turned and looked back. A lone figure had shown up by the entrance to Elrond’s tent.

“Uh, good evening.” As they approached each other, Elrond noted that the elf was wearing the dark blue uniform of Gil-galad’s personal guard. He had to be one of the newer ones. Elrond recognized the face but couldn't recall his name. “Might I help you?” 

The guard frowned deeply. “The High King’s been asking for you for this last half hour. Where have you been?”

“Oh.” Elrond winced, panicking inside and trying to conceal it. How on earth could he have forgotten? He did have plans with Erenion tonight. 

Just the other day the King had requested his presence. They were supposed to meet with some chieftain or the other who’d been causing Erenion trouble. Elrond had happily agreed to come by and help out in any way he could. It had only managed to slip his mind because he’d found Maglor’s message.

“Listen,” He began without any grace, painfully aware he had to think of an excuse, any excuse, as fast as possible. Trembling slightly, he settled for some version of the truth. “I’m so sorry, but I’m actually on the way to see Elros, my brother.” 

Elrond continued, deciding what to say as he went along. “We’ve been fighting and Er-” He corrected himself, “The High King has been urging me to make peace with him for weeks.”

Breathing in, Elrond scrutinized the guard. Thankfully, he didn’t seem suspicious, just bewildered as to why Elrond would skip out on his appointment with the High King for some family matter. Elrond knew that though Erenion’s guards liked him well enough, most of them found him to be something of an odd case. The King’s close personal friend and sometimes assistant, descendant of the finest royal bloodlines, but usually content with sewing up wounds and cleaning bedpans in the infirmary. And that was when you avoided bringing how he’d grown up into the picture…

“I know I promised I’d come by tonight, but I finally feel as if I'm ready to… to take King Gil-galads's advice and reconcile with my brother.” 

Elrond managed a smile, small and only slightly artificial-looking.“I’m certain the High King will understand.”

The watchman nodded. Elrond was just about to congratulate himself on a first-rate cover story when the guard's expression instantly shifted into one of alarmed mistrust. “And how does that sword of yours play into this reconciliation process, Eärendilion?” 

Fuck. Elrond grimaced. Healer’s apprentices weren’t usually this armed when they made their way through camp to visit relatives. He resisted the urge to take a step backward, resisted the urge to take flight. 

Swallowing, he said the very first thing that appeared in his mind. “We’re going sparring, Elros and I.” When the guard didn’t immediately interrupt him, he doubled down, trying to keep all signs of distress from his voice. “That’s our plan at least. It’s so calming in the evening when you’ve got the training grounds all to yourself. We’ll get to talk that way… Reconnect.”

On an impulse, he put on a grim face and added, “That’s what Elros and I always did growing up.” He figured it might be a good call. Even if this elf hardly knew him, he’d have heard rumors of his and Elros’ abduction and captivity. 

Let him think me strange and marred and pitiful, Elrond prayed. And then let me be on my way.

When Elrond thought he saw a flicker of stunned sympathy in the guard's eyes, he took his chance. “I have to be going, but please pass my sincerest apologies on to King Gil-galad.” He said, hasty but polite. “Let him know I’ll come by tomorrow.”

Elrond turned on his feet and left, relieved not to be stopped, trying to avoid looking like someone fleeing the scene. 

That didn’t go well, he thought, more than a little ashamed of himself. He hated all this lying, he hated sneaking around. Above all, he couldn’t stand the thought of letting his king down even further.

Seven months into his and Elros’ stay with Gil-galad's host, in the early evening hours of a cold autumn day, the forefront of the army had fallen under attack. Suddenly the dense woodland had seemed to be crawling with orcs. For each one killed, two more had seemed to appear and take its place. Elrond remembered how the forest had echoed with screams, roars, and the clanging of weapons. Soldiers and noncombatants alike had been falling over each other in the tumult.

When reinforcements had arrived they’d put the orcs to flight. In the hours that had followed the clash, Elrond had gotten a rather nightmarish introduction to the practical side of his apprenticeship, doing his best to assist the healers in treating, or at least comforting, the shivering, ashen-faced victims of poisoned wounds and cuts.

When the master of healers at last sent him off to get some rest, Elrond half-staggered through the darkness of the temporary camp, The aftershocks of the fray lingered in the air. Thin smoke rose in spirals from the pyre of the fallen. Some of the scattered elves and Men kept watch, others wandered aimlessly. Most were attempting to sleep on the bare forest floor.

Elrond’s plan to find his brother, his bedroll, and dreamland came rushing to a standstill when he sighted the High King’s tent. Raised and guarded, it was reassuringly familiar. Somehow it made Elrond feel slightly more awake. He knew Erenion hadn’t been among the injured. There had been no sight of him in the infirmary and either way, the whole host would’ve heard word if something had befallen their King.

Even so, Elrond thought, perhaps I ought to check on him. 

Though the idea took root in him, he still felt somewhat apprehensive as he drew nearer to the pavilion. The hour had grown so late. The King might not wish for visitors and Elrond had not been invited. Besides, Elros, the menace, would be sure to tease him come morning if he spent yet another evening late away in Erenion’s company.

None of those inner reminders could sate Elrond’s desire to go.

The guards let him inside without much fuss and in the tent he found Gil-galad sitting behind his desk, illuminated by a lone candle, radiating utter misery. 

Elrond’s lips parted in surprise. He often found Erenion somewhat difficult to read, but this was unmistakable. It was as if all the vivid color had drained out of the King, leaving behind furrows and eyes ringed with dark circles. Each of his movements was slow as were he feverish or hindered by vast weight.

Elrond remembered something Maglor had told him once, off-handedly, about kings at war never failing to isolate themselves.

“Erenion,” Elrond said in careful greeting. “Are you well?”

Gil-galad’s eyes wavered as he gave a weak nod, looking tiredly at the half-finished letter in front of him. The crumbled pages on the desk told of a few rejected attempts. The ink on his latest page shone slightly, not yet dry. Someone had brought him a tray with a large pot of tea, but it’d been left untouched. 

Approaching, Elrond thought to himself that it’d be presumptuous to reach out and touch him. As somewhat of a rule, he never did so outside of their weapon's training. When Erenion stayed still as a statue, a far cry from himself, Elrond disregarded his first instinct and laid a gentle hand on his mail-clad shoulder. “Is there anything I might do for you? I can send for someone if you wish it. For Lord Círdan perhaps?”

Rolling the quill between his fingers, Erenion shook his head.

“Then…” Elrond tried to swallow his inkling of hurt, unsure where it had come from and aware it was far from justified. He ran his thumb across the shirt's fine metallic rings. “Would you prefer for me to leave you alone?” 

“No.” A repressed yawn thickened Erenion's voice. When he gestured to the empty chair beside him, Elrond was quick to sit down. He lowered his shoulders and straightened his back, pondering. 

Usually, he thought of himself as quite good at consoling people in need, at figuring out to say. Faced with Erenion, strong and sick at heart and pouring over paperwork, Elrond was at a loss. His mind shot off in different directions, but only came up with bits and pieces Elrond definitely shouldn’t voice. Personal notions that were self-loathing and dazed and plain absurd.

If I only had the nerve, I’d have embraced you already.

I am here by your side under false pretenses. Truly, Erenion, you can’t trust a word I say.

Did you know Elros keeps joking about how you and I are involved?

Elrond bit his lower lip. At last, the candlelight on the inkblots gave him some hint of an idea. Before he could change his mind, he reached for a cup, filled it with warm tea, and offered it to the High King. With his other hand, he gently picked Gil-galad’s quill out from between his fingers.

“If you dictate, I’ll write.”

I'd been the just right thing to say. Erenion narrated in between mouthfuls of tea and Elrond’s hand flew across the paper. Though his focus was on getting the penmanship right, he couldn’t help but widen his eyes at some of the content.

Talking politics with Erenion over cups of ale was one thing. This was something else, a fresh level of trust. The information he took down wasn’t meant for the ears of Maglor Fëanorian’s foster son, that much was certain. 

The appreciative look in Erenion’s eyes and the color returning to his cheeks worked to assuage some of Elrond’s guilty conscience. It wasn’t as if Elrond would ever do anything with these secrets of state. Elrond was Erenion’s vassal through and through, or at least he was in every way that mattered.

They had finished letter after letter, not pausing till the candle had become a puddle of wax. Elrond’s whole hand had been cramping up, his eyelids heavy, his stomach sore from hunger. “This should be it for tonight, I think. Perhaps we can continue tomorrow.”

Gil-galad looked ready to collapse in his chair, eyes glassy. “Elrond,” he tried “I should thank you…”

“You should have dinner with me.” 

Erenion’s odd glance made Elrond break into a somewhat rambling clarification. “We both ought to eat something and then get some sleep. Neither of us is in any condition to work just now. ”

The King shook his head, reaching for a new page of paper. Slowly, Elrond got up. He leaned against the desk and found himself insisting, as kindly as he could manage. It wasn’t as if Elrond was new to this game. As a child, he had needed to cajole Maglor and Maedhros out of dead-eyed grief or stubborn passiveness more times than he could count.

“Erenion, my King,” he prompted with a look of mild expectation. “Please. If not for your own sake then for mine.” He smiled sadly and wrapped his arms around himself. “Elros is who knows where and probably vast asleep. I don’t want to sit by myself in the dark.”

Everything he said was true enough, but when Erenion, at last, gave in and rose, Elrond couldn’t suppress a brief look of satisfaction. 

Weary though he was, Erenion didn’t miss it. “There’s no one like you, Elrond.” He shook his head gently but did not sound at all displeased.

Bone-tired and starving, Elrond hadn’t been in the mood for ambiguous compliments. “I sure hope not,” he’d muttered as they finally left the tent behind. 

It had turned out to be, of course, grotesquely too late for dinner. Dawn had almost been upon them, so the two of them had, with some resigned amusement, opted for an early breakfast instead. Amidst the quiescent landscape, forest and refuge, and battlefield at once, they’d found a fallen moss-covered log. They’d sat down together there, each with a bowl of bland porridge, too exhausted to speak.

Before long, the first sun rays of the nearing day had burst through the treetops. Erenion put his empty bowl down on the mossy bark. The King still appeared fatigued, but much less ill, a little less disheartened. He'd breathed in deep and turned his head to look at Elrond, saying nothing, eyes full of soft awed bewilderment. Just then, Elrond had felt, to an overpowering degree, that he was in the exact right place.

Hurrying through the dark camp, Elrond tried to assure himself that his cover story might not be that bad. If he was lucky, Gil-galad would be pleased to hear how Elrond was finally following his counsel regarding Elros. If the guard passed on how nervous Elrond had seemed, Erenion might chalk that up to him simply dreading a confrontation with his brother. 

Things might just work out, he told himself.

By their meeting point, the smithy in the Edain’s quarter, the girl, Graweth, was waiting alone. “Elros is on his way,” she assured Elrond after greeting him.

“You’re actually coming with us?” Elrond looked her over with narrow eyes. She’d changed into breeches and a thick fur cloak, but she didn’t carry any visible gear or weapons.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He frowned. “I thought perhaps Elros only said it to annoy me.”

Graweth pressed her lips together, clearly taking offense. Elrond quickly found himself backtracking. “I'm sorry, that came out... Just forget what I said!”

She shrugged. The silence between them grew awkward before Graweth addressed him, hesitantly. 

“Elrond… There’s something I want you to know. Just in case you were thinking…”

“Thinking what?”

She took a breath before explaining, hiding her face behind her hair. “Thinking that I convinced him, or that I somehow persuaded him to choose… the way he did." She paused. "It’s not like in one of those sad elven songs. I’ve known him for less than a month. I just want to make sure you know it doesn't have anything to do with me.”

“I know that,” Elrond told her. It’d be senseless to blame her. Elros’ choice was motivated by more than some springtime infatuation. That was why it stung Elrond so acutely. “Besides,” he said. “Elros is far more stubborn than good is. He never lets himself be persuaded. Maybe by Maglor, on a lucky day, but otherwise never.”

“Maglor is the one we’re meeting, is he not?” Graweth asked, clearly trying to sound politely interested. “Do you call him father too?”

“I still can’t believe Elros told you that.” 

“If it helps at all, I don’t think he meant to tell me.” Graweth rolled the beads of her necklace between her fingers. “It was a few weeks ago. I just came by to wish him joy on his birthday.” 

Elrond shifted in his place uncomfortably. He knew what this meant. 

“I’d spend the morning obsessing over how to do my hair, over whether bringing a gift would be overstepping, and then…” She went quiet. Elrond got the sense she was omitting things for the sake of Elros’ privacy. That was sweet of her but utterly unnecessary. Elrond had been there. For better or for worse, he knew Elros more than anyone. On their birthday, they had been equally beside themselves.

Finally, she continued, cautiously and quietly, as if worried Elrond would snap at her again. “He was so distraught. You really hurt him.”

“He told you everything then?” Elrond asked, surprised and oddly sympathetic. “Oh, you must have been so confused.”

She gave a strained smile. “I was. It took a while… I’m sure a lot of the subtleties were lost on me.” 

Letting the necklace go, she then looked up at Elrond. “I would tell you how sorry I am, for what happened to you as children, but Elros let me know you’re both beyond sick of hearing that.”

Elrond nodded. “It does get tiring.” 

“I promise not to say anything to your elven king, by the way. Elros made it clear that could get you into trouble.” 

Graweth moved restlessly. "And then..." Her full focus was on Elrond, taking the measure of him. "I trust that you won't disclose anything about me and your brother to my parents, or to any of my people."

Elrond’s eyebrow moved upward and he let out a sound that was half impressed, half taken aback. Perhaps this girl would get along with Maglor much better than Elrond had first assumed. No wonder Elros had taken a liking to her.

"Listen, there's no need to blackmail me," he said with more amusement in his voice than Graweth had probably expected. "Don't worry. Elros might be a wretched fool, but he's still my family. Obviously, I would never do anything to harm either of you."

She gave an awkward relieved nod. A moment passed in silence.

“Are you going to try and make up with him? If I may ask, I mean.” 

“Maybe,” Elrond sighed. Part of him desperately wanted to but he wasn't sure if letting her know that would lead anywhere good. 

“You truly can’t be right in the head, coming along for this,” he couldn’t help but tell Graweth. Perhaps he wanted to get the attention away from himself. Perhaps he was lashing out just a bit. “Especially not since you know who we're meeting. I mean, sane people try and stay away from mass murderers.” 

“I know that.” She breathed in, looking a little spooked. “But, well, I promised Elros I would come with you. I'm not going back on that.” 

Elrond shook his head. “You must truly be in love with him.” 

That was always a most likely way of losing one's sanity.

He'd said it mostly in jest, but Graweth lowered her head, flustered, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I trust his judgment,” she said, deflecting. Then she looked up at Elrond and added, much more pointedly, “I feel a bit more iffy about yours, to be honest.”

Elrond winced, then managed a smile. Warming slightly to her, he took a breath. “I probably deserved that.”

"Honestly," he continued, sounding as reconciliatory as he could manage. "Don’t listen to me. If you feel a need to trek through the woods and risk your life for Elros’ sake, who am I to stop you?” 

She listened, then suggested, “Three’s a party?” 

“I suppose so.” She hadn’t done anything to harm him, after all. This trip would likely go a whole lot smoother if Elrond weren't at odds with both of his traveling companions. Glancing up the pathway, he could finally spot his brother in the distance. “Look, there’s Elros.”

Elros carried two sizeable backpacks, his sword, and a hunting bow. Elrond’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of him, still not used to the short hair.

Letting his supplies fall to the ground, Elros strode forward to wrap his arms around Graweth. He whispered something in her ear and the two embraced as if they had been apart for days rather than hours or less. 

Elrond looked briefly at the ground before exchanging stilted nods with Elros. The determined look that passed between them was familiar but lacked its usual warmth.

As Elros handed the bow to Graweth and supplied her with a knife from his belt, Elrond snuck a look at the contents of the bags. “How did you get your hands on this much food?”

Elros shrugged, smiling slightly. “I cashed in a few favors.”

A week's rations, disappearing from the camp’s supply and falling into the hands of a kinslayer. A voice inside Elrond’s head that sounded extremely akin to Gil-galad’s spoke in sharp appalled outrage. Elrond silenced it, making himself remember the many years when Maglor had fed him. The last woodland strawberries of the season, soup when Elrond had been sick in bed, the meat of a lone hare shot as it fled through the snow. 

“Maglor will be glad,” he let Elros know. 

Elros led them to the outskirts of the camp, to an opening between the tents guarded by two young men. Elrond and Graweth waited at a distance as Elros talked back and forth with them. 

Their discussion kept going, and to Elrond’s regret, Elros was looking more and more irritated. The guards seemed to be refusing his demand. Stranger yet, they were seemingly gesturing in the direction of Graweth, who tensed up.

“Is it you they don’t want to let out?” Elrond asked her in a whisper, baffled. “Why?” He’d thought it much more likely that they’d take issue with him. 

“They might be worried about my father.” Graweth glanced in Elros’ direction. There was a tinge of shame in her voice. “He’s…” Before she could finish, Elros seemed to have solved their problem. He waved Elrond and Graweth along hurriedly while thanking the guards with fervor. 

“Let me guess,” Elrond asked Elros when they had left the camp behind and were at the edge of the woods. “More favors?”

Elros’ authority and many connections among the Edain tended to throw Elrond off balance, but it was hard to not also be a little impressed.

Elros shrugged, seemingly not fully satisfied with whatever deal he’d struck, but glad they were now on their way. “Maglor has better be happy to see us,” he declared.

“He will be.” Elrond’s voice was soft. He felt hopeful, and more so when he saw Elros nod. Together, the three of them began their walk.

Chapter Text

The three of them walked in single file on the stiffened mud of a rarely used horse trail, headed towards the waterfalls, towards Maglor. 

Elros led the way, Graweth followed closely after him and Elrond kept to the back. Their eyes slowly got accustomed to the gloom, to the trace of moonlight gleaming through the clouds above the treetops. The night air had grown chilly, but their swift pace kept them warm.

Around them, winter was releasing its grip on the landscape. The forest was coming back to life. Snowdrops and crocuses covered much of the earth and the countless little buds on the branches would soon burst into bright green leaves. 

Elrond had just dodged a thorny low-hanging branch when Graweth threw a glance backward and casually told him. “By the way, Elrond, you’re throwing a dinner party.”

“I’m what?” Elrond scrunched his nose, unable to tell whether or not she was mocking him.

“That’s what I told my mother, just earlier,” Graweth explained as she walked. “She wanted me to watch my brothers and sisters.” She shrugged. “It was the only excuse I could think of on the spot. I told her you were the elven High King’s right-hand man and that me refusing the invitation would cause further insult to him.”

Elrond frowned. He admittedly hadn’t done much better when he’d needed to lie on his feet, but he didn’t think Graweth’s story would hold up to much scrutiny. 

“I don’t throw dinner parties.” Elrond objected. He stared into the dark underwood, recalling how he’d gobbled down his dinner by himself like a hermit a mere hour ago. 

Half under his breath he added, “And right-hand man is so much to be said.”

Elros let out an unimpressed sound at that. “Oh, don’t try that,” he protested, tone light. Elrond should have seen it coming. “You’re always together. Gil-galad listens to you.”

He looked back at Elrond with a crooked grin, the expression of one certain they had it all figured out. “Everyone knows you’re his favorite. It's a wonder you ha-” 

“Elros,” Elrond complained weakly, not exactly keen on this topic of discussion. It was none of Elros’ concern whatsoever.

“What?” Elros teased, stopping in his tracks. Once he’d gotten started on some tangent, it was always as good as impossible to get him to back down. To Elrond’s mortification, he turned towards Graweth, apparently meaning to fill her in. “So, for the last two years, Elrond and King Gil-galad have been absolu…”

“Would you shut up!” Elrond had no patience with him. He felt the ghost of their fight lurking just beneath the surface. 

“I don’t mean anything by it,” Elros let him know, far from genuinely apologetic. Elrond’s loyalty to Erenion had always seemed to amuse and baffle him. Elros and Gil-galad were friendly enough, Elrond supposed. They respected each other but had their share of disagreements too. “I’m just saying.” Elros kept going. “Has he ever denied you anything? Told you no? Even once?”

Elrond stiffened slightly at that, breathing in through clenched teeth. Erenion had, in fact, done so. Just the one time, three months before, on the lengthiest night of the year.

As much as he’d tried to disremember what had occurred then, the memory of it was burned into Elrond's mind. Taking another sharp breath, he tried to force himself to think of anything but Erenion, not wanting to dwell once again on what had happened the night of midwinter.

Elros had to have noticed the discomfort on Elrond’s face. He gave him an odd look but let the subject rest at last. 

The three of them continued as the trail led them onto a broader path. This was the one the army had arrived by when they’d first set up camp here, the tracks of wagons, soldiers, and horses in scores remained.

Elrond took in their surroundings as they walked onward side by side. He didn't think they were much at risk of running into foes. They were still relatively close to Gil-galad's people. Were they to encounter an enemy scout anyway the three of them were well equipped to deal with the situation.

“You have younger siblings?” Elrond asked Graweth after a while, mostly wanting to fill the silence

She nodded. “Four of them.”

“Have you met them, Elros?” Elrond’s tone was conciliatory. He glanced at his brother, ruing how this night would proceed if they couldn’t at least be civil with each other.

Elros looked ill-humored. “Glimpsed them, and barely at that.”

“They’re shy,” Graweth explained. “Their sindarin’s lacking, all the commotion in camp frightens them.” There was evident distaste in her voice when she added. “And my father’s not exactly helping.” 

“Oh.” Elrond didn’t quite know how to respond to that. It wasn’t any of his business, but he remembered quite well how it felt to be a small child in a scary new place. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do, won’t you?” 

“Thank you.” Graweth looked appreciative. Even Elros didn’t have anything nasty to say. 

“Not to meddle,” Elrond began, finding himself wanting to understand this part of Elros’ life. “But what is… wrong with your father?”

“What isn’t wrong with him?” Elros commented, but his tone had grown much lighter.

“He’s in charge of your people, is he not? Why did he have you stick around if he dislikes us all that much?” 

Relatively few Edain fought under Gil-galad’s banners. Some served Morgoth, the poor fools. Others were lying low in the wood, scavenging and hiding from the combat, owing allegiance to no one. Elros’ attempts to establish relations with them had yielded mixed results. 

Graweth’s voice turned dark. “He had no wish to stay. He doesn’t trust your friend the King.” She shook her head. “He didn’t have much choice. Half of our tribe would have mutinied against him had he not agreed to stay.” She did not sound as if she’d necessarily blame them much for doing so.

Elrond nodded slowly. Hearing that and seeing the assertive, determined look on Elros’ face, he understood perfectly well how Elros put the fear of doom into that man. 

He asked himself how many half-ostracized old men lay awake at night in Gil-galad’s camp, vexed and humiliated by Elros, young and bold and a little too satisfied with himself. Elros, who held no formal title, but a perplexing amount of power. It seemed to grow with every passing day and Elros sure wasn’t planning on apologizing for it. 

Could his brother perhaps have some of his new friends guard his tent after nightfall? Elrond wondered, quietly concerned. Elros had been showing a shocking disregard for his own life and limbs lately and his running off with his newfound enemy’s daughter probably didn't improve his situation. It was so typical of him, thoroughly uncareful. Why did he always have to make things so difficult?

“I sure hope the two of you know what you’re doing,” Elrond warned Elros and Graweth, unable to keep the judgment from his voice.

Elros didn’t bother to look at him. “We’ve got it under control, thank you.” 

“Isn’t it hard to lie to your family? Don’t you hate it?” Elrond asked Graweth. He found it difficult enough to be dishonest with Gil-galad and Círdan and he’d never even bothered attempting to lie to Maedhros or Maglor.

“Well, if the alternative is worse…" She sighed and gave a small shock. "I’m starting to run out of good excuses though. This afternoon my parents thought I was down at the stream washing my clothes, and since I couldn’t exactly return without clean clothes…”

“It meant I had to pay someone to do her laundry,” Elros interjected, shaking his head but smiling all the while. “A terrible trade-off, Graweth, now that I think about it.”

Graweth made a mock-offended sound, and the two of them descended into flirtatious bickering. Trying not to pay them attention, Elrond scouted in between the dark trees, humming some tune he'd picked up from Maglor in times past. Once again he lamented the circumstances that had led to him facing an hourlong hike with two newly-in-love people.

At some point much later, the topic of Eros and Graweth's talk shifted to sword-fighting, to Narsil, the blade Maglor had once gifted Elros.“Elrond, be honest,” Graweth invited him into the conversation out of the blue. “Is he as good as he claims?”

Elrond mulled it over, torn between not wanting to let Elros down entirely and not wanting to make matters too easy for him. Eventually, he settled on telling her, “Well, he’s been stowing that sword away in our bedrooms since we were eight years old. It’d be strange if he hadn’t picked up a thing or two along the way.”

“Since you were eight?” Graweth sounded fascinated.

“He was hilarious as a child,” Elrond reminisced, a twinkle appearing in his eyes. “Maglor always said so too. Always wanting us to run off on wild adventures. Always getting himself injured too.”

Elros rolled his eyes the way he did when he was self-conscious and trying to hide it. 

Elrond elaborated, “Sprained ankles, skinned knees, a broken arm.” Quick on his feet, Elrond moved to dodge Elros’ playful punch. “And a concussion that one time,” He quipped, regaining his footing.

Graweth chuckled and Elros lifted his hands in frustration. To Elrond’s relief, there was no true bite to his retort. “You’re the one who’s been getting injured lately, are you not?” Elros joked. “Your light stab wound, remember?” 

“That was a year ago,” Elrond protested. It didn’t pain him at all anymore. He hardly ever thought about it these days.

One day last spring he’d been attempting to get one of Gil-galad’s archers off the battlefield after her leg had been broken badly courtesy of an orc’s warhammer. He’d struggled to support her as they stumbled across the uneven terrain. Then a different orc, one who’d appeared to be dead at first, had turned out to be decidedly less so.

He remembered how he’d eventually regained consciousness on a cot in the infirmary, shocked and in awful pain, tight bandages wrapped around his torso. Erenion had been sitting at his bedside, still in dirtied armor, clearly come straight from battle himself, seeming beyond relieved to see him wake.

Elrond had tried to sit up but found it hurt him far too much. The left side of his upper body felt as if someone was pressing it against white-hot coal. Sharp twinges of pain rushed through him with no sign of stopping and when he realized he was crying from it Elrond glanced nervously around the busy healers’ tent. 

“Who’s treating me?” he’d croaked out as the very first thing. It shouldn’t have mattered, but he abhorred the thought of his rigid master or any of his fellow apprentices seeing him this injured and weak and out of sorts.

Erenion shushed him, stroking Elrond’s shoulder and adjusting the pillow he rested his head on. “I took care of it, my friend.” Apparently, the healer who was tending to him was one Elrond didn’t know well. That knowledge remedied just a bit of the thunder in his chest.

“Elros?” he asked then, eyes still wide open.

“I’ve sent for him. He’s on his way.”

“Thank you,” He reached out to take Gil-galad’s hand in his and squeezed it, breathless half with agony half with gratitude. “Thank you, Erenion,” he repeated, reverent as were the name a prayer. So many secrets and falsities lay between them, but at that moment Elrond was overjoyed to find that there were some crucial things about him that Gil-galad did know. 

“Of course.” Erenion gave a careful smile and entwined their fingers. 

“The archer?” Elrond asked, holding Erenion’s hand tightly and trying to focus on something other than the accursed throbbing in his wound. “Did she make it? Is she-”

“She’ll live,” Erenion told him, a chiding note to his voice. “I’m grounding you, by the way,” He pointed one finger at Elrond in gentle jest, clearly trying to aid in distracting him. “No more rescue missions. You can stick to writing your notes on physiology and addressing my correspondence from now on.”

Elrond laughed weakly and opened his mouth to speak. “A desk job sounds nice,” was what he'd meant to say, but another twinge of fire had shot through him then and he wasn’t sure if any of the words had come out right.

“They said they’d given you something for the pain.” Erenion looked paler than usual. Elrond heard the anxiety in his voice, felt the strong squeeze of his hand. Too many years in charge had left Erenion somewhat scared of feeling powerless, Elrond knew. He was beyond clueless about medicine too, Elrond had discovered. They often joked about it when Elrond did his reading in Erenion’s tent. It was strangely endearing. He‘d barely known what the spleen was before Elrond told him.

“It’s really not working,” Elrond complained in a breathy whine, shifting in place.

Erenion nodded stiffly and looked up from Elrond’s face. Raising his voice, he ordered for the healer to come to at once, his tone becoming harsh, his whole manner once again proud and kingly.

Then, reverting, Erenion reached down and wiped a tear away from Elrond’s cheek with his thumb. When he, voice full of worry, asked, “Is there anything else I can do?” Elrond whispered, “Just stay.”

“I will. I will. I'm right here”

He held on to Erenion’s hand, feeling increasingly groggy as the healer prepared him a stronger pain reliever. Why was the light from the lanterns so very bright in his eyes? Why was Elros taking so long to get here? How did Gil-galad still look this handsome with droplets of black orc blood splattered over his face and tousled blonde hair? 

He opened his mouth to ask Erenion before stopping himself, his mind feeling altogether addled. What had made his head so heavy? Why were his eyelids about to close? He’d felt Erenion’s thumb brush back and forth along his jaw, the movement near rhythmical, serene. Perhaps whatever drugs they’d given him had started working after all.

Wonderful, just wonderful, Elrond thought as they wandered onward, quietly glad that the darkness of the forest worked to conceal his blush. Here he was thinking about Erenion yet again. 

“It wasn’t that bad,” he assured Graweth, who understandably looked a bit alarmed at the mention of him getting stabbed. “And it was a long time ago.”

Elrond had gotten off very easily. His one reminder of the orc’s blade was an ugly-looking pinkish scar just above his waistline. 

Last summer, when they’d been preparing to go to the training grounds on a hot day, Erenion’s mirthful, “Don’t worry. It makes you look very battle-hardened,” had been the one thing keeping Elrond from chickening out and putting his shirt back on. Erenion, having had royal propriety drilled into him from a young age, had kept his tunic on that day, Elrond recalled without meaning to, kicking a pebble down the path.

“Maybe avoid mentioning that particular injury to Maglor,” Elros suggested. “It’ll only make him worry.”

Elrond nodded in agreement, his thoughts still lingering where they shouldn't.

Later, when they were approaching the waterfalls and beginning to get weary of walking, Graweth asked, “Elros, Your father won’t be opposed to me coming along, will he?”

It was a little late to start considering that, Elrond thought, but when Elros answered, “No, I don’t think so,” he agreed.

As children, they’d had a few playmates in the wilds of Ossirand, and during the winters they’d spent in Belegost, they’d made merry with the dwarves’ children. Elros had often attempted to befriend the young people they came across, whether they were Edain or the occasional elves. He’d dragged Elrond along most of the time, sometimes in the literal sense.

Maglor had always kept his distance, but Elrond couldn’t recall him ever being unkind towards their peers. "He's usually pretty agreeable.”

Graweth hesitated. “How is he related to you again?”

“Uh…” Elros began. “He’s a… cousin of some sort, let me think.” 

Genealogy had never been a strong interest of Elros’. His subsequent breakdown of the Finwean bloodline was so meandering and fragmented that Elrond, who was well-versed in the family tree, had trouble following it. Graweth seemed to only get more confused as Elros went along.

When Elros, for the second time in a row, mixed up two princes with similar-sounding names and noticed both Elrond and Graweth sniggering, he looked embarrassed. “Anyway,” he continued. “It’ll be just fine! Maglor will like you.” He wrapped his arm around her waist. “And it’s not as if he has much of a choice. He can’t very well make you walk all the way home by yourself.”

Graweth snorted. “You really do say the sweetest things."

Elrond interrupted Elros’ retort. He had noticed something thrilling. “Both of you, listen!”

In the distance, they could hear the rushing crash of the waterfalls.

Elrond and Elros exchanged a look, beyond delighted and somewhat tense at the same time.

They had no chance of keeping their argument secret from Maglor. No chance at all. He’d see right through them. Nevertheless, they made an unspoken agreement to attempt it anyway. 

Then, as if on cue, both twins broke into a run. They rushed through the underwood in the direction of the water, jumping over stones and logs without a second thought. Both of them were out of breath when they reached the rocky riverbank. Paying it little mind, they inspected the area surrounding the cascades. 

“There!” Elros told Elrond, pointing at a bright blue light that shone up on the cliffs. "Up there!" Still moving as one, they quickly scaled the rocks till they reached a ledge where a cloaked figure was waiting, holding what they recognized as a Fëanorian lamp in an outstretched hand.

“Maglor!” Elrond ran into Maglor’s arms just as Maglor let his black hood fall. Maglor smelled like pine needles, like the forest. All of him was familiar. “How good it is to see you,” Maglor told him, lips close to Elrond’s ear as they clung to each other, voice shimmery, warmer than sunlight.

“I missed you, Ada, ” Elrond let him know as he slowly pulled away.

Beside him, Elros beamed and Maglor hugged him tightly like the long-lost son he was. Elrond looked around the stony terrain, his heart beating rapidly. They’d lost Graweth somewhere on the way, he realized. She probably hadn’t quite seen the reason to sprint through the woods like a person possessed. Elrond felt reasonably certain she’d find her way to them eventually.

Meanwhile, Maglor was making some comment about Elros’ haircut that left Elros sputtering with laughter. “I forgot you’re such an asshole!” he told Maglor, jabbing at his shoulder, but Elros sounded positively giddy and Maglor only smiled. His grey eyes shone as he pressed a kiss to Elros’ right cheek.

Then he turned, surveying the both of them. “Are you well?”

A brief moment passed before Elrond answered. “We are.” That particular instant it wasn’t far from the truth. All his troubles seemed like distant apparitions. The harsh words that had passed between him and Elros were forgotten, as did they belong in a different world. In this secluded place, with Maglor, he and Elros were simply free.

Elrond exhaled with relief. He had his family back.

Chapter Text

Elrond glanced around Maglor’s encampment with curiosity, noticing Maglor’s bow and quiver, his ornate harp leaning against his saddlebags, and the smoldering half-burned logs of a campfire. Away from the cliffs, just on the edge of the woods, an unfamiliar brown horse was grazing peacefully.

“My sons,” Maglor brought Elrond and Elros’ attention back to him, some amount of puzzlement clear in his voice. “Won’t you do me the courtesy of introducing me to your friend?”

The twins turned and saw that Graweth had appeared between the trees. Half-covered by darkness, the girl stood still as a statue, shoulders slightly hunched, hesitating to approach.

“Oh, sorry,” Elros looked back and forth between Graweth and Maglor and seemed to be apologizing to both of them. He beckoned her over, awkwardly, and took her hand in his. “Ada, this is Graweth.” Graweth squeezed Elros hand and beheld Maglor, her eyes wide with what Elrond realized was ill-concealed fright.

Maglor raised one dark eyebrow as he took the measure of this development. “Well met,” he said melodiously, putting his hand on his heart in an archaic sort of greeting. Perhaps he feared Graweth - his new daughter-in-law - would turn on the spot and flee if he made to shake her hand. “I am Maglor Fëanorion. Please forgive my surprise, I did not expect for my sons to bring company.”

Graweth managed a shaky smile. “A-a pleasure.” All her wit seemed to have been replaced with nerves. She looked as if she longed to cower behind Elros.

Elrond had to admit, Maglor did look intimidating, even if one was able to set aside his fearsome reputation. His sword, daggers, and silvery chainmail were visible beneath his worn cloak. The brownish bruise fading near his left cheekbone and the small cut on his brow hardened his proud features. Maglor’s long ink-black hair was loose and windblown, and in the eerie light of the crystal, his face seemed pale and hollowed out, all sharp angles. It gave away how much weight he’d lost since the twins had last seen him.

He appeared as less of a prince and more of a phantom, Elrond caught himself thinking. Sudden worry and protectiveness filled him. “Elros brought food!” Elrond said it in part to give Graweth some breathing space, but mostly in the hope of quickly remedying the famished look in Maglor’s eyes.

“You needn’t have.”

“Just thank me and sit down, Ada,” Elros told Maglor with a small grin, passing him his backpack. When Maglor moved to begin reviving the campfire, Elros waved him off. “We’ll handle that, please just eat.”

Together, Elros and Graweth did a fine job bringing the fire back to life, though she kept throwing nervous glances in Maglor’s direction. Elrond wasn’t sure if she was more afraid of being brutally murdered or of being quizzed on her limited knowledge of Elros’ family history. He sent her his best attempt at an encouraging smile across the embers while simultaneously dodging Maglor’s efforts at shoving a piece of the waybread into his hands. “No. We’ve all had dinner, we’re fine.” Elrond dug through his bag. “Here,” he added, handing Maglor the bottle. “I brought you some wine.”

Maglor cracked a grin at that. “You’re a treasure, Elrond.” He opened the bottle with a flick of a small knife he seemingly procured from out of nowhere, took a long sip, and passed the wine around. “Tell me how you’ve been, please.”

And then they were talking, telling Maglor of their new lives. Maglor finally began eating, and they all took turns drinking from the wine. The only thing Elrond and Elros steered clear of mentioning was their conflict.

Even Graweth timidly answered Maglor’s questions. Elros ran his fingers through her hair affectionately as she told them a bit of how she’d practiced Sindarin with elvish refugees and nomads, and how she’d first arrived in Gil-galad’s camp and been overwhelmed by the sheer number of people there. Maglor regarded her with a kindly but careful look in his eyes, as if she was a small woodland animal he was luring out one breadcrumb at a time. Elrond could vaguely recall Elros and himself being at the receiving end of the very same look many a time in their difficult first months with the Sons of Fëanor.

At first glance, Maglor seemed startingly happy. He sounded pleased and proud as he remarked how much they had grown. However, Elrond couldn’t help but notice him mentally dissecting every bit of information they let on. Maglor listened more than he talked, and to Elrond’s unvoiced concern, he volunteered nothing at all regarding his and his brother’s own matters.

“Maedhros…” Elrond began when the conversation slowed down. He meant to inquire as to how Maedhros fared, but the shadow of hopelessness that passed over Maglor’s face answered the question before he could phrase it. Instead, Elrond opted for stroking his father’s shoulder and gingerly asking, “Is there someone staying with him? Looking after him?”

Maedhros had been coping relatively well when the twins had last seen him, but his condition had always been changeful, volatile. If he had taken a turn for the worse, Elrond didn’t think it wise to leave him alone.

Maglor gave a grim nod. “Of course.” There was a tinge of rue in his voice when he added, “And I’ll be back with him soon.”

“I had hoped he’d be here with you,” Elros said, his voice grave. Graweth had put her head on his shoulder and now he rested his head on hers. “We would have loved to see him again.”

“I’ll pass on your regards,” Maglor said, briefly and without mirth. Elrond wondered if they could in some way convince him to open up, but Maglor changed the subject before he could say anything. “Speaking of family, I understand my nephew resides in your camp. Do you know if he is doing well?”

“Celebrimbor?” Elros frowned. “He’s fine, I suppose, hiding away in the forges. I don’t think he knows quite what to say to us. Which is… pretty understandable, all things considered.”

Elrond nodded in agreement. When he and Elros had first joined Gil-galad, a few elves had approached them to express the belief that they had somehow failed the twins by not preventing their abduction. Though probably well-meant, their misplaced guilt and attempts at apology had made Elrond and Elros even more uncomfortable than the people smearing them as Fëanorian collaborators.

Celebrimbor, the son of Maglor’s late younger brother, came across too tactful to ever voice anything along the lines of that, but he had still watched the twins with barely concealed shame upon meeting them, his furrowed craftsman’s hands twitching from inner turmoil.

Celebrimbor never spoke of his family in Elrond’s hearing. At court, he kept his opinions tremendously close to his chest. Elrond was never certain how much he knew, how much he was able to guess. He had settled into a habit of avoiding Celebrimbor, but he was hesitant to admit that to Maglor. “I don’t know him well either, but… King Gil-galad is friendly with him. He always praises his smithwork to the skies.” Maglor’s mouth quirked at that, he was proud but not at all surprised.

“I can check in on him if it matters to you,” Elrond offered. When Maglor’s smile grew brighter, Elrond vowed to follow through with it.

“We,” Elros began with a glimmer in his eye. He got to his feet and extended a hand to Graweth, who rose as well. “Are going to go have a closer look at those cascades. We’ll be right back.”

Maglor raised his eyebrows in amusement as Elros and Graweth descended the cliffs arm in arm. “They seem happy together,” he remarked under his breath to Elrond, sounding genuinely appreciative.

Elrond had yet to decide if Elros and Gaweth’s inability to keep their hands off each other for one damn second was slightly sweet or altogether annoying. He made a non-commital sound. Seeing Elros and Graweth dissapear together, there was something else bothering him too, a barbed pang of an emotion he didn’t care to name. A thoroughly unwelcome voice in the back of his mind was pressing the matter of why he didn’t have anyone to slip away to the riverbank alongside. Elrond drew in a sharp breath, aiming to think of something else, anything else. It proved futile. His imagination kept straying, running riot, wandering back to Erenion’s camp.

“Is she good enough for him?” Maglor pressed, waking Elrond from his reverie.

“I only just met her today.” Elrond had almost forgotten what they’d been talking about. Elros’ love life was not his conversation topic of choice, but he knew there was no stopping Maglor when first started fishing for information.

“She sort of funny when she’s not terrified. Her father is causing Elros trouble, it sounds pretty ugly, but she seems halfway into disavowing him.” He shrugged. “I suppose Elros could do worse.” After a moment, Elrond grew a smirk. “He has done worse, in fact, when it comes to girls. You should have seen him at…”

“Oh, lay off him,” Maglor chuckled, making a jab at Elrond’s arm. They laughed together. When the line of questioning Elrond had been dreading came, he was entirely unprepared for it. “I take it Elros and you live separately then?” Maglor voiced it nonchalantly, but there was no mistaking the investigative look on his face.

Elrond swallowed. “It’s… more practical that way.” He shifted in his seat, attempting to laugh it off and deflect. “This might come as a shock to you, Ada, but not everyone wants to be struck with their sibling until the end of time.”

Maglor didn’t buy it. For a moment he was quiet. “I believe there’s something quite significant that you and Elros are keeping from me. You seem… detached. I would love for you to tell me that I am mistaken.”

When Elrond said nothing, Maglor continued, horribly concerned. “You are under no obligation to tell me what has taken place.” He reached out and caressed Elrond’s shoulder. “I don’t know whether I can help you, but I believe sharing it with me might ease your burden.”

“Stop looking at me that way,” Elrond got out through half-gritted teeth. He was beyond frustrated, angry with Elros for running off yet again, with Maglor for always meddling, and with himself for just about everything.

“Won’t you confide in me as you used to do?” Maglor asked him, honey-sweet. “I did make this journey to find out how you and Elros are faring.”

That rubbed Elrond the wrong way. “Don’t lie to me!” he scoffed, looking at Maglor with stricken eyes. “Don’t you think I know that you came here to spy on Erenion?”

Maglor looked taken aback, but he voiced no denial. Elrond looked down into his lap, hating being proved right. He wondered what intelligence Maglor’s informant had passed on to him. Their army’s doings, their positions. The names of Gil-galad’s newly appointed officers, the knowledge of Lord Círdan's present mission to the Valninoreans’ encampment. Maglor might even have heard the news of Herald Eönwë’s visit to Gil-galad’s court, two short weeks ago, though he clearly didn’t know what Eönwë’s true errand had been.

As appalled and fed up as he was, Elrond didn’t relish arguing with Maglor. He sighed. “I’m glad to see you again, Ada, truly, I am, but you should know that I don’t approve of whatever it is you’re doing, not in the slightest.”

“I know,” Maglor said, voice low. Of course, Elrond’s aversion didn’t change anything. Maglor continued, looking solemn. “I had little hope you would come here at all.”

Elrond scowled. “Then you misjudged me. I never even considered staying away!”

Elrond had barely finished his sentence when Maglor was moving to wrap his arms around him. His grip was strong and warm and after a moment Elrond hugged him back, trembling, feeling tears at the corners of his eyes. Seasons came and went, battles were fought, children grew up, and Elrond still cried on Maglor Fëanorian’s shoulder.

“It’s Elros,” he got out as a droplet ran down his cheek. “It’s so horrible, I can’t tell you. Not when he isn’t even here.”

Maglor petted Elrond’s hair “It's alright, darling,” he said, letting the subject rest. He pulled back slightly to look at Elrond’s flushed face. Attempting to change the topic to something lighter, he asked Elrond. “How come you are on a given-name basis with your king?”

“We’re close friends, Erenion and I. Do you disapprove of that?”

Maglor answered Elrond’s question with one of his own. “Is he good to you?”

Elrond bent his head but could not help smiling. “When we first met, I was so ready to be afraid of him. Now I don’t know what I would do without him.”

Suddenly the words came pouring out. “He wanted me to learn statecraft and fill an administrative position in his court, he says I have a good head for it, but he respected it when I told him I’d rather keep studying with the healers for now. He lets me read in his tent and always stays up with me. He asks me questions about medicine even though he doesn’t grasp it.”

“You of all people must know how backbreaking the High Kingship is, how much it demands of you. Erenion is the youngest King of the Noldor there ever was. He’s done well for himself but he’s so desperate to excel at it. He’s always working, training, planning. Once in a blue moon, I might persuade him to take a break with me, if I’m lucky that is.”

Elrond stopped to breathe and realized he had gone somewhat off-topic. “If you met him you would like him, Ada,” he declared with tenderness. Elrond knew perfectly well that in reality, such an encounter would be an absurd, politically flammable, and potentially homicidal scenario, but it nevertheless felt like a crucial sentiment for Maglor to hear.

“Perhaps,” Maglor indulged him, a knowing smile playing on his lips, “but probably not as much as you do.”

Elrond fidgeted. “He’s just…” Elrond began, trying to think up something to say that wouldn’t make him sound stupidly hopelessly enamored. He failed to formulate a single thing.

He could not pinpoint when exactly his feelings had changed. As time had gone by, wanting to remain in Erenion’s good graces, wanting to get to know him, wanting to be there for him, had turned into wanting much more than that. All of it had culminated on midwinter’s evening, three months before. Although Elrond had wished like mad for the memory to fade, he remembered the events of that night with agonizing clarity.

At first, Elrond had not even planned to attend the solstice celebration. He’d been laboring all day in the cold infirmary, bottling medicaments and labeling each flask with the drug’s Sindarin and Quenya names. There had been work still to do, but the healer on shift had surprised Elrond by thanking him for his effort and covertly suggesting he went and joined the festivities. After discarding his gloves and apron, Elrond had hurried off jauntily, habit and heart leading him straight to Gil-galad’s quarters.

Elrond found Erenion in his tent, facing away from the entrance. “Might I draw you away from governing for the night, Erenion?”

“I was just about to go look for you.” Erenion turned to face Elrond, his air as bright as the starlight he was named for. His blond hair was intricately braided back from his face, looking nearly radiant in the candlelight. He wore a dark blue fur-lined cloak of strong shimmering fabric and a gold-plated suit of Ñoldorin ceremonial armor that Elrond had never seen him in before.

Looking at him, some wide-eyed part of Elrond’s mind thought that he looked like a hero out of a tale, a warrior king from one of Maglor's epics, only so much better, because Erenion was alive in the flesh and smiling at him. Another part, one Elrond had spent the past months trying to quell, boldly wondered what might happen if Elrond were to move just a bit closer to him.

Noticing Elrond’s gaze, Erenion's smile grew crooked. “Is this excessive?”

“It’s gorgeous,” Elrond was fast to say, making Erenion raise an eyebrow. Even quicker, Elrond added, “The smiths have outdone themselves restoring it for you, surely.”

Elrond meant to look down at his own work clothes and pretend to realize how underdressed he was for the occasion. A  silly joke might chase the tension away. He never got that far. Erenion took a few steps toward him, reaching out with one hand. With a light, twisting movement, eyes not leaving Elrond's, he removed the leather string that kept up Elrond's hair, sending it falling down his back.

Elrond and Erenion had walked towards the bonfire arm in arm, accompanied at a distance by Erenion’s blue-robed guards. Most of the camp’s young people and quite a few of the older ones had braved the frosty weather and turned out, either brandishing uniforms or the closest thing they had to formalwear. The Ñoldor thrived with festive occasions and the war efforts had recently been progressing better than expected. The ambiance in camp was one of surprising cheer.

As the bonfire was lit, Erenion treated Elrond to a drink of some rich mulled wine. They stood in the light of the blazing flames, close enough to feel each other's body heat, sipping their drinks and jesting privately back and forth till the King excused himself. “I’m afraid there are some notable people I ought to go exchange pleasantries with.” Softer, with his mouth near Elrond’s ear, making the slightest goosebumps rise on his skin, Erenion added, “I’ll see you before long.”

Elrond circled the fire restlessly, chatting with some fellow apprentices before stopping to watch a small troupe of bards who had been singing in tribute to the Valar and of the changing of the seasons. Naturally, the harpist didn't hold a candle to Maglor, but his playing made Elrond miss his own lessons on the harp. Elrond had no talent worth speaking of, but Maglor had instructed him patiently, and he’d always enjoyed learning new pieces.

Upon Elrond’s leaving, Maglor had originally meant to gift him one of his spare instruments, but to Elrond’s regret, they had quickly realized it would have been too costly and frivolous a gift to cohere with the twins’ cover story.

With a pang of bad conscience, Elrond looked to Erenion, who in the distance maneuvered the gathered crowd with practiced ease, occasionally stopping to toast with important nobles and military personnel. Erenion, he realized with a bit of grief, had never heard him play.

When Elrond later caught sight of Elros, he'd been at the center of a rowdy group of young Edain. They'd all been very inebriated due to some intense drinking contest of theirs that involved spinning in circles and downing several drinks of beer in a row. This was before Graweth had arrived in camp, but Elros had been chatting up the girls beside him, laughing and smiling, entirely in his element.

"Last team to finish has to jump into the ri—"

"What are you looking at? Hurry!"

Elrond joined their game for a few rounds, faring well when he was able to focus and losing awfully whenever his gaze came to linger anew on his king.

Though Elros’ friends were good company, it was evident to Elrond that he didn’t quite belong among them. Bored of the contest, his head feeling fuzzy, he moved away and nearly collided with some aimless falling-down drunk girl he didn’t know. She grasped at his shoulders and spoke slurred words in a speech Elrond understood none of. Confounded, Elrond got her to drink some water and set out to locate someone who knew her.

By the time Elrond had left the drunken girl in the care of her only slightly less intoxicated friends, he had somehow lost sight of Erenion. Elrond scanned the crowds, at once wincing at his ill-advised infatuation and reassuring himself that the High King was like a jeweled sword in a haystack and thus couldn’t possibly be that hard to spot.

“Looking for me?”

 “You startled me!” Elrond turned around at once, returning Erenion's smug grin with a tender one of his own. It was probably  the liquid courage speaking when Elrond reached out to stroke Erenion’s shoulder and added, “But yes, I was searching for you.” 

“I saw you had company,” Erenion teased.

Elrond shook his head in amused exasperation. “I was helping her! She was too drunk to stand. And I’m fairly certain she mistook me for Elros.” He grinned from ear to ear. “Why are you laughing at me?”

Erenion had taken him dancing, and the two of them shared at least one more bottle of wine. At some point past midnight, Elrond had declared himself entirely capable of walking in a straight line and then proceeded to fail at it rather spectacularly to Erenion’s merriment.

All of it had been wonderful.

Later, in the early morning hours, Erenion had wrapped an arm around Elrond and steered him firmly away from the festivities, letting his royal guards remain behind. “Erenion, I’m not even that dr…” Elrond protested weakly, leaning on Erenion’s shoulder. “Aren’t there some more dignitaries you ought to bid goodnight before we leave?”

Erenion merely shushed him and draped his cloak around Elrond’s shoulder to keep him warm. When the King then moved his hand to be around Elrond’s waist, supporting him, Elrond made a swift realization that had felt monumental at the time: Erenion was leading Elrond back to his own tent, not toward Elrond’s.

His own tent. He had dismissed his guards. Elrond’s eyes were wide open as he quietly wondered what that might entail. Soon almost quivering with expectation, Elrond swallowed, trying to gather his addled mind.

Inside the tent, Erenion put aside his cloak and lit the candles one by one. The candlelight reflected off the plates of his armor and cast wavering shadows on his features. Briefly looking away from him, Elrond glanced around the tent’s interior as if seeing it all for the first time. He had known Erenion slept in there, of course. He wasn’t blind. Erenion's bed was near the corner, broad and covered with heavy furs. Despite himself, Elrond found his eyes lingering on it with fresh tentative interest.

He looked back at Erenion, shyness and excitement interweaving with no end in sight. They nearly stood of equal height, he noted, evidence of Elrond’s recent growth. “May I?” Elrond whispered, gesturing unsurely to Erenion’s armor.

When Erenion nodded, Elrond moved closer, skipping a breath. He'd touched him so rarely and thought of it so often. Barely able to believe his luck, Elrond went about undoing each gleaming piece of protection with nervous ink-stained hands. This would have been far more straightforward had he been sober. He tried to undertake the task tantalizingly slow, putting the discarded plates down in neat rows on the desk. Erenion waited patiently, sending Elrond wry smiles when he struggled with the clasps, his chiseled face slightly flushed from the frost and the alcohol.

After a silent nod of encouragement from Erenion, Elrond continued beyond the armor. One by one he unfastened the silvery buttons on the front of Erenion’s winter tunic. He slid the garment off him and folded it carefully before putting it down next to the plates. Underneath it, Erenion wore a tan undershirt, sheer enough that Elrond could make out his muscles. Elrond’s stomach had been an uproar of butterflies. He thought of drawing closer, thought of drawing complex patterns on Erenion's skin. Without meaning to he'd parted his lips slightly.

Erenion had picked up on Elrond’s design. How could he not have? There were questions in his bright blue eyes, hesitation, but also, Elrond noted, pleasure.

There had been so much Elrond wanted to let him know. That he was achingly devastatingly beautiful, for once. That his kindness towards Elrond these last two years had meant everything. That Erenion's company, the closeness they shared, was the only thing Elrond truly and fully cherished about this warped new life of his. He needed to confess, needed to take a leap, needed to know whether or not he was imagining things. But in his then-present state of mind, tipsy and overtired and beside himself with wanting, Elrond wasn't able to string two words together.

So instead, surprising even himself, Elrond had closed the distance between him, gently taken Erenion’s face in both hands, and kissed him.

It was a brief kiss, his very first, lasting only for a few wild heartbeats. Erenion’s lips were soft and warm against his, tasting faintly of the white wine they’d been drinking. Elrond broke away clumsily, lowering his hands as he tried to take stock of Erenion’s reaction. He licked his lips nervously, eyes wide open.

Erenion, now the startled one, drew in a sharp breath, moved half a step backward, and averted his gaze. With his brow furrowed and his posture tense, he appeared torn, perhaps that was the closest word for it.

Elrond shivered in anticipation, staring, not sure what to say. Finally, Erenion shook his head once. "Elrond," he began, voice low and thick with a rare lack of confidence. "It’s not that I’m not flattered, but we can’t have…” His jaw clenched. "We ought not."

Elrond had wanted to argue the point, to try again, to at the very least ask for an explanation. Yet he hadn't. Crushingly disappointed, he lowered his head, not wanting to meet the king's eyes. He shied away from him as if burned, flooded with oozy regret, wishing he had simply parted ways with Erenion at the bonfire and gone to bed alone.

Seeing his distress, Erenion reached out and slowly stroked Elrond’s cheekbone with his thumb. A kindly gesture, that nevertheless registered as painfully dispassionate. “You should sleep, my friend.”

Elrond found himself nodding stiffly. He felt weary to the bones, barely standing upright, barely able to think, dreading the headache that would doubtlessly arrive in the morning. Though he still yearned to flee, he followed Gil-galad’s lead without question.

That was how Elrond had ended up drunk in the High King’s bed in the break of midwinter’s dawn. Fully clothed, but still feeling the icy cold of winter. Lying beside Erenion, barely apart, but not touching him. Elrond had stared up at the domed tent ceiling, unable to find rest, desperately wondering what he had done wrong.

Elrond did not recount all of that to Maglor, heaven forbid. He had suffered enough humiliation already, thank you so very much.

Maglor, however, had always been skilled at reading him, so Elrond figured he might as well provide him with the gist of it.

Perhaps there was enough poetry left in Maglor for him to find all this mayhem sweet. He listened attentively to Elrond’s lovesick gushing before telling him, “Your King is surpassingly fortunate to have your affection. I hope he’s well aware of that.”

Elrond bit his lower lip. “If only that was true.”

Maglor cocked his head. “What ever do you mean?”

“I’m double-crossing him, am I not?” Elrond had misled Erenion at every turn. He had made him believe Elrond had grown up a browbeaten prisoner, that he’d been neglected, that he’d left Maglor's side at the first available option. Those lies had gained Elrond protection, sympathy, and the King’s generous favor. Guilt tore at his innards at the mere thought. His betrayal was coming to a head tonight with this very meeting.

The deceit had all been Maglor’s idea originally, but he clearly didn’t know how to comfort Elrond now.

“I can see how that would trouble you, you sweet kind thing, but you're being much too harsh on yourself. It’s not as if you've done the man any harm.”

The reassurance fell on deaf ears. Elrond remained still as his father stroked his hair. Pointing out that he might want to hold himself to higher moral standards than Maglor did would only be a needless insult to his father.

Maglor sighed. “You have been lonely lately, have you not?” There was no reason for him to phrase that as a question. It was plain to see.

Elros and Erenion were, save perhaps Maglor himself, the two people Elrond cared most for in all the world. These last months his King and his twin brother had, each in their own grievous way, been entirely unpredictable.

Elrond had had no one to confide in till now. His classmates were closer to acquaintances than friends. Lord Círdan was wise and benign, but he was Erenion's foster father and thus utterly ruled out.

“I suppose.” After a moment of watching his father, Elrond added, “Might that make two of us, Ada?” If he approached him right, now that the two of them were alone, Elrond thought he might succeed in getting Maglor to disclose his own difficulties, his reason for summoning them. Solitude had likely played a not insignificant part in that.  

That wasn’t to be. Maglor acknowledged Elrond’s question only with a small twist of his mouth. “Now, Elrond, darling,” He said. “Do me the favor of fetching your brother.”

When Elrond shot him an annoyed look, Maglor insisted. “Please go and remind him we are on borrowed time tonight.”

Borrowed time, Elrond thought to himself, as he grudgingly got to his feet and followed the sound of his brother’s voice. Elros should be well-versed in that by now.

Chapter Text

On the rugged cliffs in front of the plunging waterfalls, Elros and Graweth were entwined in each other’s arms. Graweth had shed her fur cloak and had a pair of fresh white crocuses tucked behind her ear. Whatever Elros whispered made her look at him like he hung the stars in the sky. Her retort, some quip Elrond couldn’t hear, had Elros laughing so hard he stumbled backward and nearly pulled them both into the stream.

Needless to say, the prospect of disturbing them left Elrond feeling horribly put off.  

He slumped his shoulders as he descended the rocks, once again filled with helplessness and sorrow over Elros’ recent choices and dread at the prospect of Maglor uncovering them. Moreover, there was a senseless ugly envy gnawing at him seeing the two of them so close and carefree. Elrond knew it was neither warranted nor especially sympathetic of him, but he felt it nevertheless. 

The day after midwinter, after a few hours of troubled sleep, Elrond had woken up in Erenion’s bed, under the weather and absolutely mortified by his own actions. What in the world had he been thinking, propositioning his king, his best of friends? Through the darkness, he cast an admittedly terrified look toward Erenion, who thankfully appeared to be dormant. Pushing aside the furs and sitting up gingerly, Elrond rubbed his eyes and rested his face in his palms. He thought over his predicament for one panicked moment before getting up, snatching his cloak, and hightailing out of the tent.

The following days had been strange. He recalled long shifts tending to injured partygoers and coughing children, finishing up his classification of the medicinal herbs while throwing regular hopeful looks at the infirmary’s entrance, and collapsing from exhaustion on his cot each night. When word had gotten to Elrond that someone outside the healers' tent was asking for him, he'd leapt up from the supplies he’d been tidying. 

It'd then turned out to merely be Elros and his friends, wishing for Elrond to put in a word of recommendation for some acquaintances of theirs who had aspirations in the field of healing. Proclaiming he was happy to do so, Elrond had tried in vain to swallow his disappointment. Momentarily, he'd even thought of pulling Elros aside, telling him of Erenion, and asking his advice. In the end, he felt far too foolish to do so. All this wide-eyed stinging hurt over one chaste drunken kiss. If he heard the story, Elros might just laugh at him.

By early afternoon of the fourth day of resounding silence from Erenion, Elrond vowed to seek him out himself, hurrying off before he could develop cold feet. The High King had been in council, so Elrond waited for him under a grey ominous sky. He twitched his fingers and chatted perfunctorily with Erenion’s guards, one of whom had some old injury that was flaring up and the other who had questions about Elros’ projects with the Edain.

Finally, Gil-galad’s cabinet ended their meeting and came pouring out of the tent. The King emerged as the very last, dressed in his midnight blue court robes, his hair in tight clean-cut braids. Elrond greeted him, standing a little straighter, half covertly asking, “Do you have a moment, Erenion?”

Though clearly not anticipating Elrond’s presence, Erenion nodded stiffly. “Certainly.” He  looked Elrond up and down as if concerned and asked, “Are you not cold?”

Elrond had shrugged weakly, in his most hidden mind recalling how Erenion’s lips had felt against his. “It’s but a slight chill.”

Erenion had looked to his guards. At a mere word from him, one of them had bustled into the tent to bring Elrond a mug of herbal tea. The clay cup had been pleasantly warm in his hand, smelling of mint and fennel. A touch of honey had been added to it, just the way Elrond preferred. 

“Thank you,” he told first Erenion and then, looking back over his shoulder, the guard. Some part of him grew more and more reluctant about this whole course of action. 

“Walk with me.”

Alone once again, Elrond and Erenion walked through camp with a narrow distance between them, saying nothing, breathing in the crisp cutting air. The encampment was for the most part deserted. Its people had moved inside to seek shelter from the frost.

Elrond clutched his cup of tea in one hand and feigned interest in the group of elves securing their tents at the side of the path. At long last, when he could stand the silence no more, he got out, “I have been meaning to apologize to you. For the other day.” 

He lifted his cup to take a nervous sip of tea but changed his mind and looked Erenion in the eyes instead. “I know how badly I overstepped. I’d had far too much to drink. I’m sorry.” 

Erenion visibly drew in a breath. When he spoke his tone was straightforward but not unkind. “You need not apologize, Elrond. You haven’t wronged me.”

Elrond, tense as a bow-string, wasn't sure how to respond to that.

“Did you believe me to be upset with you?” Erenion inquired, consideration filling his voice. “I’ve been buried in work, that’s all.”

“Oh.” Elrond looked downwards, refraining from pointing out that Erenion usually had no trouble fitting Elrond’s company into his overloaded schedule. “Us as well.” He took a sip of his tea then, barely noticing the taste of it.

“But what happened then,” Erenion began, twisting his gloved palms slightly. “It can’t happen again.”

To Elrond, those words weren't altogether unexpected, but they still stung so severely that he had gone tongue-tied, his face growing pale as if to match the winter sky.

What happened. Was Erenion truly so much of a craven he couldn't put what Elrond had done into words? Or had he disliked Elrond's kiss so very much? Was that why he rejected him? Biting his lower lip, Elrond tried to control his breathing, blinking much too rapidly.

They were nearing the training grounds which lay empty owing to the pitiless weather. The ground felt hard and frozen beneath their feet and as they walked onward, Elrond tried with all his might to bury his distress beneath a surface of calm. 

When feeling composed enough, he broke his silence.

“May I ask why not?” 

The question felt like a loaded admission, felt like wringing his gory beating heart out from his naked chest for Erenion to look upon. 

It might have been wiser to stay silent and simply cut his losses, but Elrond couldn't help pressing for an explanation. He halted his pace and regarded Erenion with wide pleading eyes.

“Elrond,” Erenion began, both sounding and looking uncomfortable. “You’re too young for me. You are scarcely out of childhood.”

It had to have been clear from Elrond’s slighted expression that he didn't think much of that line of argument. By midwinter, Elrond had been just a few short months away from his maturity.  Erenion too was quite young by the reckoning of the elves. Was Elrond a child when he pulled overnight shift after overnight shift in the sick bay? When he put his life at risk to rescue Erenion’s damn soldiers on the field of battle? 

“Furthermore,” Erenion sounded wretchedly gentle during that part, shaking his head slightly. “I’m responsible for you. I am your liege, your King, you work under me. It wouldn’t be right.” 

Elrond had stopped in his tracks in the middle of the bleak archery field, blinking, feeling at once pitied and condescended. “I’m not that delicate, you know!” he flared, stepping closer to Erenion. Then, remembering that raising his voice with his sovereign was the height of insolence, he let out a choked sound of frustration and shame. 

“If you didn't like— If you don’t want me that way you can simply tell me so outright!”

Hearing that, Erenion took a few restless steps towards the concentric circles of the targets, seemingly deep in thought. Finally, he turned back and approached Elrond. His eyes were alight with intention and he placed a tender hand on each of Elrond's shoulders, making him suppress a shiver. 

He carefully selected his words. “Elrond, I hope you are aware you are the dearest friend I have. My days were changed for the better upon your arrival here.” 

Elrond blinked at him, confused. Erenion's face grew sadder and more conscientious as he continued. “I also know at least some of what you came from, of what was inflicted on you.” Perhaps without meaning to, he ran his thumbs back and forth reassuringly near the seam of Elrond’s tunic, warming his skin lightly. 

“You are remarkably, admirably good despite all of that. Don’t think I give my favor out lightly.” He tightened his grip on Elrond for a brief moment. “I could never forgive myself if I took advantage of you.” Erenion stepped back, looking frightened at the mere thought. “That is not the kind of ruler, not the kind of man I wish to be,” he whispered, more introspective. 

Elrond grieved the loss of his touch, overwhelmed and grazed by Erenion’s explanation. Conflicted, he pondered its meaning. How much of this was due to Maedhros and Maglor spiriting him away from the ashes of Sirion so many years ago? Was that going to keep on haunting him for all time? That wasn't fair!

At some level, he felt moved that Erenion wanted to look after him. At some level, he felt relieved that this denial was in part because of Erenion’s self-doubt, and not just due to Elrond not measuring up. Nevertheless, the hurt of the rejection ripped into him ceaselessly. “I see,” he muttered, though he didn’t entirely, absentmindedly sipping from his tea.

“If that’s the reason,” Elrond began hesitantly, once he'd gathered his mind. He looked toward the center of a nearby archery target as he voiced another rare criticism of his King. “Could you not have turned me down sooner? Instead of…” 

His treacherous mind was quick to supply a list of burning memories he might have brought up as examples. Instead of looking at me as if I was the only one at that party who mattered to you, Elrond might have said, with equal part enchantment and seething accusation. Letting me spend the night in your bed, having me take your fucking clothes off.

Instead, he dared to meet Erenion’s eyes and spoke with ringing earnestness. “With all due respect, I don’t think letting it draw out was fair towards me.”

Swallowing, Erenion was quick to concur with him. “You are entirely right. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not angling for your apology either.” Elrond raised his shoulders. “It was the solstice. We had both been drinking, neither of us was at our best. It was a mistake.” Those statements felt stingingly wrong. He didn't mean them. They were yet more falsehoods fabricated for Erenion ear's, but Elrond voiced them nevertheless.

Erenion noticed the lack of conviction in Elrond’s words and sighed. The two stood side by side in resonant silence till the first of the white flakes came tumbling down from the colorless skies. They swirled slowly at first, then faster. “Snow,” Elrond whispered, pointing out the obvious.

Looking to the heavens, Erenion let a small smile show. Elrond stood close enough to him to notice the crinkle near his eyes, the color on his cheeks. Soon snowflakes were melting on the thick fabric of Erenion's robes, landing lightly in his sandy hair, in his eyelashes. If he hadn’t been so certain it would ruin everything once anew, Elrond might just have moved to kiss him again.

Instead, Elrond breathed in deeply and quite matter-of-fact suggested, “Do you want me to look over the report from your meeting? You will want a copy brought to Lord Cirdan, will you not?”

Erenion’s mouth fell half open, bemused at this sudden change of topic. “I would have assumed my paperwork was the last thing you would wish to undertake just now, Elrond.” He shook his head. “Why don’t you run off and take the evening for yourself?”

Elrond felt less than thrilled at that prospect. He knew well that if he attempted to spend the evening on his own, he'd spend it picking apart every word Erenion had spoken to him, conjuring up alternative ways their conversation might have gone. He would much rather have their usual routine back.

“Do you really wish to? You are not under any obligation”

Elrond forced a faint smile and made a show of shivering slightly. “As long as it gets us under a roof,” he joked. 

The following months Elrond and the High King had rekindled their friendship the best they could, often found at each other’s side, but never speaking of what had taken place at the pinnacle of winter. Elrond had let the matter rest, let Erenion be. He could take no for an answer, even if that no had been a rather convoluted one. 

Still, whenever Elrond looked up from his work to find Erenion unassumingly watching him, whenever their hands would brush as they reached for the same quill, Elrond would recall what Erenion had voiced. More importantly, he would remember what Erenion had pointedly never told him.

“If you fall in,” Elrond called out to Elros who was still playing around near the streamside. “You’ll have a highly uncomfortable walk back to Erenion’s camp.” Elros' grin died away as he caught sight of him. Elrond had not meant for the comment to come that petty, but he continued in his track, gesturing toward Maglor’s campfire with only a hint of uncertainness. “Ada badly wants to talk to you.” 

“What did you tell him?” Hesitation was painted on Elros’ face. 

Elrond shrugged, kicking a pebble into the current. “You know how he is. Just come along.”

Sitting at the campfire, Elros grumbled and beat around the bush when he realized Maglor was trying to ease him into talking about the reason behind his and Elrond’s fresh hostility. Graweth, who sat beside him, hid her face in her bushy hair, clearly uneasy with witnessing this tension, but not comfortable going off into the woods on her own to give them privacy. 

Sitting next to Maglor, Elrond found himself staring into the embers. Voice raw, he insisted, “Elros, Ada should know. We ought to tell him together.” After all, neither of their versions of the events was likely to paint the other in an especially flattering light. 

“It’s not my place to force you to do anything, my son,” Maglor said, his voice a careful caress to one’s ear. “But this makes me worry for the both of you.”

Elros’ eyes glistened with hurt and he made a frustrated gesture. At last, he relented, putting on a brave almost careless face as he turned to look at Maglor. “You know how we came of age two weeks ago?”

Maglor looked stricken at that. He opened his mouth, likely to ask forgiveness for failing to remember the twins’ birthday, but Elros cut him off,  his expression now one of thinly veiled distress.

“That afternoon I was thumbing through the armory with some friends.” Elros lowered his head as vulnerability made its way into his voice. “Then word got to me that Herald Eönwë had come to camp as an envoy of the Valinoreans. He wished to have words with Elrond and me.” 

Elrond remembered the tumult of that afternoon, the atrocious timing. He and his fellow apprentices had been midway through an autopsy under the guidance of the master of healers. He’d discarded his apron in short order, made his excuses, and made haste, bewildered at the utter absurdity of having to cut class because the banner-bearer of the Holy Ones wanted to have word with him on the day he entered adulthood.

Eönwë the Messenger had been a vision of power and magnificence, towering over the twins and seeming at once familiar and alien to Elrond. His armor had been luminous, engraved with a pattern of eagle feathers, and forged from metal unlike any Elrond had laid eyes on before. His facial features could have been carved in marble and every word he had spoken had felt ladden with purpose, a clear decree. Maglor would be familiar with all of that already, Elrond figured. In Valinor of old the House of Fëanor had peaceful as well as adverse dealings with the Powers.

“Eönwë pulled us aside and told us-” Elros continued, struggling to find the words. “He told us that upon coming of age we stood before a free choice.”  

Maglor listened, stiff with apprehension, but Elros went silent, perhaps lost in thoughts. He did not divulge what the nature of the choice had been.

Elrond found himself revealing the matter instead, his tone scarcely louder than a whisper. “He announced that we as half-elves were to decide which kindred to belong to. We were each to choose whether to suffer the fate of Elves or Men.” 

Maglor looked from Elrond to Elros, horror dawning on his hollowed face. “And you..” Their father could not put the realization into words.

There had never been much of a choice for Elrond. He had felt profoundly grateful to be granted the autonomy to judge for himself, but his answer felt as if it had always been in the cards, in his very essence. Maedhros and Maglor were elves. Gil-galad and Lord Círdan were elves. Elrond struggled to imagine himself ever being otherwise. He wished to watch history unfold, to walk in the world as it progressed and healed and unfolded itself before him.  

On his birthday Elrond had contemplated how to best voice that to Eönwe. He had tested out phrasings in his mind using the formal traditional Quenya favored by the folk of Valinor, feeling a relief that was not to last. 

As if pulled from a dream at split-second speed, Elrond had abandoned his contemplations. He had looked at Elros, recognizing his air as one of purpose and strange sacrifice.

All at once the world as Elrond knew it had broken apart beyond repair. 

“Why?” Maglor asked Elros, the overwhelming shock making their father sound achingly young, on the brink of innocence.

Elros raised his voice, defensive. “We were told to choose what felt right. That is what I have done!” 

Before Maglor could speak again, Elros restated his wretched mission with incomprehensible composure. “I will be counted among the ranks of mortal Men. I will live and age and die beside them.”

Maglor staggered on the cliff's edge of despair. Elrond averted his eyes, feeling almost ill, feeling every bit of Maglor’s pain.

Maglor raised his hands towards his face. “Elros what could possibly have possessed you to…” 

Elrond’s chest and stomach throbbed. His eyes ached with tears yet to come. He was overcome with anger. The white-hot emotion of betrayal shrouded all else. Nothing stood in the way of him betraying Elros right back, a small breach of faith in the shadow of Elros’ immense one.

“Can’t you tell Ada?” Elrond gave away, already feeling the guilt of taking this disclosure away from his brother but seeing it through nonetheless. “The idiot wants to be King!”

Maglor mouth fell open. He looked to Elros across the dwindling bonfire, expecting immediate clarification.

Elros looked as if he chafed inwardly. When he finally spoke his voice was firm but startlingly boyish considering the grandiosity of his words. “When I forsook deathlessness I became one with the Edain. The remnants of the Three Great Houses of Men rightfully owe our bloodline their allegiance.” In the half-darkness pride and doubt collided on Elros’ face. “It’s my birthright.”

Desperately heartfelt, craving the recognition he had yet to receive, Elros went on. “I believe more will join me once I prove myself. It won’t be seen through in a year or a decade or even two, but I’m making progress.” His eyes came alight. “Ada, if only you could see how much I’ve already set in motion.”

Elros words did spur a glimmer of interest in Maglor’s mournful gaze. Perhaps all this dauntless talk of lordships intrigued some long-dormant part of him. At the same time, Maglor regarded Elros with a tender paternal sentiment as if he saw in him the small child he’d once known. The boy who had practiced cartwheels and galloped along the battlements of Amon Ereb as speedily as his little legs could carry him and tearfully sent Elrond to fetch Maglor when he inevitably fell and scraped his knees. 

Elrond's heart was stuck in his throat and aflame. “You have lost your mind!”  His voice began as a croak, but he kept going. Two weeks before, on their grim birthday, the twins had traded furious barbs about Elros’ yearning for a crown. If Maglor weren’t going to speak against it now, Elrond would be sure to repeat his own objections.

“It’s a deranged plan!” Elrond warned. “First of all, there’s never been a King of Beleriand’s mortal men.”

In the olden days, mortal chieftains had been the sworn vassals of elven lords and kings. Today the Edain was half wiped out. The survivors were scattered, their resistance against Morgoth was ever open to question. Elros’ plan of uniting them was a mere delusion of grandeur, nothing more than a castle in the sky.

Elros opened his mouth to deliver a retort, but another beat him to it. “Someone ought to be the first then, don’t you think?”

It took Elrond a moment to realize that the voice taking Elros in defense belonged to Graweth. He had all but forgotten her presence. The girl beheld Elros with fervent rose-colored regard, as if she saw potential in every one of his aspirations, before looking to Elrond again, unimpressed. “And, it’s hardly your affair giv-”

“Would you stay out of this! You hardly know him!”

Graweth shied backward and fell silent as Elros seized her hand. The twins began arguing back and forth in vicious desperate voices. Maglor was wordless, appearing nearly petrified in his grief.

“Have you not considered that proceeding with this would be treason?” Elrond’s face flamed. He leaned forward as he made his point. “You will only sow chaos! The mortal men are Erenion vassals. Last time I checked so were you!”

Elros convulsed with anger. “Why don’t you leave that issue to me? You’ve made it clear you want no part in this!” 

Before Elrond could respond Elros went on. His lips came to display a savage wounded smile. “And you have got some nerve to be preaching loyalty to Gil-galad when you have been misleading him just as well as I have!”

Elrond winced with shame, Elros continued. “Do you know what? I pity him! It's going to be far worse on him coming from-”

“Enough,” Maglor finally insisted, gathering himself. Had he truly put force into his voice, the voice of a calvary commander, the voice of a singer who had enraptured Aman in times gone by, Elrond knew he could have raised goosebumps on their skin and awe in their hearts. Instead, Maglor only asserted himself exactly enough to make all three young people halt and look at him. 

“Good heavens, children.” Maglor looked overwhelmed. He reached out to stroke Elrond’s back and shoulder. Perhaps simply because Elrond was the one sitting beside him. Perhaps it was because Elrond looked such a wreck with his burning cheeks and defeated air. 

“I can only imagine how difficult these last weeks must have been.” It was highly unlike Maglor to struggle so with choosing what to say. His gaze passed from twin to twin. “But this is hardly an occasion to determine which of you can cut the other the deepest.” Self-deprecatingly he added, “You ought to leave those contests to me and my ilk.”

Elrond heard Maglor’s words but was no less unable to let go. For a while he was quiet, then, tone much meeker, he asked, “Elros, What about Naneth and Adar? Have you no thought for them?”  

Maglor’s flinch was hardly perceivable. Elros drew in a breath.

Eönwë had let Elrond and Elros know that their parents had chosen the fate of the elves and dwelt in Valinor. The Messenger had spoken highly of Elwing and Eärendil and their efforts on behalf of Middle Earth. As a favor to them all, Eönwë had disclosed that the twins’ parents knew they lived, that they sent their love, and that they badly wished to someday see their sons again.

Elrond knew this was the tenderest of spots and wasn’t proud of himself for bringing it up. His scattered memories of his lost parents, their whitewashed cliffside house, and their outings to the sea were all dear to him, although age had made each of them cloudy and distant.

At times, Elrond would think about his parents with quiet wonderment when the Evening Star could be seen on the sky.  Elros tended to do the same, he knew. Elrond didn’t think himself to be in any hurry to seek out his birth parents and reconnect, but he did find some comfort in knowing the option might present itself in a time free of war. 

“Didn’t Eönwë claim that Eärendil had expressed half a heart to choose Mankind?” Elros pointed out. “They are our parents’ kinsfolk as well. I can’t imagine they would begrudge me their fate or resent my break at strengthening them.” 

Elros’ brow was furrowed. “Still,” he reminisced, watching Elrond pensively, stroking his thumb across Graweth’s hand “If I never see our mother and father again and you do, will you pass on my forgiveness, my love?”

“Of course, I will,” Elrond said, instinctively, but not without surprise. He had not expected Elros to ask favors of him at this time. “I merely wish I wouldn’t have to. Will you truly leave them behind for an early grave and a chance at a throne? Leave Maglor?” He gestured weakly to their father. “Leave me? After everything?”

At least to himself, Elrond could admit that most of his protests were sheer rationalizations. The core of his concern, the grief that ripped into him, was how the brother who had been beside him through bloodbaths and displacements and new beginnings was now set on abandoning him. 

It might come to pass through the death Elros had so heedlessly chosen or through him journeying off to carve out some Mannish kingdom, but either way, it was a mere matter of time. Elrond stiffened. Tears of sorrow threatened to slip down his cheeks.

Elros moved closer to Elrond and Maglor, demeanor impassioned. “You are my family. I love you both, that goes without saying, but you have to know my mind is settled on this. My choice has been made.”

A soft pained sound escaped Elrond. Elros rose, nearly shaking with resolution. “Elrond, Ada, Listen to me, please. I’m not asking for either of you to approve. You don’t have to understand or even see meaning in my judgment. I only wish for you to accept what I’ve chosen and look me in the eyes.”

Elrond’s own eyes were brimming over now. Maglor was stock-still beside him, appearing at once contemplative and sorrowful. Elrond could guess at what constrained him. He didn’t believe Maglor to be any more comfortable with Elros’ choices than he himself was, but their father seemed painfully aware that he didn’t have the luxury of time to lament. Within a few hours, the twins would be saying their goodbyes.

“Elros,” Maglor whispered, slowly getting to his feet. “My son.”

“Ada,” Elros answered unfailingly as Maglor moved close and placed a hand on each side of his face.

“The kindred of Men,” Maglor began, speaking slowly, charging each word with strength from within. “Are beyond privileged, beyond blessed in having such as you among their ranks.” Maglor ran his thumbs up and down over Elros cheeks.“Our bloodline’s array of kings will be the same.” He breathed in.“And this world will become dimmer the very day you pass beyond it.” 

Elros let out a tight sob of relief. Maglor pressed a kiss to his forehead before speaking again. “You are correct, I won’t pretend to understand you in entirety, but I love you more than enough to be certain you know best. May all of your endeavors bear fruit.”

Embracing, smiling through tears, Elros and Maglor exchanged words of a consolation, too lowly for Elrond to hear. He was still sitting on the bare rock, growing cold,  fearful, ashamed. Even more so when Maglor let Elros go, stepped backward, and scrutinized Elrond out of the corner of his eye.

“Now,” their father said, a hint of thoughtfulness shining through. “I believe it is about time I make sure my poor horse gets some water.” He turned to address Graweth, who had kept the lowest of profiles, sitting still on the forest floor. “Why don’t you come and lend me a hand, young lady?”

Elrond wiped away a tear and slumped his head in self-reproach, uncertain whether he could ever do for Elros what Maglor had just done with so little trouble. 

Hazily, he registered Graweth scrambling to her feet, appearing as if she rued every bit of the youthful recklessness that had led her to join Elros on this adventure. He heard her footsteps as she followed Maglor, and could make out Maglor's graceful words of reassurance. Elrond paid it little mind. His panicked focus was solely on Elros, who stepped around the lifeless bonfire and sat down beside him.

Chapter Text

Silence reigned undisputed in the darkened campsite, till Elros huffed, “I’ll rekindle the fire,” and got back to his feet. With an air of frustration, he brought lightwood from Maglor’s stockpile and positioned it amidst the pale ashes. All the while his face was turned away from Elrond, who was left where he had been sitting the whole time, silent and rueful, watching the dark shape of his twin.

The words left Elrond’s mouth in a slightly higher pitch than he’d intended, piercing the murky night air.

“I’m sorry, Elros.” 

Elros’ gaze remained fixed on the sparks he was catching with practiced movements. He voiced no response. 

Elrond wrapped his arms around himself. A tightness in his chest pressed him to elaborate. “I’m so sorry I can’t do as Maglor,” he got out, shaking his head, grateful that he had at least stopped crying. “I can’t rejoice in what you’ve chosen, Elros. I can’t trust that it’s right or that it’s good for anything at all.”

Elros blew on his feeble flame, adding bark and thin pieces of dry wood to make it grow. Only when the fire had taken hold and Elros was satisfied with his work did he look across his shoulder at Elrond. His expression was now less resolute and more thoughtful. 

“I suppose it is easier for Ada.” A mournful tinge darkened Elros’ voice. “He had already begun to let the two of us go.”

Let go. The air Elrond breathed in came to feel like glass shards in his throat. 

Elros approached him and sat down on the ground once more. “Elrond,” he began, sounding concerned, clearly mulling over what to tell him. Finally, with much emotion and little grace, Elros reached out to touch Elrond’s shoulder and said, “Elrond, even when I’m dead and gone, you won’t be alone. You’ll be alright. Surely you know that?” 

He came across as youthful, hopeful, exactly like himself.

“I don’t know anything.” 

Just now everything that mattered to Elrond felt as if it was about to collapse in on itself. Elros and Maglor and Erenion, those he loved, his brittle family, were each pressing on in a different direction. Elrond had no notion of where that would leave him or what he should do. He couldn’t begin to perceive a way out that did not leave him broken.

He lowered his head. By his side, Elros threw a wistful, slightly helpless, look toward the riverbank and Maglor. Then he turned back to Elrond, shushing him somewhat clumsily, and reaching out to stroke his back. 

“Listen, Elrond, I know I don’t always make things easy for you.” Elros moved in his seat and ran his other hand through his hair, seemingly still not quite used to its altered length. “For instance, I’ve been thinking about last year. I shouldn’t have moved out without telling you. I’m sorry. I just… I get so caught up in everything I’m working on.” 

Elrond gave a forceless nod.

“I never meant to neglect you,” he heard Elros audaciously maintain. Elrond had to restrain his bitter urge to scowl, to move away, to retort that Elros had done a damnably poor job of showing that. 

“Only,” Elros said with a little more bite, removing his hand from Elrond’s back. “Spending time with you would be easier if you didn’t turn your nose up at everything I devote myself to.”

“That’s not-” Elrond meant to object, but gave up upon realizing Elros’ allegation was at least somewhat warranted. “Fine. Perhaps I do.” Sullenly, Elrond thought of the infighting, coarseness, and squalor he had witnessed in his limited dealings with the Edain.  It was not as if he bore any of them ill will, but he could not begin to comprehend Elros' undertaking.

“And I see why you might.” Elros’ smile was sad but steadfast. “I never claimed that my settled upon people were easy to love, but since when did I let that stop me? When did either of us?” 

That made Elrond sigh and look to Maglor's belongings, to the flames reflected on his silver harp. Maglor had spilled innocent blood, brought death upon Elrond’s kinsfolk.  No matter how uncharitably you put it, Elros had merely brought death upon himself, freely agreed to welcome it in a remote future. 

It was, Elrond could acknowledge, absurdly harsh of him to cherish Maglor despite his choices and scorn Elros for his. 

Elros continued, starry-eyed. “When I talk with them, the men, the women, the children, I see such potential. We can’t play second fiddle to the eldar for all time. It has done us few favors. I envision us uniting, bringing about a new age, a realm of peace, of safety.” 

The tightness in Elrond’s chest seemed to twist and writhe. He remained silent, breathing slowly, letting Elros’ eager contemplations rush over him like waves of the sea. Try as Elrond might, it was getting increasingly more difficult to resent him.

“So much depends on whether The Enemy can even be overthrown,” Elros pondered “I honestly don’t know how much I’ll personally be able to achieve.” He briefly raised his hands, acknowledging some of his own naivety. “Blood is one thing, but as of now, I can't even get my father-in-law to tolerate me, much less take responsibility for a whole kindred.”

Elros’ features were sharp in the now thriving firelight, his jaw clenched with the purest determination. “I can learn, though. And I’ll be dammed if I don’t do all that’s in my might.”  

Elrond was lost in thoughts for a long time, arms wrapped around himself to ward off the chill. At last, he took a deep breath and let out a stream of words. “Concerning Graweth’s father, won’t you at least inform Erenion of your strife? He might be able to aid you before it escalates and someone gets seriously harmed.” 

Elros sent him a quizzical look, seemingly baffled as to why Elrond opted to focus on this matter out of all he had just put forth.

Elrond made himself explain, softly and with reluctance. “I will need some time, Elros, perhaps a long time, to come to terms with all that your choice entails. For the both of us.” 

Seeing the awe beginning to dawn on Elros’ face, Elrond continued, attempting the smallest of smiles. “And in the meantime, I’d rather not have you mangled by some mortal with a grudge.”

Elros now wore an open-mouthed hesitant expression. Carefully, he ventured. “I- I already did discuss Graweth’s father with High King Gil-galad, the other day.” He made a face. “An uncomfortable conversation, to say the least.” 

Elrond could only imagine. Gil-galad was aware of the twins’ respective choices and their fight, but he knew nothing of Elros’ aspiration for a kingship. Elros would have had to skirt around his plans, ignore Erenion’s inevitable attempts at mediating his and Elrond’s conflict, and swallow down the embarrassment of having to ask his King to pacify his in-laws.

“Gil-galad agreed with you, of course. He worried our animosity would get out of hand, and warned me against being too polarizing.” By the dull note to Elros’ tone, it was plain to hear how this plea for aid had wounded his pride. “But he did commit to helping me.”

Pride in his brother rushed through Elrond. It strengthened his resolve to try and make peace. His brow furrowed deeply as he searched for the right words. 

“You- you should know how much I’ve hated the two of us being on bad terms. I’m so glad you came with me out here.” Elrond kept going despite the lump in his throat. “You won’t stay, Elros, I see that, and it pains me so. That’s not likely to ever change.”  

“But to me,” he attempted, “standing behind you, and not in your way, will be the second-best thing after getting to keep you. I want to try my hand at that.” 

Elrond paused. Around him, the world was still standing. The woodland was still in its earliest bloom. Elros was still opposite him, silent as he processed Elrond’s words for a moment. Then, all at once, he rose, dragged Elrond to his feet roughly, and pulled him into a bone-crushingly tight embrace. 

“Ada!” Elros called out a few moments later when the twins descended to the riverside. Graweth was still keeping a bit of wary distance from both their father and his horse, but the two of them looked to have been talking amiably. Elros went to embrace her and answered Maglor’s gaze with a look of wild relief.  “Isn’t it about time for a song?”

Still a bit shaken, the twins didn’t have it in them to protest when Maglor handed them and Graweth a piece of waybread each and insisted on them eating it. Maglor found his harp and took a seat among them. Upon noticing the twins and Graweth watching him with anticipation, he let out a half-chuckle of feigned humility, tucked a tangle of hair behind his ear, and lifted up his voice.

Light and shadow danced on Maglor's face as he sang. His voice and playing intermingled with the waterfalls' ceaseless gushing. Elrond recognized the melody as the opening notes of one of Maglor’s own epics, composed for the Ñoldorin court in Aman. Then, the lyrics must have been intended to be triumphant in all sincerity. These days Maglor imbued each of the Quenya words with sharp, haunting force, as if mocking the past as well as lamenting it. Beautiful and bitter, it was steel against skin, moonlight on a ravaged land.

Leaning against Elros’ chest as he petted her hair, Graweth went slack-jawed with awe. The twins shared an evocative gaze. To them, the etherealness of Maglor’s art was second to the memories it kindled, the boundless nostalgia. They had been raised on these sounds, and, for better or worse, the music grasped their hands and brought them right back. 

Back to being thirteen in a run-down outlying safe-house, their father drafting poetry on a makeshift dining table, the twins and Maedhros cleaning their weapons and throwing in joking unhelpful suggestions when Maglor couldn’t make the rhyme scheme fit. 

Back to being six and newly arrived in Amon Ereb, their uncanny abductor tucking them into bed, pressing them for civil conversation. “You boys were outside my solar when I played this afternoon, were you not? Did you enjoy the music?” Elrond had nestled into the mattress, refusing to meet Maglor’s eyes. “No,” he’d whispered, an unconvincing lie.

A few stanzas in, Maglor paused and asked, “Did you have something merrier in mind, dear Elros?” The absent look in his eyes called his casual tone into question, but the expression waned when he began prodding the three of them for requests. 

The twins went along, having Maglor play a lilting ode to the sun and the moon and then a time-honored lullaby of theirs. Somehow, the tune could still make Elrond feel every bit of his sleepiness. To Graweth and Elros’ delight, Maglor finished with some lively expressive ballad in the Taliskan language, well-known among Beleriand’s Men.

When Maglor suggested Elrond try and play he yawned and shook his head. Maglor made it look effortless, but Elrond had not laid a hand on an instrument for two years. He would rather not have to relearn the skill with his brother and Graweth looking on.

Taking in Maglor’s disappointed face, Elrond offered, “But I’ll braid your hair.”

As Maglor packed away his harp in its leather case, Elrond searched his belongings for a comb and took the ample opportunity to discreetly replenish his father’s meager medical supplies. Finding his place behind Maglor, he began combing out the tangles in his black tresses. On the other side of the campfire, Elros and Graweth were tired-looking, curled so up close against each other that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

“I’ve been thinking, Elrond, of that High King of yours,” Maglor said when his hair was almost entirely smooth and shiny.

Elrond turned the rough antler comb over in his hand. The small leap in his stomach was impossible to ignore. At the same time, he felt bone-weary.  “What about him?” 

“Perhaps I spoke somehow too rashly earlier. I failed to listen when you expressed such remorse for being dishonest with your friend.”

Bad conscience came rushing back to Elrond at once, as certain as water running downhill. His eyes wandered as he put the comb down on his lap.

Opposite him, Elros and Graweth failed at pretending they weren’t listening in on every word. Elrond supposed it did not matter. Elros had teased Elrond about his regard for the High King even before his jests had had much truth to them, only growing slightly more discreet upon being proved right. Graweth seemed determined to follow him in all things.

When Elrond didn’t object, Maglor elaborated. “When I urged the two of you to circumvent parts of your past it was out of concern for you and your prospects.” 

Though his face was turned toward the flames, Elrond heard the untamed guilt straining at his perfect voice. 

“You had suffered so much already. I wanted you to have the best possible chance.”

“I know,” Elrond told him softly. Ada, he half-considered adding, but the moment slipped away.

Maglor shifted gracelessly to turn his head and meet Elrond’s eyes. “I never meant for the guilt to eat you up. You should not have to press on out of misguided loyalty to me.”

“Then what should I do?”  Desperation dripped from the words.

All eyes were on Maglor who shrugged, not thinking himself qualified to answer.

“I will without exception advise you to look out for yourself and your brother,” he finally got out, not without self-irony, nor without shame.

“But you are grown now. I have faith in your honor and in your ability to judge for yourself. You certainly know your King and his people better than I do. Tell him as much or as little as you deem right.”

Elrond’s breaths were shallow. By now he had long stopped dreading that Erenion would bring harm upon him, have him imprisoned or exiled upon discovering the truth. If it came to that, the ensuing consequences for Elrond’s standing in the army would be likely difficult but not ruinous. It was not for fear of those he stayed silent.

Elrond looked from Elros to Graweth to Maglor, feeling pathetic, feeling the rapid pulse within his chest. 

“What if he never talks to me again?”

On their birthday, two weeks prior, the twins barely had the sense to move away from Herald Eönwë before they’d started snarling at and pleading with each other. Shaking from shock and anger, Elrond had taken flight before long. He’d run right into Gil-galad and Círdan, who’d been understandably perplexed as to what the twins had done to their godlike guest of honor.

Elrond’s memory of the following conversation was pained and hazy, but he recalled taking shelter in Erenion’s tent and letting the story slip to him bit by bit. When the afternoon had then dwindled, the King had donned a winter cloak and a dutiful expression, excusing himself for a time. He’d needed to see off Lord Círdan and Herald Eönwë as they departed for the Amanyar’s camp. 

Picking at his dinner in grim solitude, Elrond’s mind was stuck on how he should have seen this coming. He rubbed at his sore eyes till the skin grew chafed. His mind went in circles. His knowledge of the metaphysics involved this choice of the half-elves was sparse at best, but even he could tell that one could not go on being mortal and immortal both. 

Perhaps if Elrond had foreseen, paid attention, then Elros wouldn’t have…

He neglected the food, kicked off his boots, and staggered back and forth across the tent floor.  He knew well that once embraced mortality, the purported Gift of mankind, could never be relinquished.  Elros’ choice seemed beyond all belief.

Rather presumptuously, Elrond sat down on the furs covering the King’s bed. Wearily he went about undoing his painfully tight work braids so that his hair fell in disheveled waves. When nighttime crept over the camp and Erenion returned, Elrond was still sitting there in the near-darkness. Too wrung out and sick with grief to be properly flustered, he eyed Erenion with slight unease, his shoulders moving upwards.

“Stay,” Erenion assured him from the tent door. Entering, he removed his cloak and the circlet from his brow. “Rest.” 

After lighting the bone-white candle on the desk, Gil-galad took a seat beside Elrond, letting their knees brush against each other. 

“When will the fates find it in themselves to let you be, Elrond?” Erenion’s words were low-voiced and mystified, full of concern and likely pity as well.

Nonetheless, Elrond found solace in his presence.

“Don’t concern yourself with thoughts of working tomorrow. I’ve had word sent to the master of healers that you are not well.” 

Elrond’s face crinkled underneath his drying tears. “I’m on sick leave by order of the High King?” The gesture struck him as both immensely thoughtful and, in spite of everything, somewhat comical.

Elrond heard Erenion’s smile. “Is there a problem?” the king teased, turning to watch Elrond’s face and giving a light nudge against his side. 

Shaking his head, Elrond returned the grin and the fleeting touch both. Erenion was warm, he noticed. The tightening in his stomach was exasperating in its mere predictability. Still, his smile lingered. For a brief indulgent moment, sneaking glances at Gil-galad, Elrond was so distracted he forgot all about Elros.

Some feat, he’d thought upon realizing that, even for Erenion.

Perched on the edge of Erenion’s bed, so very near him, Elrond felt a little too alert, a little too heated. Springtime was knocking on their door, it had been three long months since midwinter. Half-heartedly, Elrond reminded himself of how he really should have moved past this. 

Nonetheless, he shifted a reckless fingerbreadth closer to Erenion, his head spinning as their thighs pressed against each other.

Momentarily, he gave his mind rein to drift. It was half an escape, a hundredfold pleasanter than the alternative, than his current reality.

A glow set on Elrond’s lowered face, pinkish. He imagined climbing into Erenion’s lap and curling his fingers into his hair, still tousled where the slender crown had rested. He wanted to press kisses to Erenion’s cheek, to his mouth, to the soft skin at the corner of his neck. To take Erenion’s hands and slowly, intentionally, guide them beneath his clothes. To let their lips meet again and then deepen the kiss. To shift further into his touch, put his mouth near Erenion’s ear, and beg in a whisper.

Elrond rolled a corner of the fur between his fingers, trying to mask how his hands twitched with desire to touch. Then, for one piercing instant, his eyes met Erenion’s. They were knowing, slightly guarded, blue as the sky. As if blinded, Elrond looked away, inhaling sharply.

He’d chewed his lower lip, listening to their tense intermingled breathing. His shame was a thorny living thing, nesting within his torso. Forcefully, Elrond reminded himself that the last thing he wanted was to discomfort the one friend looking after him. He had no particular wish to humiliate himself either. 

Inwardly, he felt profoundly pathetically grateful that Erenion didn’t make comment, that he didn’t rebuff him outright. Elrond didn’t think he’d be able to bear that just now.

The memory of the last time the two of them had been this close loomed over Elrond. Did Erenion ever look back on midwinter night? Wishfully, he wondered if Erenion had given that small kiss just a tenth of the thought Elrond had devoted to it these past months.

No matter what, he called to mind with certainty, Erenion would never reciprocate anything in a moment such as this, when Elrond was desolate and half out of his mind with loss.

He figured he loved and begrudged Erenion for that.

After a moment’s contemplation, he moved to rest his head on Erenion’s shoulder, as if it had been his intention all along. Erenion let him. Strands of his hair tickled against Elrond’s neck, soft to the touch.

“Some birthday you’ve had.”

Elrond closed his eyes tightly, thinking of his brother again. Elros had counted the days till they would come of age, he knew. Elros yearned to be taken seriously, to establish himself as a King among Men.

Erenion, Elrond's King, would grow suspicious of Elros sooner or later. He’d start asking questions, likely beginning with Elrond. Furious with Elros or not, restlessly stuck on Erenion or not, Elrond didn’t think he could give away his brother's secret. 

As children on the roam, the twins had marked their birthdays with a swim in a cold lake, a hot beverage by a roaring fire, and a sunny grin at making it through another year. Maglor would bring them sweets and trinkets. He’d sing and ruffle their hair and dramatically question Maedhros as to where all the time had gone.

Thinking back to those days, Elrond stiffened, his mouth went dry with shame. The cobweb of lies he told Erenion grew more intricate with every day. It felt sticky, constraining, all wrong. 

The tip of Erenion’s fingers brushed Elrond’s upper arm and he suppressed a shudder. “Do you think it is too late for me to offer you my well-wishes?” Erenion asked.

Elrond took a moment to banish the gash of guilt, to control his breathing. “No,” he managed, brushing his chin against the thick fabric of Erenion’s robe. “I think I’m in dire need of them, in fact.”

“Then, they’re yours.” Erenion’s smile was hearable again, a lovely, much-wanted sound. The touch of his hand on Elrond’s arm reverberated through him, launching a thousand instinctive thoughts.

Was this the right time to kiss him? 

Was this the right time to tell him everything?

Of course, coward as he was, Elrond had done neither in the end.

Beyond the firelight, Elros tilted his head slightly and played with a lock of Graweth’s hair. “Elrond, let me tell you one fun thing I’ve noticed about King Gil-galad.” Clearly trying to come off casual, Elros' voice had only the slightest edge of hesitation. 

Elrond felt both thrown and grateful. The two of them might still not be entirely on good foot, but given time, surely, they would be. It was not unlike a broken bone, needing to be set in order to heal right.

“Whenever I approach him,” Elros continued, more spirited. “He takes one look at me and realizes I’m not you. And then his face falls, I can feel the sheer disappointment radiating from him.” He shrugged with a theatricality worthy of their father and displayed an innocent smirk. “I just try not to take it personally.”

Maglor and Graweth both looked amused, which meant there was no stopping Elros. Elrond breathed in through his teeth, put on the spot but not truly uneasy.

“He lets you stroll into his tent unannounced. He practically ruled the Ñoldor from your bedside when you were recovering from that stab wound.”

When Maglor’s face contracted in sudden worry, Elrond got a brief respite from Elros teasing. He explained his injury as dismissively as he could, then lifted his tunic to show the fading scar, proving to Maglor that he was not, in fact, dying where he sat.

When he turned back to Elros, he could still feel the cold night air caressing his skin. “I’m lying to him.”

He recalled Elros’ words about Erenion from just earlier. I pity him. They had been spoken in anger, but some truth did remain in them. 

“We both are,” Elros corrected him. His tone was somewhat apologetic. “I’m not particularly proud of that either. We only started it because we were scared he’d lock us in and throw away the key if he knew the truth.”

“He won’t though.” Elrond ran both palms over his face then lowered them.

Looking at the people around the fire, he divulged, “Sometimes all I want is to tell him. The deceit… it cheapens it.” Elrond's growing desire to do right by Erenion, to try and deserve him, made war on his terror of losing all they shared.

Maglor, Elros, and Graweth beheld him with different shades of sympathy. Still, a sensation ran down Elrond’s spine, the knowledge that, in the end, this choice was his to make. It took no effort to conjure Erenion in his mind, to recall the easy, unwarranted acceptance he’d shown Elrond ever since they met.

“Elrond,” Maglor reminded him, brief and mellow. “Worse people than you have been forgiven for much graver sins.”

Elrond gave a loath half-nod. 

“At least you’re not the one planning to make off with a third of his kingdom,” Graweth added supportively. “That’s got to help.” She nudged Elros who play-acted at great offense, making Elrond’s mouth curve upwards. 

“I’ll come with you,” Elros offered Elrond then, somewhere in between joking and genuine. “We can tell King Gil-galad all of it at once.” He brandished an impish smile that he could only have picked up from Maglor. “Get it over with. Ruin his day.”

Elrond thanked him sardonically, rolling his eyes, but his chest and belly felt lighter as he shifted and finally reached for a lock of Maglor’s hair. As Elros and Graweth exchanged fond sleepy chatter, Elrond set about braiding a crown. The twin waterfalls rumbled on, wild and deep. Faraway, a bird broke into song.