Chapter Sixteen: Hostage or House Guest?
Elrond regained his senses slowly. The first thing he realized, however vaguely, was that his head was throbbing fit to burst. The second was that he was in a sitting position, with coarse bonds tight around his wrists.
His eyesight returned, but his environment was too dim to see anything clearly. What he could discern was the chair he was tied to, and the nearest walls of the room he was in. It didn't look anything like his father's house. Where was he?
"Awake, are you?"
The cold voice cut into his ears. Elrond stared uneasily through the dimness, and squinted as a torch flared to life, illuminating the pitiless features of a red-haired figure who stood a few feet away. A second figure, with long, black hair, stood behind him. The last sons of Fëanor.
Elrond found his voice, and addressed the redhead. "Where am I, Maedhros?"
Maedhros smirked. "You don't need to know that. All that matters now is that you are my prisoner, along with your sons."
My sons? Elrond frowned silently. Then he remembered that Maedhros had mistaken him for Eärendil. He would have to continue to play the part.
"Where are my children?" he demanded.
Maedhros pointed his torch toward his right, and Elrond followed the circle of light with his eyes. It revealed what looked like a small prison cell hewn from the wall, with metal bars across the opening. Peering fearfully out from between them were two raven-haired elflings.
"Thank goodness you're all right," Elrond I murmured to them.
They both nodded. "Are you okay?" Elrond II asked.
"I've been better," Elrond I replied, turning to glare at his captors.
Maedhros' dark, venomous eyes narrowed. "Be thankful you're alive. I could have done a lot worse to the three of you, and I could still. Remember that."
The captive elf-lord fell silent, silently weighing his situation. He was a prisoner in Eru-knew-where, held by two elves who slew their own kind. And… Elrond suddenly bristled in rage.
Maedhros was wearing his cloak! His cloak, given to him by the Doomsman of the Valar. The red-haired elf had no idea what its powers were, but Elrond could do nothing to keep him from finding out.
Maedhros caught Elrond's hateful stare, and smiled absently as he fingered the garment.
"Nice, isn't it?" he simpered. "It doesn't do too much to keep me warm, though. Spoils of war, I suppose." He smirked at the venomous expression on his captive's face.
"You don't know what you're doing," Elrond said coldly.
"I believe I do," the redhead replied. "I'm holding you and your sons hostage until I get what I want from you… information on the whereabouts of your wife. And you will give it to me."
"How many times do I have to tell you this?" Elrond cried out in exasperation. "Elwing is gone. The Silmaril is lost. We are of no value to you!"
Maedhros' mouth twisted in rage as he clenched and unclenched his fist. His fingers were itching to twine around a certain elf's throat. But he dared not. Not yet.
"Fine," he spat. "Maybe a few days on an empty stomach will teach you to co-operate. And if not, you'll feel the whip. Maglor," he snarled over his shoulder. "Throw Eärendil in with his whelps."
The raven-haired elf cut through Elrond's bonds, hauling him to his feet and leading him forcibly around a corner. Maedhros followed behind, setting down his torch so he could open the barred door of the cell, and slam it shut a moment later.
Elrond gasped in pain as he hit the cold stone floor. The twins scrambled out of the way when he fell, but darted back a moment later to help him up. The elf-lord put his arms gently around the elflings, even as he shot an icy glare toward the two Kinslayers.
"Make yourself at home," Maedhros said curtly. "And don't expect a nice, hot breakfast in the morning."
"Don't worry, I won't," the half-elf muttered.
----
Elrond was jolted rudely to wakefulness by a bucket of cold water hitting him squarely in the face. His ill mood lasted for the next long while, which, as promised, did not include meals. The elf-lord languished in his cell, starving almost to the point of death. The only things scheduled in Elrond's days were the regular interrogation periods, when Maedhros and Maglor would remove the elf's tunic and shirt and tie him facedown onto a table, whips at the ready.
Each elf would ask Elrond a question, and wait impatiently for an answer. A satisfying response would merit no punishment; replies that angered his captors earned him a stripe across the shoulders or back. And unfortunately, the latter dominated. Elrond's back bled liberally after each session, and neither Maedhros nor Maglor would offer him any means of healing his wounds.
After almost a week of the same terrible routine, the half-elf was so weak movement was nearly impossible. His whole body was a mess of red lash scars and dark purple bruises – the sons of Fëanor had recently added regular beatings to his agenda. Both he and the twins were pitifully thin from starvation. Elrond began to lose hope in ever being free.
The first surprise came a few days later, when Maedhros relented slightly, and gave them small amounts of food and water, as well as tending to Elrond I's wounds. The prisoners slowly regained their strength.
The sons of Fëanor eventually began to treat Elrond (both elf-lord and child) and Elros as guests rather than hostages. A strange sort of friendship blossomed between them. Elrond I held grudges at first, but those too faded in time; yet Maedhros and Maglor still called the elf-lord Eärendil.
But Elrond had a nagging feeling at the back of his mind. He still didn't know what had become of his mother and Caranel. Maedhros and Maglor had accepted (at length) that Elwing was indeed gone, and the Silmaril was lost to them. But there had been no news of the redheaded elleth. And Mandos and Lórien had been unsettlingly absent.
As the elf-lord retired one night to the guest bedroom he now used instead of a dungeon cell, he had barely let his eyes glaze when a familiar grey-clad figure swirled into view, a calm smile on his face and a twinkle in his blue eyes.
Elrond gasped in surprise and relief, rising respectfully from his bed and bowing low.
"I wondered when I would see you again, sire."
Lórien nodded calmly. "I feared for you. But it seems Fëanor's sons have been treating you well, at least of late."
Elrond smiled. "Indeed. Though I must admit, for a long time I feared I would be called to Lord Mandos' halls before my time."
"Maedhros and Maglor would not certainly grant you that mercy," said a deep voice, as a second form swirled into view: the Doomsman of the Valar.
Elrond bowed to Mandos as well, remarking, "And yet they seemed intent on letting me starve to death. Who knows what they were thinking?"
But he paused a moment, remembering that Mandos would indeed know what the sons of Fëanor had been thinking, for the Vala had been granted knowledge of all things that had been, and were, and would be.
Mandos smiled slightly, apparently reading the elf's mind. "Indeed."
Elrond suddenly had a horrible feeling deep in his heart. Mandos was the Keeper of the Dead, the summoner of slain spirits… which meant that he would know whether Elwing was alive or… otherwise. He didn't want to think that word.
The Doomsman's eyes shimmered sadly as he studied Elrond's thoughts again. He knew of Elwing's fate. But did he dare risk breaking Elrond's heart?
He sighed silently. If it had to be done, so it would be.
"Elrond," he said softly, "there is something you must know."
The elf stared at the Vala with tears in his eyes. "I know what you're going to say. You're going to tell me that my mother has died."
The Doomsman nodded, but his expression indicated that he wished to say more. The elf held his tears at bay, waiting for the Vala to speak again.
"Elwing did come to my halls," Mandos continued calmly. "But she did not linger there. Ulmo and I held council with Manwë, and your mother was granted new life. She is now in Valinor with your father."
Elrond sobbed in relief. His mother was alive! Gone, yes, but alive and well.
"I should tell the twins of this," he said, wiping his eyes. "They need to know."
"Then go," Mandos told him.
----
Elrond slipped quietly into the next room, where two raven-haired elflings lay asleep in their beds. The elf-lord reached out to each, shaking their shoulders gently.
"Elrond, Elros… wake up…"
The twins stirred, blinking as they came awake. Both wore sleepily puzzled expressions.
"What's wrong?" a groggy Elros asked as he sat up.
"I need to tell you both something," Elrond I whispered. "It's very important."
"What is?" Elrond II frowned.
The elf-lord drew a deep breath, releasing it slowly in a sigh. "It's about your mother."
Both elflings were instantly alert. "Nana? What's wrong? Is she okay?"
"She's fine," Elrond I reassured the twins gently. "She's alive and safe, somewhere very far from here, with your Ada. But… I'm afraid she can't come back."
Elrond II's eyes brimmed with glistening tears. "You mean we'll never see her again?"
Elrond I nodded, tears spilling down his own face as he put his arms tenderly around the young boys. "Yes. That's right."
Both twins buried their faces in Elrond I's tunic, their sobs muffled in the fabric. Elrond I let his tears fall freely, not caring who saw them.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry for everything."