A Few Dead Elves

A note on names: Beginning in this chapter, we'll be introducing the brothers' familiar names (the ones by which they call each other). In The Silmarillion, many characters have several names (a father-name, a mother-name, a king-name, etc.); the same applies to this set of brothers. Here's a list of them for clarification, in order of eldest to youngest:

Maedhros the Tall = Nelyafinwë (fn), "Nelyo," Maitimo (mn), Russandol (kn)
Maglor = Kanafinwë (fn), "Kano," Makalaurë (mn)
Celegorm the Fair = Turcafinwë (fn), "Turko," Tyelkormo (mn)
Caranthir the Dark = Morifinwë (fn), "Moryo," Carnistir (mn)
Curufin the Crafty = Curufinwë (fn), "Curvo," Atarincë (n)
Amrod = Telufinwë (fn), "Ambarto"
Amras = Pityafinwë (fn), "Pityo"

Additionally, the twins refer to each other not by their familiar names, but by their mother-name, Ambarussa. (Yeah...their mum was a bit lazy and gave them both the same name.)

Update 07.04.18:
WE'RE BACK. And badder than ever. Well, not really, we just pretend to be. Check out the prologue for details!

In the beginning there was darkness.

Then Eru said the Word, and the Word was "hrnh," and the darkness faded first to grey, then to a pale blue shot through with rosy orange. Maedhros blinked up into the blueness above him, hearing the cries of seagulls as they floated on the breeze overhead. This gradient...this shade...he knew this image by instinct if not by heart.

"The morning sky," he whispered.

How many hundreds and thousands of years had it been? How long since he had gazed upon anything beyond the dimly lit stones of the Halls of Mandos, since he had seen real colors and not just the threads of thought that passed for color among the dead, since he had truly seen light and sunshine?

And—yes, he could feel again, he could feel! Gritty harshness beneath his flesh, he thought hard to his muscles and his eyes flicked down and he saw a finger twitch, a flesh finger, not just the shadow of one that his fëa—that he—had had just a while before. Still no right hand...but that was fine. One hand was all he needed. And this wonderful feeling of something cold, of something...damp? No, not damp. Positively soggy.

"Agh!?"

The eldest Fëanorion leaped up. He had been laying on a bed of wet sand and his trousers were thoroughly soaked; the cold morning wind snapped through his clothes, causing him to wince. With clumsy fingers he swatted some sand off, attempted to wring out his trousers, but the sound of rolling water, of vastness, drew him away. He was free—free—alive! He inhaled deeply, tasting the saltiness of the sea air as he drew another true breath for the first time in centuries.

To his left rolled what must be the Sundering Seas, almost an old friend as it greeted him with its familiar gentle spray, and to his right rose tall cliffs of stone that towered over the little stretch of beach he stood on. For a moment he forgot why he was there and simply lost himself to enjoying the sounds and smells of the Sea.

"Ahhhhhhh!"

"No, no, sh-sh-sh, it's not that, you're fine—Ambarussa, you're fine, you're safe—"

The redheaded elf spun to see where the cries had come from. A ways down the shore Amrod was curled in on himself in the sand, rocking to and fro and keening, while Amras tried desperately to comfort him. He started towards them when an angry splash and splutter came from somewhere to his right.

"Curse him!" Curufin spat, face sour. "Of all the places, that damn Vala had to plop us in the middle of an ocean!"

"We're all on dry land. What's your problem?" came Celegorm's chuckle from behind.

The sallow-faced elf merely scowled at his brother, then turned in a wide circle, examining his surroundings intently. Celegorm and, the redheaded elf was relieved to see, Caranthir were a distance closer to the cliffs, similarly gazing around as they made their way towards the rest of their siblings. But where was…?

"Nelyo!"

Maedhros turned yet again and sighed with relief as the willowy figure of Maglor scrambled towards him, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. All six brothers accounted for and unharmed (though Curufin's pride was questionable).

"Brother—can you believe it?" he whispered as he approached. "We've returned to Middle Earth—we're alive again!"

"It's...remarkable." Maedhros watched the three middle siblings huddle together and sighed when they started arguing. His brow furrowed as he looked over the willowy elf's shoulder; the ruby-haired twins were still tangled in each other's embrace upon the sand, one soothing the other. "What's the matter with Ambarto?"

Maglor followed his brother's gaze and his expression twisted, pain clear on his face. There was a long pause. "I think...I think he's remembering Losgar."

"Ah," Maedhros said, and guilt washed over him. How could he have forgotten?

"It's the last memory he has of Middle Earth," Maglor continued, seeming to have not heard Maedhros. The words tumbled out, more to himself than to the brother who stood watching him with sorrow.

"I can't imagine it was a pleasant one…. We have to remember that he...died...on these shores, and the roar of the Sea isn't too different from the roar of the blaze that en—that e-ended his life…" His voice trailed off, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, finally turning his gaze back towards Maedhros. "Perhaps he's just a bit overwhelmed at the moment, Nelyo."

"Brothers!" They turned to see the trio heading towards them, though it was impossible to tell who spoke; Caranthir and Curufin were bright-eyed, while Celegorm lagged behind, sending a concerned glance back towards the twins every few moments. The sallow-faced elf glared at the hunter for a moment, obviously waiting for him to speak. When Celegorm failed to notice, Curufin huffed and swung his gaze back around.

"Turko here thinks he may know where we are," he said. He jerked his head towards the ruddy-faced elf behind him. "Moryo and I are going to see if he's right."

Maedhros raised an eyebrow at this, inviting him to continue, but Curufin turned away, his expression even more sour than before. Caranthir rolled his eyes and spoke, to everybody's surprise.

"If we can get to the top of that cliff," he said, flapping a hand towards the sheer wall of stone nearby, "then maybe we'll see some landmark to give us direction. That makes sense, hm?"

"Shouldn't Turko go with you?" Maglor interrupted. His arm moved slightly to keep Maedhros from hissing at Caranthir. "Surely he's got more experience scaling cliffs than you two chuckleheads."

"I think...it'd be better for me to stay here," Celegorm said over Curufin's litany of muttered cursing, still looking at the twins. "Amrod worries me. I think he's taking this transition back to life a little poorly… and Eru knows you two"—he jerked his head towards the two eldest brothers, a slight quirk in his lips—"will be of little, if any, help to him."

Maedhros scowled at the hunter, while Maglor, pleasant and puppy-faced as he always was, somehow managed to look hurt by the comment.

"Besides, you know that your whole 'buck up and deal with it' speech has never worked well on those two, dear elder brother," Caranthir said gleefully. "And somehow I don't believe a batch of warm cookies and a song on your harp is going to fix this one. Not that I suppose you'll find an oven out here anyway, you hoary old elleth—"

Smack.

"Ow!"

"Just go," Maedhros growled, his one hand still raised. Caranthir and Curufin slunk off toward the cliffs, while Celegorm made his way over to the Ambarussa twins.

Maglor smiled to himself at the sight. The hunter always turned into such a mother hen when it came to the two ruby-haired twins. It probably had something to do with the many hunts the three of them had gone on together back in Aman, he reflected wistfully.

As Celegorm did his best to comfort the youngest members of their family, Maedhros watched the two elves scaling the cliff face with apprehension. Maglor, not having anything better to do (and wanting to enjoy the moment a bit longer), sat down near the trio of hunters with a fond grin, fingers aching for his catgut harpstrings. Amrod's sobs quieted, soon leaving only the sounds of crashing waves.

None of them noticed the muted drumming of hooves on sand until it was too late. Shouts and the ringing of steel sliced through the air. Maedhros spun around, eyes casting about wildly. From a distance down the beach a party of elves galloped towards them, their armor and swords glinting in the morning sun.

"Ahhhhhh!"

"Not again! Ambarussa—"

"He just calmed down, ya fucking ingrates!" Celegorm bellowed toward the riders, earning him a punch on the shoulder.

"Language!"

"Is this really the time to worry about that, Kano?"

The willowy elf pulled his brothers to their feet, Amras supporting Amrod, but as they began to move Maedhros sent them a warning look.

"Stay where you are," the tall redhead muttered, stepping to the front. He raised his arms slightly, ensuring that his brothers were staying behind him. "I doubt fleeing will do us any good."

He spared a glance at his two remaining siblings, who were still focused on scaling the cliff face—so much so that they didn't even notice the three armored elves waiting for them at the top. Maedhros sighed in frustration and resignation as the patrol surrounded them, arrows nocked at aimed at the cluster of brothers.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" one of them said as he dismounted his horse. His attitude made Maedhros want to vomit, but he was clearly the commander in charge, and so he refrained. "Five mysterious elves, washed up on the beach? On the eve of war, no less."

"I assure you, we mean no harm," Maedhros said, raising his arms to show he had no weapons. In fact, none of them did. All they had were the clothes on their backs (and though Námo had been so thoughtful as to give them modern garb, he obviously didn't trust them with weapons yet). He glanced at his brothers and spoke smoothly. "I know what you think, and trust me when I say this is not how it appears. We are but travelers fallen on a time of hard luck. Might you be so kind as to point us in the direction of the nearest elven settlement?"

"Hn! Travelers?" the commander snorted. "Spies, more like!"

Maedhros glared down at the commander, who grew even shorter under the fiery gaze. Maglor, meanwhile, was doing his best not to be intimidated by a rather aggressive-looking female elf, going slightly cross-eyed as he tried to keep sight of an arrow drawing near his nose. Celegorm visibly rolled his eyes as he straightened, bringing an exhausted Amrod upright with him; Amras looked just as tired as his twin as he leaned against the hunter, although his cheeks were considerably less tearstained.

"Why would you think us spies?" questioned the hunter as he pulled the twins closer to him. "Are we not your own kind?"

"Was it not Maeglin, Turgon's kinsman, who betrayed the the location of Gondolin? Did not the Sons of Fëanor slaughter the Sindar Elves at Doriath over naught more than a pretty gem? Did their father not leave the people of Fingolfin to freeze to death over the Helcaraxë? History has made it clear to me that kinship is a poor indicator for loyalty."

All was still.

"So this is how we are remembered…" Maglor whispered.

"What was that?" The aggressive-looking she-elf glared down at him from atop her steed. The silence was broken by the sounds of a struggle, coming from the top of the cliff. Maedhros turned to see his brothers, now high above the beach, fighting against the three elves he had seen waiting for them. One of them stopped writhing fairly quickly, apparently realizing that without weapons there was no way to win this fight. The other, presumably Caranthir, kept fighting.

"What are you looking at?" the commander sneered, his confidence returned now that he wasn't being towered over (as much).

"Please, please, just give up," Maglor muttered, ignoring the commander and staring up at the brawling silhouette of their persistent brother. "You can't win this one, Moryo, not unarmed."

"Morifinwë! Don't be a twat!" Curufin shouted.

His own hands were already raised in surrender. Nearly as soon as they had pulled themselves over the cliff the three armored guards had leaped towards them, and the younger Fëanorion had surrendered just as quickly. In the past he could have taken them with ease, but with this shaky new body, the chances of him emerging victorious were slim to none. His brother, on the other hand, was not so observant. Eons certainly hadn't worn away the dullard's reflexes—nor had they made him any more intelligent.

"No!" Caranthir snarled as he grappled with two of the armored elves.

(The third of them was occupied with binding Curufin's wrists in front of him. "Twat...that is certainly a new word," he muttered to himself.)

"I refuse to be taken prisoner so easily! Why do you not fight as well?"

"Auk," the sallow-faced elf spat. He slouched back and watched his brother brawling needlessly. His fists, though the easiest weapon of choice, were becoming bloody and deformed from their constant bashing against the elves' sharp and sturdy armor. All these eons hadn't passed for nothing, Curufin supposed, if the metalworking could now stand up to a proper punch.

However, Caranthir wasn't one of the (in)famous sons of Fëanor for nothing. One of the two guards had blood dripping from his nose, and the other was rattling clumsily about, chest plate hanging from a single strap of leather.

The third guard hesitated, glancing towards Curufin; the sallow elf merely shrugged and nodded him ahead. The guard looked at him suspiciously, then let go and pulled a flask from his belt, tearing a strip off his tunic. With a thumb he popped the stopper off and thoroughly soaked the rag as he dodged into the fray. The guard dove in, there was a brief frenzy of movement, and somehow he managed to snatch Caranthir away and clap the hand holding the rag over the struggling Fëanorion's nose and mouth.

"Ghrmmmrg!"

"Stop struggling, Orc-spawn!" the guard growled at him. Caranthir's muffled shouts were barely audible to his brother, who shook his head in disgust as his older sibling eventually quieted, his thrashing limbs falling limp.

"Why did you not do that earlier?" one of the guards panted. He grabbed another stretch of rope and made short work of the unconscious elf, then staggered upright, swiping the blood off his face. Curufin remained impassive as the tallest guard tossed another strip of tunic to the bleeding guard, then swung Caranthir over his shoulder. One of the other two grabbed the sallow Fëanorion's arm, and in that fashion he was led off. To where, however, was anyone's guess.

"I suppose we ought to make that seven spies then," the commanding elf said with a scowl in Maedhros's direction, before giving a nod to the other soldiers. "Bind their hands."

Immediately, the soldiers who didn't have arrows aimed at the sons of Fëanor moved to secure their wrists, but the one who approached the eldest brother blinked in confusion as he grabbed the stump of an arm. He held it aloft for his commander to see.

"He, er, has no right hand, Limdir," the soldier said. "How am I to bind his wrists? The rope will only slip off."

The commander—Limdir—huffed in indignation as a grin tugged at the corners of Maedhros's mouth.

"Let him be, then," he said as the last soldier tied Celegorm's wrists together. "Watch him closely though. I will not have prisoners escaping simply because they are maimed."

He heaved himself back into his saddle, then straightened. "Now, let us go. The sooner we return to Mithlond, the sooner we can be rid of these traitorous scum."

"Mithlond! Then I was right," Celegorm nearly gasped as he was prodded with an arrow, urging him to follow Limdir and his company.

"Quiet!" hissed a soldier, poking him yet again. The brothers were surrounded as they moved, soldiers guarding either side of them, bows at the ready. But the hunter still leaned close to Maedhros and whispered to him.

"If they're taking us to Mithlond, that would put us…"

"Aye," the eldest breathed, "right on Gil-galad's doorstep."

Notes
Fëa: the spiritual portion of a being
Elleth: she-elf
Auk: FOOL