Music for this chapter: Medhel an Gwyns, Anne Dudley
Chapter 14: Their Elerondo
Elrond's fëa bleeds starlight; faint, silvery trails from his tattered form.
He curls there on his side before the Door of Night, and has no strength to move. Around him the void is cold – empty, icy darkness.
The Silmaril shines with the light of the Trees between his translucent fingers. Elrond blinks slowly at the gem his foster-fathers had once fought so bitterly to retrieve, but even as he watches, his shivering hands are fading around the Silmaril – starlight scattering to stardust.
His fëa is fading.
Elrond knows, now, that there will be no returning.
The Door of Night will open a yen from now, and his foster-fathers will see the Silmaril resting before threshold of the doors, and know that Elrond has passed beyond even the reach of Námo.
It is that thought, and the thought of Celebrían standing before their house on the cliff, the lonely sea wind whipping her hair across her tear-stained cheeks, that pushes Elrond to try to stand.
He makes it halfway onto one trembling knee, starlight scattering like silver waterfalls from his unbound hair, before he falls.
Elrond lays there, form flickering, and hears Morgoth laugh.
His vision darkens at the edges, and the Silmaril burns cold in his hands.
But faintly, somewhere in the distance, there is singing.
The singing grows closer. Morgoth's laugh cuts off sharply as light blazes through the void; a light impossibly bright, but does not burn to look upon.
Warm arms gather Elrond up out of the cold; the sensation of being carried, cradled against impossibly soft cloth, his cheek pressed against a chest humming with music so utterly beautiful that Elrond could weep with the sound of it.
A hand against his brow, smooth and gentle. A mind against his, vast and indefinable, where each thought is like the shattering of stars. Thoughts like a great symphony of song flow through him – the binding of the Firstborn to Arda, the brokenness of Eä, the cleaving of the Noldor and their many wounds.
The music surrounding him shifts. Mercy. Forgiveness.
And here, though Elrond is nothing but a wisp of starlight – impossibly small, utterly fragile – he feels loved, and safe.
A ripple of notes, like a blessing of laughter. Live, and be joyful.
Elrond exhales–
–and he is suddenly tumbling down a grassy slope, the Silmaril slipping from his fingers as he comes to rest among the wildflowers.
A moment, where Elrond, eyes closed, takes a breath of cool, clean air, the dewy grass soft against his cheek. His bones ache with exhaustion, and he finds it very difficult to open his eyes. He would much rather fall asleep here in the sweet-smelling grass.
The urgent patter of footsteps. Someone catches him up into a familiar embrace.
"Elrond. Elrond!"
It is very loud all of a sudden; there are cries of joy and shock from further away, and he curls closer to the familiar warmth in protest.
Hands clasp his. Another hand at his cheek, a sweep of hair over his forehead as someone presses a kiss to his brow.
"Elrond," a voice pleads into his fingers, breathing warmth into his palms.
"Pityo, please," another voice murmurs, as someone's brow presses to his.
Elrond is so very tired, but some hidden part of him registers the voices as safety, so he takes a breath and blinks open his eyes.
Maglor and Maedhros stare down at him. Both are weeping openly; beyond their faces, the sky is lightening with the first glow of dawn.
Elrond blinks slowly up at them.
He does not understand how he came to be here.
A single tear falls from Maglor's lashes to land just under Elrond's eye, drawing a crystalline track down his cheek as though the tear was his own.
Atar, Atarinya, Elrond mouths, too exhausted for speech.
At Elrond's words, Maglor shudders and pulls Elrond up into a crushing embrace; Maedhros follows a moment later, so Elrond rests in both his foster-fathers' hold.
Elrond blinks tiredly over Maglor's shoulder. Some part of him registers that they are halfway up the slope of Túna, and that glad-faced figures are sprinting down the hill towards them from the eastern gate of Tirion above.
Elrond frowns. He had been…elsewhere, before he arrived here. There had been warmth, and light, and the sensation of being carried…
Maglor and Maedhros sit back to hold him upright, running urgent hands over his face, his arms, his sides.
"You're not injured?" Maedhros says. "Elrond?"
Elrond shakes his head. Exhaustion pulls at him like growing wave, and he leans forward to plant his forehead in Maglor's shoulder once more. He would very much like to sleep, and here in the grass slowly warming in the dawn, with his fathers' arms about him, it seems like a good idea.
Maglor and Maedhros are speaking urgently to him again, but Elrond shakes his head once more, and allows sleep to claim him at last.
(:~:)
The sun rises on the quiet stillness of the courtyard of the King's house.
A faint shout.
The guards lean forward, narrowing their eyes at the mists that wreathe the thoroughfare of the Finwëan district.
A rider spears through the mists like a streak of flame.
Maedhros Fëanorion gallops through the gate with his hair a pennant of fire behind him, screaming for his father even as he leaps from his horse. The Silmaril shines brilliantly in his hand.
The guards at the gate have barely recovered enough to hesitate forward before they stumble back against the gate; Maglor Fëanorion thunders out of the morning mists, one arm wrapped tight around the unmistakable figure of Elrond Peredhel before him.
Maglor dismounts, pulling his foster-son down into his arms; Elrond's head lolls pliantly against Maglor's shoulder as Maedhros reaches them.
The great doors of the King's house slam open; Fëanor races down the steps, his brothers hastening behind him. A sword of flame flickers into existence in Fëanor's palm, but the next moment his eyes settle on the tableau before him and he stops short, sword extinguishing.
"What in Illúvatar's name?" Fingolfin exclaims, eyes widening.
"Elrond," Finarfin gapes, starting forward, but Fëanor has already leapt down the steps towards his sons and grandson.
There follows much shouting and uproar, but throughout it all, Elrond sleeps on, a faint smile on his features, his cheek resting against his foster-father's shoulder; and later, a soft pillow, as a coverlet is drawn up to his chest and two familiar hands settle in his.
(:~:)
Elrond wakes slowly.
He drifts a moment there in the darkness, in warm, soft sheets, each inhale and exhale like the slow drift of starlight. There is a hand in each of his; familiar hands, but lacking in the sword-callouses he recalls from his childhood.
He shifts, and hears the hasty scrape of wood against marble; a thumb runs gently against his cheekbone, brushing his hair away from his face. Another hand joins the one holding his right, clasping his fingers between two palms in a desperate hold.
Elrond leans into the warmth of the hand against his cheek, and opens his eyes.
He looks into Maglor's red-rimmed gaze. The chamber wall behind him is familiar – the very same chamber Elrond had spent weeks recovering in ten years ago, now golden with afternoon sunlight.
"Atar," Elrond whispers, wonderingly. He had been– there was–
Maglor's face twists; he makes a noise deep in the back of his throat, somewhere between a gasp and a hiccupping laugh. A sweep of midnight hair brushes over Elrond's face as Maglor leans over him to press a kiss to his brow.
"Elrond," a voice says to his right. Fingers tighten on his right hand.
Elrond blinks and turns his head a little; Maedhros sits at his bedside, hunched over Elrond's hand in his, the weariness in his features bleeding into an almost painful relief.
Elrond tightens his grasp on Maedhros's hands.
"Atarinya," he murmurs.
At the epithet, Maedhros closes his eyes. His lips press into a thin line as he visibly struggles against a wave of emotion; he curls further over Elrond's hand in his, pressing his brow to Elrond's knuckles.
Elrond takes another breath – a breath that seeds clarity into his sleep-heavy mind.
With memory comes urgency.
"Celebrían," he gasps. "I must–"
"We have sent messengers to Alqualondë and Avallóne," Maglor says hoarsely, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of Elrond's hand. "They should have arrived by now."
That settles the thundering of Elrond's heart a little. He nods, swallowing past his dry throat.
Maglor's hand slips out of his, and Elrond scrabbles for his foster-father's hand, only for Maglor to settle beside him and ease him up with one arm, bringing a cup of water to his lips.
The first sip is sweeter than wine; Elrond forces himself to drink slowly, and all too soon the cup is empty.
Maglor places the cup on the bedside table and draws Elrond closer with one arm, so Elrond leans against his shoulder. Maedhros comes and sits on Elrond's other side, his hands still wrapped tight around Elrond's fingers.
"Now, pityo," Maglor says, voice still rough with wonder, "How did you return to us?"
Light and warmth in the Void; endless, glorious song…
"I think," Elrond says slowly, "I think your father and uncles should be present. I do not know if I will be able to explain this more than once."
To his relief, his foster-fathers do not object; Maedhros leans over to press a kiss to his brow before slipping through the door.
In the quiet that remains, Maglor holds Elrond tighter, so their minds almost touch; Elrond reads overwhelming relief in Maglor's fëa, but there, hidden behind the warmth, is a seed of furious anger.
Elrond frowns.
"Atar?" he begins, worry blossoming into his mind like ink through water.
"Shh," Maglor shushes him, running a gentle hand through his hair.
Elrond opens his mouth to object, but a glad cry sounds from the corridor, and the words he had been about to say halt in his throat.
(:~:)
"Light, and song?" Fëanor says. His brows are furrowed in thought. Beside him, Fingolfin and Finarfin wear similar expressions; the shared blood between the three of them is plainly visible.
Inexplicably, all three of them had startled upon meeting Elrond's gaze as they entered the chamber, and Elrond still feels the pressure of their scrutiny like flame across his skin.
Elrond swallows. "I find myself hard-pressed to explain it," he says. "One moment, my fëa was fading–"
Maglor and Maedhros's hands tighten convulsively in his. Elrond winces. Maglor's anger is all too evident now, bleeding like crimson trails from between the iron walls of his mind. To his right, Maedhros's fury is quieter, softer, simmering behind his steady gaze.
"Go on," Finarfin says, with a voice like quiet death.
Elrond takes a breath. "And the next," he continues, "I was being held. There was song all about me, wordless; a murmur of warmth, mercy, forgiveness – and then I found myself in the grass at the foot of Túna."
Silence. Fëanor's eyes are burning with the intensity of a master craftsman who does not like that he does not understand something.
"Well," Finarfin says slowly, "There is one explanation for all this." He scrubs a hand over his face, stony expression slowly melting into a chagrined smile. "You really are well-loved, Elrond. Even by the greatest beyond Eä."
A pause, in which everyone except Elrond straightens in sudden understanding. A sense of wonder seeps into the mind of everyone around him.
Fëanor's brow clears. "I see," he says quietly. "I am inclined to agree, Arafinwë."
A choking sound to Elrond's left. He twists to see Maglor staring at him, wide-eyed.
"Surely not," Fingolfin says, but he pauses, tilting his head as he looks directly into Elrond's gaze. "Though it would explain his eyes."
"What?" Elrond says, bewildered.
Finarfin crosses to the cabinet against the wall. He removes a velvet-wrapped object from within, and uncovers a long, reflective glass; he hands it to Elrond wordlessly.
Elrond looks about him, at the veiled expectation on everyone's faces, and lifts the glass to look upon his own face.
He blinks in surprise.
His irises are the same clear grey as they always have been; but there shines now a light behind his eyes that had not been there before. It is not the silver and gold of the Light of the Trees that glimmers in the gaze of all the others in the chamber; it is another light entirely, a sharp, brilliant glow that Elrond finds strangely familiar but yet cannot place.
But even as Elrond raises his head, a question on his lips, the late afternoon sunlight in the window thickens, and suddenly Eönwë stands among them, golden armour shining.
Maglor and Maedhros move instantly.
Elrond finds himself crushed to Maglor's chest, Maedhros standing tall between them and Eönwë, hand on the flaming sword that suddenly flares at his hip. Fëanor stands shoulder-to-shoulder with his eldest son, and though he carries no weapons his face is like thunder as he lifts his chin in challenge.
Finarfin and Fingolfin are halfway out of their chairs, alarm on their faces.
"You shall not take him," Maglor says, a desperate hand curling around the back of Elrond's head. "We will not allow–"
"Calm yourself," Eönwë speaks, eyes narrowing as he stares at Maedhros's sword. "I have not come to remove your son." He turns his brilliant, light-filled gaze to Elrond.
Looking into Eönwë's eyes, shining with the light that only Maiar and Ainur possess, Elrond is startled to find he recognises it.
It is the same light that now shines from his own gaze.
"Elrond Kanafinwion Nelyafinwion Eärendilion," Eönwë says. "The Doom you have taken upon yourself is no more, and your sentence revoked. Live now in peace until Arda is remade."
Elrond takes a breath so sharp it pains him. Maglor's arms tighten further around him.
"I see," Fëanor says, his face like stone. "And what has persuaded Lord Manwë thus that he should be moved to such mercy?"
Eönwë pauses. For once, the herald of Manwë appears to grasp at words.
"The Valar have been overruled," he says, and inclines his head to Elrond. "Lords Manwë and Námo wish to convey their hope that your recovery will be swift."
Silence – the kind of silence that builds slowly into a silent shout. The fiery sword at Maedhros's hip dissolves into nothing.
Elrond gently removes himself from Maglor's hold, and stands, surprised at the steadiness of his feet.
"Thank you," he says clearly, inclining his head in return. "Please also express my thanks to Lords Manwé and Námo."
Eönwë bows once, deeper than previously, and dissolves into stardust that fades away as it drifts towards the carpet.
"Well," Finarfin says into the stunned silence, "I rather think that confirms my theory. Now, I think we could all use a drink. Maitimo, if you would?"
Maedhros steps over to Elrond and presses a kiss to his brow; then he moves to the door, which clicks shut quietly behind him.
Four pairs of eyes stare at Elrond. Elrond stares back.
The Valar have been overruled.
There is only one who has the authority to do so.
"Oh," Elrond says faintly, as he sits heavily on the mattress. "I see."
There is little to be said after that.
(:~:)
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of wine and reunions and relieved laughter; those of Elrond's cousins and extended family who are in Tirion slip in and out of his room in increasing states of inebriation. Beyond the window of the chamber, cheers and songs of joy drift in on the cool night air; the entirety of Tirion seems to have taken to celebrating with wild abandon.
"This is…unexpected," Elrond says, much later that night when moonlight plays across the floor of the chamber, where Finrod and Fingon lie facedown in the carpet, cups empty in their hands. Above them, Argon slumbers on the long cushioned seat by the windowsill, his half-empty glass of wine slopping onto the curtains. The sound of Angrod's slow breathing emanates somewhere beyond the foot of Elrond's bed, mixed in with the Ambarussa's snores; Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin are three misshapen lumps on the low cushioned bench at the far wall, slumped over each other in slumber.
Only two living grandsons of Finwë are missing; Turgon who had apparently remained lucid enough to stumble home to Elenwë, and Orodreth, who understandably has reservations about getting drunk with the sons of Fëanor.
Maedhros mumbles something and digs his face further into Elrond's shoulder. Maglor pulls Elrond closer and presses a kiss into Elrond's hair.
"We are all glad to have you back," Maglor murmurs. "I, most of all."
Elrond twists to look at his foster-father then; at Maglor's glassy, sleep-heavy eyes, the joy on his features made all the more prominent by a dozen glasses of wine.
"But you are angry," Elrond whispers, swallowing past the dread in his throat. "Both you and Atarinya are angry with me."
A line appears between Maglor's brows. "I am," he murmurs, frowning. "But for the life of me I cannot remember why. Perhaps I will recall in the morning."
There is nothing but gentleness in Maglor's voice, but Elrond still feels a chill of dread lance through him at his foster-father's words.
"Atar," he murmurs desperately, "Please, whatever I have done–"
But Maglor is asleep, wine-scented breath ruffling Elrond's hair.
It takes a long while for Elrond to fall asleep.
(:~:)
He startles awake a mere few hours later. The faintest glow of dawn is glimmering in the sky beyond the window.
Elrond lays there for a moment, the soft sound of his foster-fathers and cousins' breathing all about him, and listens for what woke him.
Nothing.
But then, a soft tugging of his fëa; the oath he spoke mere days ago calling to him.
Elrond extricates himself from Maglor and Maedhros's hold, finds his robe, and steps carefully over the slumbering forms of his many cousins.
He moves like a ghost through the empty corridors. The courtyard is wreathed in mist at this time of dawn; the road beyond the gate barely visible, and Elrond's breath mists in the morning chill.
Then, in the distance, the clatter of galloping hooves.
The guards at the gate straighten expectantly.
A figure materialises out of the cool blue mists of the early morning: an elleth ahorse, silver hair unbound, the sleeves of her long white dress flowing like liquid pennants behind her in the wind as she rides like white smoke over the cobbles of the King's gate.
Elrond inclines his head to her, and sinks to his knees on the cold stone to await his judgment. His oath pulls at him now, thrumming at his aching heart.
The horse neighs as the rider pulls it to a halt; she dismounts fluidly and stalks towards Elrond, fists curled tightly at her sides.
Elrond closes his eyes and waits for the blow.
But there is only the rustle of cloth, and Celebrían is in his arms, her face pressed to his shoulder as her tears soak into his collar.
"Fool of a husband," she weeps into his neck. "I hate you. I hate you so much."
There is truth there, in her words.
Elrond's breath hitches in his chest; his arms shudder up to wrap around her. They kneel there in the courtyard at the foot of the steps, tears slipping down both their faces.
"I love you," he murmurs into her temple. He feels the oath he made to her unravel about their fëar as it is fulfilled.
Celebrían does not reply except to shake her head, trembling.
Elrond swallows against the pain of it, and holds her closer as three more horses trot out of the mists to cross the threshold of the gate.
Galadriel does not deign to look at him; she dismounts, face like stone, catches the mane of her daughter's horse, and leads both horses towards the stables. Behind her, Eärendil and Elwing leap down to the cobblestones, wild, disbelieving emotion on their faces.
Both of them inhale in shock when they see the new light in his gaze.
Elrond gives both his parents a faint smile, and lifts a hand from Celebrían's hair to offer to his mother.
He is past bitterness, now; he only wishes for joy.
Elwing stifles a sob and drops to her knees to clasp his hand in hers; Eärendil steps closer and places a hand on Elrond's shoulder. His lips are white with the effort of trying to master himself as tears drip into his beard.
"I am sorry," Elrond whispers to them – all three of them.
His parents and his wife only hold him tighter, and he is quietly glad.
(:~:)
The next few days pass languidly – the fragile, careful hope of sudden peace.
Elrond spends his days in the garden in the company of his foster-fathers and cousins, and occasionally his wife; he witnesses Maglor and Maedhros apologise to Elwing, and Elwing nods in return, white-lipped with anger but accepting for the sake of her son.
It is this that gives him hope – hope when there are so many wounds still to heal.
Celebrían settles into the room beside his, a locked door between them. Elrond knocks on her door each night, and every night she politely refuses him entry.
Elrond does not hide that this pains him, but every evening he knocks once on her door, and waits. Celebrían's answer does not change, but this he can understand. She is entitled to her anger, and one apology will not undo the fact he has betrayed her trust.
He can only wait, and be patient.
Then there is the matter of his foster-fathers.
Maglor and Maedhros lavish care upon him those first few days; all Elrond's extended family do.
But there, beyond the care and concern at the forefront of his foster-fathers' minds, there lies unmistakable anger.
At times, Elrond will glance up to find Maglor or Maedhros staring at him, thin-lipped and stony-eyed, sorrow on their faces; an instant later the harsh stone always melts into a warm smile, but those moments always leave Elrond's heart heavy with foreboding.
He spends his nights desperately trying to decipher what he could possibly have done to anger his foster-fathers so, but no amount of musing brings him closer to an answer. He nearly asks them outright a half-dozen times, only to hold his tongue at the last moment for fear this fragile peace will shatter, and that they will leave him again.
In a way, it reminds him of his childhood. After Sirion, he and Elros had first responded to Maedhros and Maglor's anger with fear of injury or reprimand; then, later, when their captors became their fathers, it had taken long years for Maedhros and Maglor to convince Elrond that they would not leave him, no matter their disagreements.
And then Angband had fallen, and they had.
The days slip by like fractured glass; Elrond sleeps through the first few nights out of pure exhaustion, but as time wears on and no answer presents itself, sleep begins to elude him.
Outwardly, he remains quietly stoic. He writes new letters to his children in Middle-Earth to apologise for the letters he sent before he entered the Void; he writes Bilbo and Frodo, and Glorfindel and Lindir. The letter he had written to his foster-fathers remains hidden in a drawer in his bedchamber; Celebrían had returned it to him, and he had been glad beyond words that Maglor and Maedhros had not had to chance to read it.
Inwardly, he is sick with dread.
What little progress he manages in healing his ragged fëa halts after the first few days; his lack of sleep does away with that.
"Elrond," Fingon's voice says, insistently. "Elrond."
Elrond blinks to full awareness, straightening in his seat. The council chamber swims into focus.
His extended family stare right back at him. Fëanor, Fingolfin, and Finarfin's stares are particularly piercing, and worse, Maglor and Maedhros are both looking at him with narrowed eyes, lips thinned, simmering suspicion on their faces.
The fear strikes him to his core; he takes a slow breath against the dizzying curl of dread.
"My apologies," he manages, voice quite steady, looking anywhere but his foster-fathers. "I was– elsewhere. What were we speaking of?"
A pause. Finarfin leans forward. "We were speaking of arrangements for the Festival of Reconciling," he says slowly. "I have spoken to Ingwion; it has been decided that the least politically insensitive place to hold the festival will be Valimar. I asked your opinion on whether you think Elwing can convince the Doriathrim to attend."
Elrond nods, clenching his hands in his robes under the table against the thrumming of his heart. "I will write to her. Eluréd and Elurín I know will wish to attend; Nimloth is another matter."
Maglor and Maedhros flinch a little at that; Elrond suppresses his own flinch with difficulty.
The meeting continues without incident, but Elrond feels his foster-fathers' gazes rest heavily on him, and he breathes shallowly against the slow, sickening curl of worry in his stomach.
Elrond makes his excuses after the meeting concludes, and exits before anyone can call out after him. He takes a meandering, circuitous route through the corridors, and finds himself in the gardens.
There are muffled voices a few steps away, beyond a wall of trumpet vines.
"What are we to do about Elrond?" That is Fingon's voice, heavy with concern.
"I thought he was improving," Finrod says quietly.
"He was!" Finarfin exclaims.
"But he now appears no better than he did at the Harvest Festival," Fingolfin interrupts. "I think what improvement there has halted."
A pause, heavy and stifling.
"Káno, Nelyo," Fëanor's voice says, quiet and intense. "Have you noted anything unusual?"
Elrond stiffens in the shadows of the garden.
"I am unsure," Maglor says, sounding grieved. "I am so very glad to have him back, but every time I look at him, the same anger surfaces again. I have been attempting to hide it, but I think he suspects."
"I find myself having the same difficulties." That is Maedhros, speaking with the slow care he always does – but that does not hide the quiet bitterness in his voice. "I wonder if we should send him to Lórien."
"And have him waste away in the meaningless quiet there?" Fëanor's voice, burning with sudden emotion. "I should think not."
"Father," Maglor says, but Elrond can hear no more; he is finding it quite difficult to breathe, here alone under the starlight. He turns silently and stumbles away.
He becomes aware he is weeping halfway to his chambers, and dries his tears with quiet determination before continuing on.
(:~:)
"Father," Maglor says, pleadingly. "Please. I know Estë's gardens are a difficult memory for you, but we all wish for Elrond's recovery. I understand your anger; I too am furious that he should think himself worth so little as to sacrifice his fëa for us, but I am most disappointed in myself. I wish I could have stopped him."
For a moment Maglor thinks his father's anger will burn on unchecked; but Fëanor only sighs and lowers his head.
"He claimed weregild," Fëanor says quietly, the fire of his voice dimmed to an ember. "There was little any of us could have done."
"But we cannot abandon him," Maedhros says. Beside him, Fingolfin's eyes are shadowed; Finarfin's are the same.
Maglor swallows. "I do not know," he whispers. "We must not fail him again. We cannot."
Finarfin sighs, and stands. "There is nothing else we can accomplish tonight," he says. "We shall discuss this in the morning." He looks to Maglor and Maedhros. "You may stay here as long as you wish, or until Elrond is healed."
Maedhros steps over to Maglor and slings an arm over his shoulders. Maglor fits his arm around Maedhros's back.
"We will find a way to help him, 'Laurë," Maedhros murmurs. "And perhaps we are not so damned as we once were; the Silmaril did not burn me this time."
Maglor closes his eyes, and nods once.
They step into the house together, as evening deepens to night.
(:~:)
Elrond steps into the quiet darkness of his bedchamber.
There is the soft glow of candlelight under the door to Celebrían's chamber; Elrond moves across the carpet and raps quietly on the door.
"Not tonight, Elrond," Celebrían's voice comes, muffled by the wood. "Not yet."
Elrond leans his forehead against the smooth oak of the door; the ache tears at his throat.
A moment, and then he masters himself. He raises one hand to press his fingertips to his lips, then touches his fingers to the door.
Then he steps back, and sits on the edge of the bed, where the bright moonlight carves a sharp wound of white light in the darkness of the carpet.
He leans his head against the bedpost, and wonders if he should try to sleep.
The moon makes it weary way across the starry sky, and Elrond sits there, his braids unraveling in the moonlight, until the stars give way to sunlight.
(:~:)
Elrond finds his foster-fathers early the next morning, before breakfast. His stomach is empty as a pit and his braids in disarray, but his mind clear as the moonlight that he had spent all night staring into.
"Atar, Atarinya," he says with no inflection at all, waylaying them in the corridor outside their chambers. "If I could have a moment of your time."
Maglor and Maedhros turn to him at once. He attempts not to flinch at the intensity of their regard.
"Of course," Maglor says, stepping forward to take his hand. "Anything."
Elrond pulls his hand from Maglor's fingers before Maglor can feel the threadiness of his pulse, and pretends not to see the pain that flashes across Maglor's gaze.
"This way," Elrond murmurs instead, and leads them out into the gardens, out to a secluded trellis by the balustrade where they will be safe from prying eyes.
Elrond feels his gorge rising with every step. By the time he halts under the honeysuckle and turns to face his foster-fathers, the dread has wrapped cold hands around his sternum; he can barely breathe from it.
Maglor and Maedhros stare at him as he raises his head, and Elrond can bear it no longer.
"Please," he whispers, and folds his hands into fists in his sleeves to stop their trembling. "I will do anything, Atar. Atarinya. I do not know what I have done to anger you so, but do not leave me again. I cannot bear it."
"…What?" Maglor breathes. Maedhros's eyes widen.
Elrond shakes his head to clear the grey spots that swarm into his vision. "When Angband fell, I pleaded with Eönwë to give you the Silmarils," he breathes. "I did not weep, but perhaps I should have. When he refused, Elros and I planned to ride out to you. I did not think–"
"Elrond," Maglor says urgently, stepping forwards to clasp his hand. "Please–"
"When you fell at Bruinen, for a moment I thought I would as well," Elrond says, breath coming far too quickly. "But I knew I could plead your case at Máhanaxar, and when that failed I knew I could ransom you." He feels tears gathering at his throat, and swallows painfully to hold them at bay. "I don't– I don't know what I've done to anger you so. I've spent every spare moment these past few days thinking of it, and I can bear it no longer. Tell me how I have wronged you, both of you, and I will apologise. Only do not send me away."
Silence, thick and terrible. Elrond can barely see his foster-fathers; his vision is greying at the edges.
Six and a half millennia old he may be, but he feels like he did as a child; screaming at his mother not to leave him and his brother, weeping as his fathers sent him away to Gil-Galad.
How he had wandered the shores of Lindon year upon year looking for the last of his fathers, and how he had failed.
He had been orphaned once at Sirion, again after Angband fell, and once more at Bruinen.
Elrond cannot bear the thought of his foster-fathers' fury. It is a last, bitter blow that he cannot endure.
Maglor's hand tightens in his, and Maedhros is suddenly there on his other side, helping ease him down to sit on the grass.
"Elrond," Maglor says with an ache in his voice, "I think you have misunderstood. We are not angry with you. Well, perhaps a little, but only because we worry you do not care for yourself. That you thought you could sacrifice yourself for us."
"Pityo," Maedhros says, squeezing Elrond's hand, "You are very important to us; more precious to us than any Silmaril."
Elrond inhales painfully, shuddering, as Maglor pulls Elrond into the circle of his arms.
"We were mostly angry with ourselves," Maglor murmurs, and Elrond hears the exhausted grief there in his voice. "We were furious that we could not stop you. No son should have to die for his father. I apologise for giving you the impression that we did not want you."
"We will not leave you," Maedhros says, one long-fingered hand brushing through Elrond's hair, lingering for a moment over the braid clip set with white gems that had once been Maglor's. "We have done so enough times already to owe you a debt ten times over."
Elrond breathes a long, choked breath. He can feel Maglor trembling with him, the tight curl of tears in Maglor's throat a mirror to Elrond's.
Maglor inhales slowly. "I swear–"
"No oaths," Elrond whispers into Maglor's collar.
"No oaths," Maglor agrees, and presses his cheek to Elrond's hair. "But I give you my word I will not leave you again."
"And mine," Maedhros says, voice thick with unshed tears. "So do not dare to do that to us again, our Elerondo. We could not bear to lose you."
Elrond exhales carefully, tightens his hold around Maglor, and reaches out with his free hand to Maedhros. Maedhros clasps his fingers bruisingly tight, and Elrond searches his foster-fathers' minds for any trace of falsehood.
He finds none.
The relief is dizzying; Elrond presses his face into Maglor's shoulder, and buries himself in the sensation of his foster-fathers' fëar wrapped securely about him.
Maglor begins to hum a quiet melody, the sound reverberating through Elrond's cheek; Maedhros's hands move to Elrond's frayed braids and begin to re-braid his hair.
And Elrond, for the first time in over six thousand years, is sure that his fathers will not leave him again.
Next up: Celebrían, some yet unresolved threads between Elrond and his fathers, and a feast of reconciling, which would not be complete without the grandsons of Finwë raising hell.
There are still several chapters after this one, to tie up loose ends and epilogues. I'll have more for you soon!