Strangely enough, it's not the distant screams or the sounds of battle which jolt her mind into full consciousness. Nor is it the little, chubby fingers connected to tiny hands—which are obviously not her adult hands —braiding her hair into a single plait over her shoulder. It's the color of her hair that rouses her fully from her dream-like state.
The hair she is braiding—and it's hers, she feels as she gives it an experimental tug with her suddenly toddler sized hands—is the wrong color. Her hair is blonde, a lovely color of pale gold, but it's still wrong. Her hair is supposed to be a dark, red-brown, not blonde.
She snorts softly, the sound strange in her ears. Of course it wouldn't be her strangely child-like hands that pulled her out of whatever fog she's been in for however long—four years and change her mind suddenly supplies, her new body's age—it would be the color of her hair.
She finishes the braiding the hair on auto-pilot, her hands somewhat clumsy due to her younger body, and she looks up and finally takes in her surroundings.
She's in a small cave, a cove off a sea, and outside she can see white foam crest over small blue-green waves as the tide comes in over sandy beach. She stares out at the sea while her mind races, memories flitting by so quickly she winces in phantom pain as the past four years-worth of data is dumped on her suddenly. The process takes a while, but there is a battle going on some distance away and she knows she has to stay quiet, so she does. When her mind has finally cleared enough to think properly, the sounds of people dying and clashing of steel has stopped too.
It's near of the day, the sun is slowly falling on the horizon, its reflection is easy to see over the ocean with enhanced eyesight, and she's hiding in a cave with her older twin brothers because their mother refused to return a pretty rock to kin-slayers.
That's when it hits her where she is, and when, and with who. The realization that she knows what's happened, what will happen slams into her like a punch to the stomach and she doubles over, hand over her mouth to keep herself from crying out, even if she knows it won't matter.
Her vision blurs as her eyes fill with tears and but they don't fall. She starts when small hands grab her and tug her into a tight embrace, but relaxes when she realizes it's just her brother Elrond trying to comfort her—and how bizarre is it that she is Elrond's sister now? Has been for the past four years.
He's quietly mumbling in Sindarin, and she understands it perfectly because that is the main language she's been exposed to and been speaking for the entirety of the past four years. She's grateful for that at least; it would have been a huge pain to have to learn an entirely new language without anyone able to translate.
It's as she's thinking this, being held in one of her six-year old brothers' arms that she hears it— two voices speaking in Quenya, which she understands solely due to the wishes of their father Eärendil wanting them to know his native tongue. Elrond does too because suddenly his quiet murmuring stops and he falls silent as he slowly lets her go before gently pushing her behind him.
She nearly snorts at his futile action, but catches herself in time, though she does look beside her at Elros and roll her eyes. He doesn't return the gesture however, because his grey eyes are wide in fright and he is trembling. Elrond in front of her is shaking slightly too, but he is trying to be brave and protect her.
She wonders absentmindedly why she isn't scared as well, but chalks it up to the strangeness of finding herself in another world.
At another time, in another situation, she would find this child-version of Elrond's actions adorable. But they aren't, and they only make her sad. She might only be four years old in body, but she is an adult woman in mind and her brothers are truly children, only six years old in both body and mind.
The owners of the voices must have heard something though, because as soon as they come into sight from the entrance of the little cove, they stop and turn to look at them as if they had expected to see three small children hiding exactly where they were.
She knows who they are immediately. Both are tall, so, so tall that she has to crane neck just to take them in properly. The red-haired one has only one hand and is slightly taller than the dark-haired one. Their eyes are grey and shining with the light of the Two Trees backlighting them, one sporting a kind though forlorn gaze, the other calculating, and in their hands are long, bloodied swords, stained with the blood of her kin.
Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorion have found the children of Eärendil Ardamíre and Elwing Silimaril-Keeper.
Strangely, Elrond's voice is steady and calm, even if he is still trembling when he asks, "Is our mother dead?"
Both of the elves nod and the one she knows is Maglor says in a soft tenor that has no right to sound so beautiful, "She jumped and fell to the sea."
Elrond nods, but his trembling worsens and she can't help it anymore. She steps up to him, grabs him to spin him around, and hugs him as tightly as her small body can manage. Elros jumps over from where he was standing and joins in, tears falling out of red-rimmed, puffy eyes.
Their mother is dead, well that's what the boys think even if she knows better, though Elwing might as well be dead for they will never see her again. Not east of the sundering seas.
The older elves stay silent for a moment, and she is thankful for their tact even as she is aware that this situation, Fated though it may be, is entirely their fault. But she has to ask the question, even if she is still sure what will happen despite the anomaly of her existence.
She removes her arms from around her brothers and turns to face the killers of her kin, face neutral, shoulders set, and back straight. "What are you going to do with us?" she asks, the Sindarin flowing easily from her lips in a flat, steady tone which surprises the older two elves so much the jolt back.
Such a tone, such a stance, should probably not be capable coming from a young child, even if her voice is higher-pitched than she is used to, would be considered cute and lovely in a different tone. But the situation she and her brothers are in is terrible and this is not the time to be playacting as a child when she does not have the mind of one.
She had been to war before, and so it is easy to take charge and demand answers.
The brothers share a long, unreadable look, as if having a conversation in their minds—which they probably can, come to think of it, and isn't that thought slightly terrifying, she thinks even as she scrambles to cloak her own mind with the occlumency she'd learned years ago as a child of a different lifetime. No one and nothing will be invading her mind, thank you very much. She wishes she could help her brothers, perhaps she can teach them to veil their thoughts, their bloodline should allow at least the possibility. It's something to consider, later.
She was thankful. Her magic was still there, rippling under her skin, and if she thought she would have the same control with wandless magic in a four year-old body as she did as a thirty year-old woman, she might have tried to hide them with magic to wait the Fëanorionnath out and simply take them back to Sirion where there were sure to be elves coming, late though they would be to help the city, and probably with Círdan and Gil-Galad in tow.
Finally, with a nod from Maedhros, Maglor says, "We will take you with us. This is no place for children, and night will be falling soon."
She nods, though she doesn't like it, and agrees. "Very well."
It is Elros who starts the fit, with Elrond standing still and quiet.
"What? No, Elanor! We can't go with them, they killed mother!"
The only reason she doesn't react right away is because Elros has just spoken in perfectly clear English, accented as it is.
Before she can think too much of the implication that she has apparently taught her older brothers her native tongue from what is obviously a previous life, she responds in the same language. "We have to go with them willingly, Elros," she rebukes sharply and scowls. "Do you want to find out what might happen if they try to force us?"
Elrond finally speaks up, using the same tongue as his brother and sister and agrees with Elanor softly. "Elanor is right, they could kill us if we don't go willingly."
Elanor groans and raises a hand to pinch her nose. This is just too much. Way too much. The entire situation. Having been reborn, lived a few years, somehow having taught her brothers English, and only the Valar know what else. The fact that they are who they are, and now there are two old elves, still holding onto swords soaked in blood, looking at the three of them as if they are aliens and trying to make sense of a foreign language that shouldn't exist in Arda at all.
"Bloody fucking hell, this is a fucking mess," she mutters before standing up straight, hoping she hasn't yet taught them to curse in English as well and pinning Elros with such a look it makes him, Elrond, and the even two Fëanorionnath flinch.
"Alright, alright, sorry Elanor," Elros says, still speaking English, hands raised in surrender. "You're right, as always, little sister." He flinches again at Elanor's narrowed eyes. "We'll all just go quietly along with the murderers so they don't murder us as well," he mutters under his breath, though his words are clearly heard by all elves around him, even if two do not understand the words.
His statement makes Elanor bark out a surprised laugh, because really, the situation is so insane, and her laugh strangely causes Elrond to break out with a small smile despite the circumstances. But she says, in Sindarin, "Speak Sindarin, Elros. It is rude to speak in a language when not everyone can understand."
Elros narrows his eyes, crosses his arms over his chest, and pouts mulishly. The whole picture is comically childish, enough so that the older brothers can't help but crack a small grin themselves.
"Fine, fine," he mutters, in Sindarin, but adds in English, "whatever." She allows this without rebuke, however, for there really is no good translation for that word into any elven language, not in this context, and context is quite important in both Sindarin and Quenya. Elanor knows this, even with only four years of a child's learning. Thank goodness for early elven development influenced by the blood of men and Maiar heritage.
The Maiar blood, however diluted, is probably why she has kept her magic she thinks absentmindedly.
"Well, children, perhaps you can tell us your names, and then follow us, yes?" Maglor asks, grin gone from his face once more, though his eyes are still kind, if sad.
Elrond straightens and faces the two older brothers as calmly as he can. "I am Elrond, the oldest, by twin is Elros, and our sister is Elanor," he says in a clear voice.
"We are Maedhros and Maglor."
All three siblings chime in at the same time with the same flat tone. "We know."
Perhaps they can pretend to be triplets instead of twins? She won't take too long to catch up in stature, and she is female, so surely being smaller would not seem strange. The only problem is her blonde hair—an inheritance from their golden-haired father and his mother—against the twins' dark hair, a trait passed down the line from their great-grandmother Lúthien. Maybe she can find a way to dye her hair darker, she'd certainly feel a bit more like herself with dark hair once more.
As they file out of the small cave onto the beach Elanor grabs a hand of each of her brothers, and sinks into her thoughts. She wonders just how the hell she ended up being reborn here, and only truly waking up today of all days.
Well, her life had been strange since the moment she'd found out she was a witch. With magic involved, who is to say reincarnating into a world she previously thought of as fiction was out of the realm of possibility.