History Lessons, by Nilmandra

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< Chapter 17 Men and Elves

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Glorfindel folded the gown over his arm and tucked a thin blanket over it and the small bag of accessories hanging from his wrist. He opened the door to his chamber quietly, peering out into the corridor to ensure it was devoid of people before venturing out on his errand. Once sure the hallway was clear, he moved swiftly towards his destination. He heard a noise as he started to turn the corner, but was unable to avoid the ensuing collision.

The blanket, bag and gown fell as he caught the elf who had collided with him, one arm wrapping about her waist and pulling her to his chest as the stack of garments she had been carrying scattered across the hallway floor.

"Lord Glorfindel!" she cried in dismay.

Glorfindel cast an amused glance at the young female elf in his arms, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment when she looked up and found herself within inches of the elf-lord's face. She squirmed away from him, jumping back as if burned.

"I am sorry! I did not see or hear you coming," she said, the horrified look still upon her face. She dropped gracefully to her knees and began gathering up the fallen items.

Glorfindel laughed. "It is as much my fault as yours, my Lady," he answered gallantly. "Please, allow me to assist you."

He reached to pick up the item closest to him, but heard her gasp and felt the item ripped from his fingers an instant later. He looked at her in surprise and saw her frantically stuffing the garment, a lady's shift, into the bottom of the pile she was forming. Unwilling to cause her more distress, he stepped back a few paces. He watched her for a moment, then recalled her name, for he had seen her about the house.

"Amariel? Is that your name?" Glorfindel asked kindly.

Color rose in her face as she slowly looked up at him. "Yes, my Lord."

"I apologize if I have caused your further distress," he said as he reached to gather up the blanket covered gown he had dropped.

Amariel grabbed the bag that had landed near to her items, but it opened as she lifted it and the contents spilled out on to the floor. Her eyes widened in surprise, and then she cautiously lifted the pink hair ribbons.

"I am returning those to their proper owner," Glorfindel attempted to explain himself. He reached for the bag, causing the blanket to shift across his arm, exposing the fabric of the gown. To his surprise, Amariel pulled the dress from his arm, and then flew to the opposite wall.

Glorfindel watched as she held up the gown, turning it around and then opening the lacings to look at the workmanship inside. She dove for the bag of accessories and gathered them to her, sorting through them quickly. When she next looked at him, her eyes were filled with righteous indignation.

"You!" she said, as she rose to her feet. "Why did you take my things?"

"No, you misunderstand me. . .," Glorfindel tried to explain as he felt his own face flush.

She gave him no chance to explain himself. With an inarticulate cry, she flung the items on top of the pile of clothes she had been carrying, and scooped them up into her arms. With tears in her eyes she hurried off down the hall, not once looking back. Glorfindel could see the slight shake of her shoulders and heard her sob once before she disappeared around the corner.

"Do you often make the house staff cry with your insensitivity?" asked Erestor as he approached Glorfindel from behind.

Glorfindel sighed and then turned to face him. "You know I did not take those things!"

"Perhaps not, but she thinks you did," answered Erestor with a frown. He paused for a moment. "Celebrían would never intentionally cause distress to one of the young maidens. She is so kind to them. . . maybe she is not the one who put those things in your pack."

Glorfindel's eyes narrowed and he clenched and unclenched his fists. "No, but I could think of some others who might enjoy playing me for a fool regardless of the feelings of a young maiden like Amariel," he growled.

He grabbed the blanket from the floor where it had fallen when Amariel grabbed her dress and tossed it on to a nearby bench, then strode out the front door of the house.

* * *

Amariel pushed open the door and dropped the load of clothing on to a chair, one more sob escaping her as the door closed behind her. She then collapsed in giggles on the couch next to Celebrían.

"Did you hear all of it?" she asked, finally ceasing her laughter to draw in a breath of air.

"Oh, you were perfect, Amariel!' Celebrían managed to say, before laughter overtook her again. "He was mortified! The poor dear. . . . if it were not so amusing to see him finally on the receiving end of a foolish prank, I would feel quite bad for him!"

Amariel bounced to her feet and grabbed her gown. "So, do you think I should wear it to the Hall of Fire tonight?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.

"No, my dear," Celebrían sighed contentedly. "This is enough Glorfindel torment for one day." She patted Amariel on the arm as the maiden sat back down next to her. "He is really very kind and will now wish to appease you. I expect you will receive flowers or he will ask to escort you on a walk about the grounds where he can apologize formally. He had nothing to do with your clothing, but he will be quite distressed that you were upset." She looked slyly at the young elf. "He is quite charming. . ."

Amariel blushed. "I would truly be embarrassed if he asked me to walk with him, but I would accept a bouquet of flowers."

Celebrían laughed with delight. "Well, accept gracefully, but do not cause any hurt feelings with that handsome young guard who sits at your side most evenings in the Hall."

"Sorontur is very handsome, and he is also very kind," replied Amariel, suddenly becoming serious. "We are in love, Lady Celebrían," she confided. "Sorontur was trained by Glorfindel. He said that Lord Glorfindel praised his skill with the bow, and might have him help teach some of the younger warriors."

Celebrían smiled and encouraged Amariel to tell her all about her love, while inside she laughed still at the golden warrior who charmed everyone around him. Eventually she might have to confess. . . but for now she was enjoying seeing the delight of the challenge in his eyes as he attempted to unravel the mystery.

* * *

Elrond picked Elladan up and sat him on the examination table, stacking several cushions into a pile for him to rest his arm upon. The child flinched slightly when he touched the pins holding the wrapping in place.

"There will be no pain, Elladan," he reassured him.

Elladan's eyes flashed and he sat up straight, then slouched slightly when he saw his father and Elrohir watching him. Elrond smiled; his Elladan was tough and had been about to protest that he was not scared, but then saw no need to impress his father or brother.

Elrond unwrapped the bandages and removed the splint, cradling the pale and slightly shrunken arm in the palm of his hand. He wiped a cool cloth over the skin, then began to gently massage the limb, feeling each muscle and tendon and bone beneath his sensitive fingers. He manipulated the wrist and each finger, and was pleased when Elladan squeezed his fingers with appropriate strength.

"Your arm has healed well," he pronounced.

Elladan grinned as he lifted his arm, and began to twist it and move it all about. He slid to the floor and did a silly dance as he bent his wrist and waved, smiling from ear to ear and humming a little tune.

"Ada, me too?" Elrohir looked imploringly at his father.

Elrond smiled and lifted Elrohir into his arms, kissing his forehead and then replying, "Not yet, Elrohir. Your foot needs a few more days in the cast."

Elrohir looked crestfallen as he watched his twin dance about the room. He sighed and rested his head against his father's shoulder for a moment, his fingers idly twisting the fastenings of his father's robe. He perked up when he saw the Man watching them from across the room.

"Ada," Elrohir tugged on his father's sleeve. "May we go visit Albast?"

"Albast! Ada took my splint off!" called Elladan when he saw the man reclined on a low couch, smiling at Elladan's antics.

Elladan looked to his father for permission, and when Elrond nodded he raced across the room to show Albast his arm. Elrond carried Elrohir to join them.

"Your arm looks as good as new," Albast agreed as he inspected the wrist the child held out to him in joy.

Albast looked up as Elrond approached, and Elrond saw the man's gaze rest on Elrohir. The man patted the couch next to him.

"Come sit with me, Elrohir, while we watch your brother dance," said Albast kindly. He tapped the bindings on his own broken leg. "Our casts can keep each other company."

"You have a cast now too!" Elrohir said suddenly. "When did you get that? Did you get hurt again? Did you try walking on it too soon?" He squirmed a bit in his father's arms, and Elrond set him down near the couch. Elrohir reached out to touch the cast, then stopped and looked at the man for permission.

"You can touch it," Albast assured it. "It does not hurt anymore."

Elrohir ran his hands down the cast, much larger than his own for it ran nearly the length of the man's leg. His curiosity piqued, he pulled himself up to sit next to the man.

"How did you hurt it again?" Elrohir repeated his question.

Elrond sat down on the edge of the couch and folded the thin blanket up, uncovering the man's legs. Elladan drew close to look and Elrohir leaned forward to watch their father as Elrond gently bent Albast's good leg.

"Albast was very badly injured in the rock slide," he explained, watching as Albast relaxed beneath his touch, and his sons focused on his motions and words. "These bones in that leg were broken," he explained as he ran his hands over the unbroken but battered leg, "and only now is the swelling reduced and the wound healed enough to cast the broken bones. Albast has not reinjured himself; he has healed enough that we are ready to move on to the next stage of healing."

"But, Ada, Albast was hurt before us," Elladan said, confused.

"He was hurt first, but his injury was worse than yours," explained Elrond. "Also, you are an elf, Elladan. You heal very quickly. Albast will heal well, and he is healing fast given the severity of the injuries, but Men heal more slowly than Elves."

"How long does Albast have to have this cast on?" asked Elrohir, unconsciously wrapping his hand around the man's in comfort.

"In several weeks I will check his leg and perhaps change the type of cast to one he can walk on a crutch with," Elrond answered. He noted that Albast's eyes had closed and the man made low noises of satisfaction as Elrond massaged the muscles. He knew that the other healers did this several times a day as they helped Albast move and strengthen his unbroken limbs.

"Oh," answered Elrohir softly, and Elrond knew that suddenly his little one did not feel so bad for having to wait several days to have his own cast removed. Elrohir lifted his casted foot and carefully set it down next to the man's leg. Albast opened his eyes and regarded the child with a smile.

"I would like it if you two were to paint my cast," said Albast, "if your father agrees."

Elladan and Elrohir both turned to their father expectantly and he laughed at the excited looks on their faces. "Yes, they may, but it will be different than painting Elrohir's cast," Elrond warned them. "You cannot move Albast's leg, or twist or turn it or have him lay at funny angles."

"We could ask Glorfindel and Erestor to help!" Elrohir said excitedly. He turned to Albast. "They are very good artists."

Albast grinned and squeezed the small hand that still held his. "I would rather it was just you two who did it. I will show it to my nephew when I return home."

"No painting today, though," Elrond decided. "Not until tomorrow or the next day, after the cast is completely hardened."

"Ada, when did you learn to be a healer?" Elladan asked suddenly.

"I started to learn about the healing arts when I first served in King Gil-Galad's court," Elrond answered thoughtfully. "We were taught many things, about lore and history, but also about all living things."

"Did you heal Men and Elves?" Elrohir added.

"Yes, some of the first people I ever treated were men," Elrond answered as he thought back to that time. "There had been an attack on one of the settlements of men on the coast of Beleriand. My brother Elros helped to fight off the attackers."

"Ada, will you tell us the story?" Elladan and Elrohir asked together.

Elrond was about to answer 'not now', that he would tell them later, when Albast spoke.

"Master Elrond, I would like to hear the story too, if you would allow. We learn of our history, but you were there. You are the brother of my first King."

Elrond heard the awe in the Man's voice, and thought again of the tapestry of threads that wove his life - and those of his sons - to these Men of Westernesse. Elros' blood flowed through their veins; the blood of his beloved brother long since dead and passed beyond the circles of this world. Yet in these Men Elros still lived, his blood thinned and weakened perhaps, but still with the legacy of a promise that remained unfulfilled.

"As you wish," Elrond answered. "Elros and I were about twenty years old, nearly full-grown, as is the way with men, and Círdan and Gil-Galad had taken us to sea. . ."

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

"That is Brithombar," Círdan called over the wind to Elros and Elrond as they stood at the side of the ship.

Elrond's sharp eyes took in the remnants of the stone quays and brick buildings that lined the waterfront of the destroyed sea village as Círdan maneuvered the ship into the bay where the waters of the River Brithon emptied. Elros jumped at the call of an order, leaving the rail instantly. Elrond watched his brother climb into the rigging and raise and fold the sail, his hands moving so quickly and deftly that Elrond could not follow the precise motions of the maneuver. Elros then slid down the mast and jumped to adjust a smaller sail.

"He will sail his own ship one day," said Gil-Galad as he rested against the rail next to Elrond.

Elrond turned to look at Gil-Galad for a moment. The King's eyes were twinkling but he appeared impressed as he watched Elros perform his duties on the ship. Elrond turned back to study Elros again, listening to his brother's easy banter with the other sailors and watching the combination of grace and strength of movement as he climbed the masts and maneuvered in the rigging.

"I was ten years old when I was sent to live with Círdan at Brithombar." Gil-Galad had turned to face the ruins of the havens. "My grandfather Fingolfin had great friendship with Círdan, and his people helped the elves of the Falas to wall and fortify their cities after they first arrived from the west. The stonework you see was created by the hands of the Noldor exiles."

"How did Círdan know he could trust any of the Noldor?" Elrond asked, his eyes roaming over the quays and buildings as they sailed slowly by. He watched as seagulls circled a broken pier, diving and swooping to the water amidst the stone pillars remaining near the shore.

"Círdan had no reason not to trust the Noldor when they first arrived," Gil-Galad answered. "They did not speak of their reasons for leaving Aman, nor did they tell of the kinslaying or the curse and doom laid upon them. Those living here in Middle-Earth had been assailed by Morgoth upon his return, and only the Falas and Doriath were safe. Fingolfin and his sons, including my father, and the sons of Finarfin fought against Morgoth, as did the sons of Fëanor. They were united against a common enemy."

"King Thingol did not trust them," Elrond stated, but his voice betrayed his confidence and his statement sounded more like a question.

"Celeborn lived in Doriath, and Galadriel came to dwell there also, for King Thingol was kin to her mother. Ask them your questions, Elrond. They will tell you with honesty what happened in Doriath," Gil-Galad encouraged him. "I do not believe that Melian trusted the sons of Fëanor and she advised Thingol of her distrust."

Elrond was silent for a long while as they passed the length of Brithombar. He could hear Círdan pointing out landmarks, explaining the trade and industry of the Falas, what certain buildings were used for and the great battle that eventually destroyed the city. He had heard of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

"The city was so great in size!" one elf exclaimed. "Where are your people? How comes it that there are so few in Balar?"

Elrond recognized the elf as one who had come from Gondolin, part of the small remnant that had escaped with his father, Eärendil, and grandparents Tuor and Idril.

"They are gone, dead or enslaved," Círdan answered quietly. "The might of Morgoth came with fire and engines that prevailed against the great stone walls. Only a remnant of the Falathrim escaped by ship. As with you of Gondolin, Dúilinn, few survived the fall of the city."

"Did you know King Turgon?" Elrond asked Gil-Galad.

"No, I never met him. One did not come and go from Gondolin," Gil-Galad replied. "My uncle's law did not allow for visitors, for his hope of safety lay in secrecy. Few knew where the entrance to Gondolin lay. My father died in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, when I was a child of twenty-six, about half the size you are now. The Kingship of the Noldor passed to Turgon at that time, and when he died in the Fall of Gondolin thirty years later, the Kingship passed to me. All of the sons of Fingolfin and Finarfin were dead. Only Galadriel of that generation yet lived; and of mine, only myself and my cousin Idril, your grandmother.

"So the curse is real," Elrond murmured.

"Yes, the curse is real," Gil-Galad agreed. "Those of us born in Middle-Earth face the same penalty as our parents and grandparents; should we have children they will also live under the curse and doom of the Noldor."

Elrond again fell silent, his keen mind sorting all the names and places and facts carefully for future reference.

"Do you wonder where you should swear your loyalty?" Gil-Galad asked.

Elrond looked up in surprise. "No, you are my King," he answered solidly.

"I was not seeking your favor," Gil-Galad answered with a laugh. "You have a mighty heritage, Elrond. King Thingol was your great-great grandfather; Melian the Maia your great-great grandmother. King Finwë of the Noldor was your great-great grandfather as well. You descend from the three mighty houses of the Edain. You are a mixture of many bloods and kinships. You may claim all, and all may claim you."

Elrond stared out at the sea, noticing that the sails were fully catching the wind and they were now well underway again, heading down the coast, as planned, to see the fallen tower of Barad Nimras and then Eglarest, the other fallen city of the Falas.

"I had not considered that any might claim me, nor that any would have purpose in doing so," he finally answered. "All of the elves living now in Beleriand call you King, and to you I do swear fealty, whether you seek my favor or not."

Gil-Galad's eyes shone with pride in his young charge. He would have expected loyalty from one raised within his house, but more importantly, Elrond's wisdom and modesty regarding his own heritage pleased him. He did not judge one kin more harshly then another, and instead looked to a common purpose instead of blood to decide where to place his loyalty.

"My grandfather built Barad Nimras as a lookout to watch for the approach of Morgoth," Gil-Galad pointed down the coast to the cliff where the remnants of the tower stood. "It was destroyed with the Falas. Morgoth has never yet attacked from the sea, but I do not want us lulled into a false sense of security on the Isle of Balar."

Elrond pondered this for a moment as he pictured the geography of Beleriand in his head. Many hours he had spent pouring over maps in Gil-Galad's study and learning of the tactics used by the enemy. The enemy drove the Men and Elves to the sea, but they did not use it to their advantage.

"When did Círdan build on Balar?" he asked suddenly.

Gil-Galad smiled. "He did not build there originally," he informed Elrond. "Fingolfin built up Balar as a last refuge for the elves. He did not live to see it used. Círdan completed the building when the remnant of the Falathrim escaped there after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad."

Elrond saw the pride in Gil-Galad's eyes. "Your grandfather was very wise."

Gil-Galad laughed with pleasure. "So was your great-grandfather."

Elrond pondered the statement for only a moment before laughing with Gil-Galad. "I wish I might have known our common ancestor," he said wistfully.

"And I as well," Gil-Galad agreed with him. "I wish you might have known your father, Elrond. He would be pleased with his sons."

Elrond nodded seriously, his gaze turning again to seek his brother. "Elros especially."

"Eärendil and Elros share a love of sailing and the sea, and they are similar in temperament," Gil-Galad followed Elrond's gaze to Elros, who waved at them from his spot in the crow's nest of the rigging. "But Eärendil would take great joy in you as well. He would have found, as I have, that your mind is keen and wise, and seeks knowledge and truth. And you aren't bad with a sword."

Elrond laughed again, but treasured the praise for both his mind and his growing skill with the blade. He had worked long and hard to develop the grace and strength that seemed to come naturally to the elves in his group.

"I was but a child when the Falas were destroyed," Gil-Galad was serious again. "We escaped Brithombar as the walls fell. Many a brave elf paid for our escape with their lives. Many of my friends escaped, but lost their fathers and grandfathers and uncles. Others I knew did not survive. I saw houses burn, elves killed by the wicked scimitar of the orc and the flames of the dragons. We passed Eglarest, where even fewer escaped. We could see the flames from the ship far into the night." Gil-Galad paused. "Círdan watched it all. He was stoic, watching his people die. Never had he lost so many; never before had the walls of his Falas been breached. One of the mothers tried to pull me from the rail, but Círdan let me stay at his side. He seemed to know that the day would come when all of the Noldor would fall and I would be named King. He raised me to remember that responsibility. He did not shield me that day from the horror of our utter defeat."

Elrond had watched Gil-Galad's face as the King stared out over the water, his eyes fixed on the ruins of the tower that they were passing. He saw the grief and sorrow on his face, felt the deep emotion in his spirit as he remembered those who had died. Unconsciously his hand slid to cover Gil-Galad's and he focused his energy on that deeply held sorrow.

Gil-Galad had flinched slightly when Elrond's hand covered his own, but he did not withdraw, and Elrond closed his eyes as he instinctively gave comfort to his guardian. He felt a strange tingling through the contact of their skin and felt the song of the sea weaving into the melody he felt between them. He smiled as he felt Gil-Galad relax beneath the touch and some of his sorrow drift away. When he opened his eyes he found Gil-Galad staring at him curiously.

"Elrond, what just happened?" Gil-Galad asked softly. "What were you trying to do?"

Elrond jerked his hand back, but Gil-Galad caught it in his own and held it. He turned the palm up, as if expecting to find something hidden there. He looked at Elrond expectantly.

"I do not know, exactly," Elrond answered truthfully. "I wished to take away some of your sorrow, but when I touched you it was as if there was a connection in the spirit, in the melody of our songs."

"When you were small and in captivity with Maglor and Maedhros, we had a spy that watched you and learned much of your treatment in their hands. He said that Maglor had such a touch that he could strengthen you when they feared you would fade."

Elrond's eyes darkened and narrowed at the mention of the brothers. He started to speak, but Gil-Galad interrupted him. "Maglor offered his own life to his brother in payment for releasing you."

Elrond's anger turned to surprise. "He did?" he asked in disbelief.

"Maglor sent a messenger under a flag of parley to the Havens while he himself hid you and marked the location so that we could find you. Celeborn led his troops to meet Maedhros, and it was Maglor that rode between them and offered himself in forfeit, on the condition that no more blood would be shed," Gil-Galad explained. He watched Elrond closely. "He loved you enough to die for you."

Elrond found himself speechless and turned his gaze out to sea, as Gil-Galad had done earlier. His momentary rise of anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. "I do not know what to say," he finally responded, his eyes fixed firmly ahead.

"Your mother put you and Elros into the hands of your nurse before taking the Silmaril and leading the attackers away from you. She knew she could not give up the jewel, so she cast herself and it into the sea. Her choice can be seen as placing the Silmaril above all else, but her actions also saved your life."

"Why are you telling me these things?" Elrond finally asked.

Gil-Galad laughed. "I do not know. You just diminished my sorrow and I felt your spirit sing with mine, Elrond. It is rare even in a healer to have such a touch. Perhaps I am just searching for reasons why you would have developed such a gift, or maybe I am seeing what has been poured into you through the sacrifice of others. "

"I had not thought of it that way before," Elrond admitted.

"Many things in your life have not been ideal," Gil-Galad said, and Elrond thought he flinched at his choice of words. "You are of mixed race, and there has been much uncertainty and even mistakes made in your upbringing because we did not know how to adjust for your development. You were slow to speak and trust adults, because adults in your life had not proven trustworthy. Your family is mostly gone, killed by kin and evil. But do not doubt that there have been equal measures of sacrifice and love given to you. You have but to look for them."

Elrond smiled as he felt Gil-Galad's strong hand close around his. While the touch was not healing in the sense of what Elrond had just imparted to his guardian, it was the familiar touch of one who had poured large measures of love into him.

"I will not forget," Elrond promised.

"Elrond!"

Elrond turned at the call of his name and glimpsed his brother again in the small lookout in the rigging. Elros waved, motioning for Elrond to join him. Elrond turned to Gil-Galad, who grinned and nodded towards the sky. Elrond whooped in return and made his way to the mast. He quickly gained his footing and scaled the rigging, climbing the last feet carefully, before settling next to his grinning twin.

"Getting more lessons in the history of Beleriand?" Elros asked as he pulled Elrond on to the small platform next to him. He looped his arm through Elrond's, conscious that his brother was not used to climbing about the sails and rigging.

"Gil-Galad was speaking of his grandfather, our great-grandfather," confirmed Elrond as he looked out over the land to their north. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You can almost see forever from here."

"I love being up here," agreed Elros. "Sailing should be smooth to Eglarest. We can stay up here until then. This is the bird's nest, and sometimes when the ship is in port the birds will roost here. When we are at sea, this is called Elros' nest."

Elrond laughed and leaned against Elros, allowing his brother to play protector to him while in his nest. Elros loosened his hold slightly when Elrond relaxed against him.

"Tell me about your sword training. I have heard you are becoming quite good," Elros said, squeezing Elrond's arm in several places. "You're finally developing muscles, little brother!"

Elrond laughed good-naturedly at the ribbing. Elros had surpassed him in height and strength quite early in their childhood and had pointed out his own physical superiority at every opportunity. Of course, he also had no qualms about using that strength to Elrond's benefit either.

"We have been learning defensive techniques against the curved scimitar of the orcs," Elrond answered. "Do they teach you this?"

Elros laughed. "Long ago we learned that. Many of the sailors on this ship sailed with Círdan when he would launch attacks against Morgoth's forces. They would land and strike, then return to their ships knowing the orcs would not follow for they feared the water. Some fight with pleasure, for nearly all have lost family to the orcs." Elros pointed to a sailor standing near the prow of the ship. "He has taught all of the younger sailors. Perhaps he will spar with another or me later, and you can see his skill. He even taught Gil-Galad."

Elrond listened as his brother pointed out different elves and told of their strengths and their families, why they sailed and where they were from. Most of the sailors were Círdan's people, but survivors of all the realms seemed to be represented. Elros then told him of the ship and the sea, his excitement both palpable and catching, as he spoke of currents and tides, sea villages he visited, peoples he had met on landing, and the different types of ships they sailed. Elrond found himself pleasantly comfortable in his brother's presence - his brother's arm yet wrapped about his own, his pleasing voice describing so vividly all his adventures, and the sound of the sea adding its own harmony to the words. Elrond knew that little of his life of study would hold Elros' interest, but that if he wished to speak of it Elros would listen for as long as he wished to speak, and even help him to think through problems and issues. But here at sea he found that Elros' voice complemented the sea best, and he allowed their song to wash over him as the voice of the wind blew through the sails.

* * *

"He is asleep," Gil-Galad said incredulously.

Círdan glanced up at the nest and met Elros' eyes. "Elros will not let him fall."

Gil-Galad turned an exasperated look at Círdan. "I know that Elros will not let him fall. Elrond wished to see the coast of Beleriand, though, and now he is sleeping through it."

Círdan smiled as he watched the brothers together. Elros was at home in his nest high above the sea, but to his surprise Elrond appeared nearly as comfortable as he swayed slightly with the rocking of the ship and the caress of the wind upon him. "Elros will wake him when there is something to see." He watched as Elros shifted, allowing Elrond's head to rest against his shoulder. Círdan heard the familiar voice of the sea speaking to him, the whispered words of great joy and great sorrow that would separate the children of Eärendil one day to the fates appointed to them. He forced his gaze away from the young peredhil above him and turned his ancient eyes westward, for the sea also promised that the hope and future of all the children of Ilúvatar lay far from the shores of Beleriand.

* * *

"Eglarest!"

Elrond awoke with a start and would have sat up abruptly if not for the restraining arm of his brother. He turned his head to look at Elros and felt the blood creep into his face even as Elros grinned merrily.

"So my voice puts you to sleep, little brother," he teased. "I am still deciding if I should be offended."

When Elrond tried to speak, to apologize, Elros just shook his head and tightened his arm about his twin. "Do you see why I love it up here? The wind and the waves soothe the body and spirit," Elros explained. "Sometimes I tether myself to the mast and sleep up here." He grinned suddenly. "It is why I called you up here."

"So I could fall asleep and nearly make a fool of myself tumbling to the deck below?" Elrond grumbled half-heartedly.

"So you could hear and feel the sea and the wind all about you and in you. So it could wash over you and remove the tension that was all about you when you boarded the ship," Elros answered, refusing to be baited. He smoothed his brother's hair back from his face. "And because I have missed you." He tugged on the hair. "And because now you owe me your life for not letting you fall to an embarrassing death at the feet of your king."

Elrond leaned over and looked down to see Gil-Galad watching them with an amused look. He sat back upright and leaned against Elros. "He still thinks I am a child and now I have it proved it so," he muttered.

Elros laughed merrily and hauled his brother to his feet as he stood himself. They clung to the mast, and looked at the ruin of Eglarest that was fast approaching on their port side. The scene was much as they had seen in Brithombar, with crumbling stone and brick walls overgrown with weeds and grasses, the quays with gaps missing where the engines of Morgoth had broken through the stone.

Elrond felt Elros grip his arm tightly and he looked up, following his brother's gaze further down the coast. "Smoke," Elros said. "Fire!"

Elros yelled the last word, gaining the attention of all on board. He pointed down the coast to where a growing plume of smoke was rising in the air.

"All hands to arms!" Gil-Galad shouted.

"What is it?" Elrond turned to Elros and saw the combination of eager anticipation and anger crossing his brother's features.

"Listen," Elros replied as he stepped into the rigging, pausing for just a moment as he waited for his brother to hear the faint sounds. "Battle. That is a sea village of men. They are under attack!"

Elros slid quickly down the mast, watching to make sure his brother could follow with ease as Círdan swiftly turned the ship to race to the beleaguered village.

Elrond felt the deck beneath his feet, and then Gil-Galad was thrusting his armor and sword into his hands. He felt his training take over as he quickly fastened the straps and ties about his chest and abdomen and then slid the arm and leg coverings on and tied them in place. He tied his sword belt about his waist, and felt the comforting weight of his sword come to rest against his hip. He looked up to see Elros similarly outfitted and standing at the prow of the ship, as if wishing the vessel to reach her destination faster.

"Take this." Elrond took the chest of herbs, bandages and surgical supplies that Gil-Galad thrust into his arms. "You are to stay to the rear and help the wounded. Fight only if you need to."

Elrond opened his mouth to protest, but Gil-Galad cut him off. "You have no battle experience, Elrond. And right now I do not know if we shall be outnumbered or if this is a small band that we will slaughter. If it is possible to do so, I will bring you up to gain some experience. But your healing abilities may be of greater value to us than your sword."

Elrond turned his head at the sound of shouts and realized they were already nearing the small village. The docks were too small to allow their ship berth, and he watched as small boats from their ship were lowered to the water, and others were being rowed towards them from the dock. Women and children were crowded at the water's edge, many already in boats, and up the small hill from the shore he could see orcs and men in battle, their cries and the sounds of metal hitting metal drowning out all other sound around him. He watched in fascinated horror as he saw an orc cut down, its black blood gushing from a mortal neck wound.

"Come!" Gil-Galad grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to the rail. Elrond leapt nimbly down into the boat, the chest secure in his arms and his sword at his side. His eyes were fixed on the shore as he realized he was about to enter into his first real battle.

* * *

Chapter 18: Elves and Men Part II

* * *

Screams and shouts from the shore drew Elrond’s eyes to the women and children crowding into small boats at the docks. He was stunned to realize that there were Men attacking them with swords and knives. Men of the village stood between the attackers and their helpless victims, fighting them back, but falling in alarming numbers. Elrond found himself studying the men, searching for differences that would help him tell them apart. His keen eyes noted differences in clothing and hair, as well as weapons.

The small boat in which Elros rode reached the shore first. Elrond watched him leap on to the dock and draw his sword as he ran forward into the battle. Those waiting near the shore called shouts of relief and encouragement as the elves joined their fight. Elrond watched in a mixture of fascination and fear as his twin hewed down a man who was about to kill an injured villager. The villager sagged in relief as the sword he had expected to end his life never fell, and instead the man wielding it crumpled over. A second thrust of Elros’ sword ended the attacker’s life.

All of the elves in Elros’ party surged up the shore towards the village, killing or causing the attackers to retreat away from the docks. A second boat reached the docks and those elves followed the first ones, further pushing the battle line back away from the women and children. Elrond’s small boat reached the dock next, and he leapt on to the dock and would have raced after the other elves if not for the restraining arm that caught his shoulder.

“Tend the wounded, Elrond,” Gil-Galad commanded. “I will be directing our forces to bring the injured to you. Perform emergency treatment only. This is not the time to stitch wounds or set bones. Stop the bleeding and ease the pain, and we will worry about the rest later.” The king paused, considering the young peredhil. “Watch your back and do not leave your sword for any reason. You may have to defend yourself and your patients.”

With that Gil-Galad charged forward into the battle, directing two other elves from their ship to carry some of the injured mortals to Elrond.

Elrond clutched the supply chest tightly for a moment, watching Gil-Galad leave; then the sounds around him invaded his consciousness. He heard the crying of the children and the weeping of the women, mingled with the agonized moans of the injured and dying. He quickly scanned the docks in the fading daylight and found a suitable spot from which he could tend the injured. He moved swiftly to it, setting down the chest and throwing several blankets Gil-Galad had left with him on to the rough wood. He rose and hurried to the first injured person.

“Bring the injured here!” he called as he gathered the injured man gently in his arms and carried him to the blankets.

Elrond quickly assessed his first patient, noting the confusion in the man’s eyes and the vast amount of blood that covered his upper body. He rapidly located the deep laceration in the man’s skull, now beginning to clot but still in need of a bandage to slow the seepage of blood. He looked around him and saw several women near the children.

“You, women, come and aid me!” he commanded them. “Bring clean water if you have it.”

The women regarded him warily for a moment, but then two of them rose and came to do his bidding. At his direction, they began to clean and wrap bandages around the man’s head, allowing Elrond to move on to the next man in need of his aid.

He worked as quickly as he could, skipping over some men to tend to one more severely injured, then returning to those who were waiting. The two women proved able and aided him deftly, following his directions in the binding of wounds.

The sounds of the battle had retreated as the men, reinforced by the elves, pushed the attackers back from the village. The children had calmed and sat huddled with the older women on the docks or in the small boats. The younger women were beginning to move among the injured, some providing aid, others comfort, and still others seeking knowledge of their kin.

Elrond turned his attention to a man with a severe chest wound. He could hear the wound sucking air, and knew the man’s lung was breached. He realized that this man would die. He bound the wound anyway, his hands trembling, when he felt the man’s hand weakly clutch at him.

“I am sorry,” he whispered as he bent near to the man, gently gripping the man’s injured hand in his own.

The man croaked, unable to speak, and then his head rolled limply to the side as the effort to keep it upright became too much. Elrond closed his eyes as he stroked the man’s hair, willing the pain to leave the man and free his body. He did not know where the spirits of men went, but he found himself pouring forth all the healing energy he could summon, not to save, but to ease this man’s passing.

Beneath his touch the man relaxed and sighed, and Elrond opened his eyes to see the man staring up at him, a slight smile on his face.

“Thank you,” the man mouthed; then he closed his eyes and moments later breathed his last breath.

Elrond did not try to stop the tears that flowed down his cheeks. Gently disengaging his hand from that of the dead man, he stood, looking over the twenty or so injured men and women. His keen ears noted a slight sound from the reeds just behind him and he instinctively reached for the sword hilt at his side. He stared into what was now shadowed darkness, for the sun was hidden beyond the tree tops. A slight movement caught his attention, and he drew his sword as he moved swiftly down the dock and back to land to investigate. He had just reached the sandy beach when a curved scimitar swung at him from the dark.

“Yrch!” he yelled as loudly as he could, while swinging his own sword to block the blow.

The orc jumped towards him even as his blade was stopped by Elrond’s with a tremendous clank of metal and a bone jarring impact. Elrond swung his sword around, completing the arc, and thrust from below, neatly decapitating the creature before him. Another orc was already taking the first one’s place, and Elrond stabbed at it quickly, his keen eyes taking in at least three more orcs appearing behind the one he currently fought. A momentary panic filled him as he realized he could not fight off a whole band of orcs himself, and that all that stood between the orcs and the injured men, the women and children was himself. He felt a rage fill him, and he swung at the beast savagely, cutting it neatly across the chest and gut, felling it. He spun to face the next orc, but his sword met resistance and he was knocked backward by the force of the parrying blow. He did not fall, however, and even as he regained his balance he was thrusting his blade again, injuring one orc and causing another to step back lest it be hurt as well.

The three orcs had formed a semi-circle around him, and he noted in his peripheral vision several more orcs slipping past them and heading towards the docks. He knew the innocent were about to die, unarmed women and helpless children, and injured and defenseless men. A roar filled the air, deafening him with its intensity and causing even the orcs to step back in surprise. It was only then that Elrond realized the sound had come from him.

An answering call was returned even as Elrond threw himself into what had been his first and now seemed likely to be his final battle. The three orcs were playing with him, he realized, and his rage grew. To his amazement, one of the orcs fell and Elrond impaled the one next to him, who had let down his guard in surprise at seeing the one next to him fall. Elrond quickly pulled his sword from the orc’s body and spun and swung at the remaining orc, only to meet thin air. He twisted further than expected at the lack of resistance and then fell to his knees and rolled, regaining his feet swiftly. He looked about him in the gathering darkness, towards where the orcs had first appeared, but saw nothing.

“Elrond!”

At the sound of his name being called he spun around, his sword lifted high, and found himself face to face with Gil-Galad. The king had his sword raised as well, and lightly touched it to Elrond’s. Elrond stared at him in shock for a moment, and then raced forward to the docks. To his relief, he saw only dead orc bodies; they had not reached the villagers. He lowered his sword.

“Elrond,” Gil-Galad spoke again from behind, and Elrond felt the king’s hand on his shoulder and then a light squeeze at his neck. Elrond looked down at the dead orc near his feet and despite having beheld much blood as he tended dozens of wounds, he felt bile rising in his throat. He was unable to stop its passage and leaning forward, he vomited next to the orc.

Gil-Galad’s hand never left him, and now his arm snaked around Elrond’s chest and supported him as he retched. He felt his sword removed from his hand and then Gil-Galad’s hand was back, smoothing his hair. When the spasms subsided, Elrond straightened, wiping his mouth with the tunic sleeve just visible below his armor. Gil-Galad still held him about the chest, and to Elrond’s surprise, gently turned him and pulled him into an embrace.

Elrond rested his face against Gil-Galad’s shoulder, feeling the coolness of the metal armor beneath his cheek. He allowed himself to be comforted for only a moment, then pulled back and looked up at his king.

Gil-Galad smiled and ran his hand down Elrond’s hair one last time, holding him at arm’s length.

“There are more injured. Shall we tend them?”

Nodding wordlessly, Elrond turned towards the docks, his hand moving instinctively to his sword hilt, which was not at his side. He spun around to see Gil-Galad still standing there, Elrond’s sword in his hand. The king wiped the blood from the blade, and then tossed it to him. Elrond caught the hilt and thrust the weapon back into its sheath.

As soon as he appeared on the docks, the women who had been helping him cried out in relief and one of them grabbed his hand and kissed it. Tears of joy ran down their faces.

“We thought they had killed you,” the one sobbed.

“They did not,” Elrond answered softly. “There are more wounded; come, I need your assistance.”

Elrond worked into the night. As others came to assist, he turned over the task of providing immediate aid to them, and began the work of stitching up wounds and setting broken bones. With each one he would lay his hand on their forehead first, and as time went on he could better control the healing energy he imparted. Patients calmed beneath his touch, and their pain diminished, allowing him to stitch and set their wounds. A healer from the village joined him, as did Círdan and another elf Elrond did not know, and they worked with Elrond, stitching up those he aided first and tending to some of the more minor wounds.

Elrond felt exhaustion overcoming him, a bone weary tiredness unlike anything he had experienced before. He was glad he was working on his knees, for he did not think his feet could support him. Círdan worked at his side, stitching up a leg wound with all the skill he used to tend his sails and nets, and Elrond noted the perfect even stitches even as the world spun around him. He felt himself falling, but he was so near to the ground that he only ended up sitting at a more awkward angle as he struggled to keep himself upright with one hand. He heard fading voices around him, and then nothing more.

* * *

Círdan eased Elrond to the rough wood of the dock, next to his patient, and then quickly finished the last several stitches to close his patient’s leg wound. Gesturing for one of the women to come and spread healing salve on the wound and bind it, he turned his attention back to the young half-elf curled up next to him.

He noted the slow, shallow breaths and the pale color of Elrond’s face, despite the flickering torchlight that cast a golden hue on all else. Círdan unfastened the bindings and ties of Elrond’s armor, removing the leg and arm plates, and then the pieces covering his chest and abdomen. His eyes narrowed, confused, for he saw no wounds. He stood, his eyes scanning the darkness until he saw Gil-Galad’s familiar figure on the shore.

“Erenion!” he called.

Gil-Galad came quickly, for only Círdan called him by his original name. As he approached he saw Elrond laid out next to his patients, and he moved swiftly to the side of his young charge.

“Elrond!” Gil-Galad shook him gently even as he ran practiced hands over the still form, checking for injuries. He turned to look up at Círdan. “What happened?”

“I do not know,” Círdan answered gruffly. “He appeared to be more exhausted as time went on, and then collapsed. It is unlike him; he does tire more quickly with his mortal blood, but . . . .” Círdan’s voice drifted off. “Each patient he touched he soothed, and they felt little pain.”

Gil-Galad nodded as he turned his attention back to Elrond. He recalled the tingling touch when Elrond had sought to comfort him earlier in the day. “Somehow, each time he touches like that he must drain himself,” Gil-Galad speculated. He looked down at the many men lying in the temporary infirmary. “He has touched many this night.”

A shout from shore caught both of their attention. A group of men and elves were returning, victorious, as they had killed or routed the last of those who had attacked them. Those on the docks who had been waiting for news of their families and loved ones swarmed forward, seeking husbands and fathers, brothers and sweethearts. The elves moved aside, allowing the men to rejoice with their families, and in some cases, comfort those who now realized that a loved one was not returning.

With a grin on his face, and many pats on the back following him, Elros moved through the men to join Círdan and Gil-Galad on the dock. He was nearly upon them when he realized the one they were kneeling near was his twin.

“Elrond!” With a cry of anguish, Elros called his brother’s name. He dropped to the wooden dock, pulling Elrond’s still form into his lap and cradling his head in the crook of his arm.

“He is not injured,” Gil-Galad reassured Elros even as Elros rested his palm over his brother’s chest and felt the slow rise and fall of each breath. Elros sagged in relief and bent over his twin’s still form.

“Was he hit in the head? Where is his armor?” Elros choked out the words.

“I just removed his armor, and he was not hit in the head,” Círdan spoke sternly. His gruff tone served the intended purpose as Elros straightened and calmed himself. “He fought bravely against orcs that attacked from the shore, and he has tended all these injured you see before you,” Círdan explained once he had Elros’ attention.

“He has drained himself in tending them. I do not entirely understand it,” Gil-Galad added. “Take him back to the ship, Elros, and make him warm and comfortable in my cabin. We have more to do here but will join you later.”

Elros carefully got his feet beneath him and gently lifted his twin. He carried him to one of the small boats, where other elves aided him in settling Elrond and then paddled them back to the ship.

Gil-Galad watched them leave and then rose and returned to find the leader of the village, to resume discussions on where the injured should be further tended and what defenses the village could mount in case of another attack. Already the small council had refused to vacate the village and come to Balar, where they might join with the elves, adding to their defense and enjoying the safety of their numbers.

Círdan gazed west for a moment before resuming his stitching of the wounded.

* * *

Elros smiled gratefully at Magor, the swordmaster, as the elf took Elrond from Elros’ arms and lifted him on to the ship. Elros picked up Elrond’s sword and leapt nimbly on board, calling ahead, “Take him to King Gil-Galad’s cabin.”

Magor arched a brow as he looked back over his shoulder at Elros, but did as asked, depositing the young peredhil on the bed in the King’s private cabin.

“He handled his sword well for one who is barely grown,” Magor admitted.

Elros turned to the elf in surprise. “You saw him fight? How did he do?”

“Get your armor off,” Magor instructed. “You are done fighting this night.” Magor waited until Elros had begun to remove his armor before continuing. “We heard the cry of ‘yrch’ from the docks, and the King recognized the voice as Elrond’s. We hurried to the shore and spotted Elrond fighting with the orcs as they emerged from the underbrush and reeds on the beach. Elrond did well; he had dispatched four orcs and was working on his fifth when more appeared, some surrounding him and others making their way to the docks.” Magor slipped a pillow beneath Elrond’s head. “Elrond gave a roar that I think startled even him and began to fight furiously. He nearly lost his edge, but then seemed to control his anger. I took out one orc with a knife that I threw when Elrond moved out of my line of fire. He killed the second, and when he spun for the third I had thrown my second knife, killing that one. Gil-Galad and Reviar killed those approaching the docks.”

Elros had finished removing his armor and stacked it in the corner of the room. Magor pointed at the washbasin on a night table, and Elros moved obediently to wet a cloth and begin to wipe the sweat and blood from his face and hands. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Magor asked as Elros dampened another cloth and began to clean his twin’s face and hands.

“For saving my brother’s life.”

Magor shook his head. “There is no debt among warriors, Elros. Your brother saved many, many lives tonight. Someday perhaps he will save mine.”

Elros crawled up on the bed and reclined against the cushions at the headboard. He pulled Elrond into his arms and began to gently stroke the dark hair that he had released from the ties that held it back from his brother’s face. He looked up at Magor when he realized the older elf had ceased speaking, and found him watching the brothers intently.

“Who taught Elrond the healing arts? They exceed any that I know King Gil-Galad or Círdan possess.”

Elros shrugged. “I do not know. He has had many teachers on Balar, in Gil-Galad’s court. But even Gil-Galad and Círdan seemed surprised by what he did this night.” He paused, thinking. “Even when we were small children, though, Elrond had a healing touch. So did Maglor.”

“How did you fare in battle, Elros?” Magor changed the subject and laughed aloud at the smile that suddenly appeared on Elros’ face.

“I fared well indeed,” Elros responded gleefully. “We joined with the defenders of the village and routed the eastern men and the orcs. There were more men than orcs,” Elros added as he considered the battle. “Men fight fiercely, Magor. I know they were defending their homes and families, but they fight and die bravely, despite the shortness of their lives.” He paused for a long moment, shifting Elrond slightly in his arms. He smiled when his twin sighed and seemed to actually snuggle closer to him. He looked up at Magor to see the older elf grinning as well.

“Does this surprise you, Elros?” Magor asked. “You have mortal blood and you fight bravely and fiercely.”

Elros paused for a moment, stumped. “But I was trained by elves who have lived long - for hundreds and even thousands of years. They have had much time to perfect their skills and have had many experiences in battle. These men – most would still be children if they were elves.”

“You are still a child, Elros,” Magor answered, a twinkle in his eye, “just a fast growing one. Elrond is more a child yet than you – look at the difference in size between you two.”

“But this is what I mean,” Elros argued. “I know we are different because we bear the blood of both kindreds, but Men live so fast! They race through childhood and become adults, mastering the skills it takes to build and fight and raise families and survive in a short fraction of the time allotted to the elves!”

“You find them exciting,” commented Magor.

“I find them amazing,” answered Elros. “Creative in ways that perhaps we are not. Ingenious in how they solve problems. Their battle tactics in routing the attackers were brilliant! The elves take a long time to find solutions to problems – they think and plan and evaluate and talk. Men just do it!”

Magor remained silent after Elros finished his enthusiastic commentary. Elros watched him, wondering if he had offended the old elf, but Magor seemed nonplussed as he considered the half-elves before him.

“Of what are you thinking?” Elros finally asked.

“How much like a Man you are,” answered Magor with a slight smile. He stood and stretched before turning back to Elros. “I will find some lembas and water to drink. You need to eat now, and make sure your brother does when he awakes.”

Elros nodded as Magor left the cabin. He curled his arm about his brother’s shoulders. “We are not children, little brother,” he whispered.

* * *

Elrond slowly awakened, first conscious of the slight rocking of the ship and then of the sun streaming through a window into the cabin. He blinked a few times, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling above him. He had no idea where he was.

“You have finally awakened.”

Elrond turned slightly at the sound of Gil-Galad’s voice and saw the king sitting at his writing desk, quill in hand and a bemused look on his face. He realized then that he was in the King’s cabin, and pushed himself into a sitting position. The room spun for a moment and he suddenly found himself lying flat on the bed again. He closed his eyes, willing the vertigo to depart and the room to stay still.

A cool cloth was laid upon his forehead and he heard Gil-Galad’s soothing voice telling him, “Easy, Elrond. The vertigo will pass.”

He opened his eyes after several moments and accepted a sip of water from a cup held to his lips.

“Am I injured?” he finally asked.

“Not by sword or spear,” Gil-Galad replied, “but perhaps by good intentions.” He broke off a bit of lembas bread and fed it to Elrond, who took it very reluctantly.

“I am sure I can feed myself,” he muttered ungraciously.

Gil-Galad laughed, lifted Elrond’s hand to his chest, and stuffed a small piece of the waybread between his fingers. When Elrond did not move immediately, he broke off another piece and held it to his lips. “Eat, Elrond. You have weakened yourself far beyond exhaustion, and I encouraged you to do so. Allow me to assuage my guilt by aiding you.”

Elrond accepted the piece of lembas, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Gil-Galad arched an eyebrow at him. “You do not recall the dozens of wounded men you aided?”

Elrond scowled. “I recall them,” he answered pointedly. “I do not understand what you mean about weakening myself.”

Gil-Galad took Elrond’s hands in his own and focused all his energy on the young half-elf for a moment. “What do you feel when I do that?”

Elrond shook his head slightly. “Nothing. Am I supposed to feel something?”

Gil-Galad smiled. “What happened when you focused yourself on each patient? What did they do?”

“They relaxed,” Elrond answered tiredly. “They seemed to not feel the pain and we could care for them much more quickly and with less distress.”

“Why?”

Elrond blinked. “Why?” He looked at Gil-Galad in disbelief for a moment. The king knew nearly everything. He had never yet failed to answer Elrond’s questions adequately, but this time he truly seemed to be asking Elrond for the answer to his question. “I do not know.”

“Neither do I, exactly,” admitted Gil-Galad as he took advantage of the half-open mouth before him, slipping in a chunk of lembas and effectively silencing whatever comment Elrond had been about to make. “Círdan says you have a healing touch. When you comforted me on the ship yesterday, I felt a surge of energy flow from your touch. It soothed me and diminished my sorrow. It did far more for your patients, but apparently it is a limited commodity, at least at this point in your young life.” Gil-Galad held up his hand as Elrond opened his mouth to argue the point about his age. “You healed many, then you fought the orcs, and . . .”

“And then I got sick,” Elrond interrupted, his face reddening at the memory. “I am sorry I . . .”

“Everyone gets sick after their first battle, and some for many more battles after the first. Do not apologize,” Gil-Galad dismissed his concern and instead pressed another bit of lembas into his patient. “Then we encouraged you to keep on healing, and all those assisting you waited until you worked your magic before they set a bone or closed a wound. Even Círdan could see that you were becoming exhausted, but none could know you would continue until you collapsed.”

“I . . . fainted?” asked Elrond, mortified.

Gil-Galad laughed aloud. “Dead-away, and you have been blissfully unaware for hours. Elros and Magor brought you back to the ship not long afterwards.”

Elrond closed his eyes as he felt the heat rise in his face. He had fainted in front of everyone? His brother had carried him to the ship, and other warriors and sailors had witnessed it? His disgrace was so great he could not even look at his king.

“You have been given an amazing gift, Elrond, perhaps from the Valar themselves,” Gil-Galad continued, his voice gentler and the laughter gone. “Never before have any of us seen such a thing, and none are more appreciative than the villagers you helped to save. They witnessed your skill in healing, but also your bravery when you fought the orcs. You were surrounded and yet you continued to fight. You did not run or hide, but made them fight you to get to where your patients lay.”

There followed a long silence as Elrond gradually regained control of himself. Once he knew that no further tears would spill from his eyes, he opened them to find Gil-Galad watching him intently. Gil-Galad wet a handkerchief and washed his face, wiping away the tears that had dared wet his cheeks without comment. He gave him another sip of water before continuing to feed him the lembas.

“I am very proud of you and Elros. You both performed admirably. I hope that you will forgive me and the others who pushed you beyond endurance,” Gil-Galad finished.

Elrond started to answer, but could not find the right words. Did Gil-Galad not think him weak? He lay in the King’s bed in the King’s cabin, and was tended by the King himself - perhaps Gil-Galad was not embarrassed by his failings?

A knock on the door interrupted them and saved Elrond from having to speak at all. Gil-Galad opened the door and was nearly knocked aside as Elros barreled past him and pounced on his brother.

“You are finally awake!” Elros grinned as he flopped next to him on the bed. He looked at the lembas pieces on the small plate and popped one into his mouth, ignoring the disapproving look from Gil-Galad. “Is Gil-Galad feeding you like a baby?” He picked up Elrond’s arm and dropped it, noting his twin did not even try to hold it up. “You are still as weak as a baby. Do you remember when I broke my leg and you had to take care of me until I could walk? I get to return the favor!” Elros laughed aloud as he grabbed a small lembas chunk and pressed it to Elrond’s lips. “Eat, little brother! Do not make me have to force you!”

Elrond laughed and Elros shoved the lembas into his mouth with delight. He frowned suddenly, and turned to the exasperated Gil-Galad. “I do not do diapers,” he informed his king imperiously.

Gil-Galad swatted Elros across the back of the head. “Get him to eat all of this and drink the water, and he will soon be strong enough to not need your assistance with his personal needs. I must speak to Círdan and the leaders of the village again before we set sail.” His eyes twinkled as he looked at Elrond, now lying snug in Elros’ arms. “He will not let you fall.” He laughed at the look of confusion on Elrond’s face and the look of glee on that of his twin as Elros shoved more lembas into his brother’s mouth, and left the cabin confident his young charge was in good hands.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

Elrond finished the story, and as he allowed his vision to expand beyond his sons and Albast, realized his audience had grown considerably as many of the healers and members of his household were gathered around them.

“Ada,” Elrohir tugged on his sleeve. “Did Elros have to help with your. . . personal needs?”

Laughter floated around them and Elrohir blushed slightly, but Elrond calmly answered him, “Yes, he did, and so did King Gil-Galad, until I had recovered enough to walk on my own.”

“Your healing touch, Master Elrond,” Albast spoke softly, “does it still drain you?”

Elrond was touched by the man’s concern, clearly reading his emotions to know that the soldier was concerned that Elrond had harmed himself while helping him.

“No, I have learned much since then, Albast,” Elrond responded kindly, moving his hand to rest on the man’s leg once again. He watched as the man sat upright in surprise as the tingling energy again flowed into him. “I have learned to control what I give, and to use the song of Arda and others to aid and replenish me as I work. What happened then would not happen now.”

A snort from behind Elrond made him smile and he looked over his shoulder to see Glorfindel standing with his arms crossed over his chest and a look of disbelief on his face.

“Although, should I extend myself beyond that which I am capable of, or should I be in need of someone to forcefully care for me after overextending myself, Glorfindel willingly fills the role that Elros and Gil-Galad served so long ago,” amended Elrond.

Another ripple of laughter filled the room and Elrond was pleased to hear Glorfindel’s tenor adding voice to the amusement.

“Elros was amazed by Men?” Albast asked tentatively.

“Elros was fascinated, amazed and excited by Men,” Elrond answered truthfully. “He loved the fast pace of their life and their ingenious methods of solving problems and the way they created new ways of doing old tasks.”

The room remained quiet after Elrond answered the question, and he rose, lifting Elrohir into his arms and taking Elladan by the hand.

“Now, we will leave you to your rest, Albast,” he said with a slight bow and his face carefully masked of any emotion. With his sons in hand, he smiled at his staff and departed the room.

Elrohir wrapped his arms tightly about his father’s neck as Elrond carried him down the hall, then laid his head against his father’s shoulder and whispered, “I wish we could have known Elros, Ada. I think he was a good brother to you.”

Elrond hugged the small body tight. “I wish you could have known Elros, too. And he was as fine a brother as I could ever have wished for.”

* * * * *

Chapter 19: Making Plans

Elrohir awoke in the pre-dawn quiet. He sat up noiselessly, looking at his still slumbering twin and then at the moonlight that was peeking in through the sheer curtains blowing gently in the breeze at their window. He sighed audibly. It would be hours before daylight and his parents awoke.

He flopped back down on his pillow, exasperated. Why did he wake up so early? It certainly made more sense if one managed to stay sleeping until the last moment, because then if you were looking forward to something, it would happen all that much faster. Elrohir pondered his logic for a moment. Well, it sort of made sense.

He slipped the sheets down over his casted foot, and crawled to the end of his bed. He managed to reach over, unlatch the chest and raise the lid, having practiced the awkward movement on more than one occasion. The lid flopped quite far back, and he slipped his hand in from the side, feeling for the leather scabbard. It was exactly where he had put it – right where he could reach it, without even needing to see it. He slid it out of the chest and shut the lid as silently as he could. It made a dull thud as it closed, but he knew Elladan would sleep through that small noise.

Settling back on to his bed, leaning against his headboard, he laid the sword in his lap and ran his hands over the pattern of the scabbard. He very much wanted to pull the sword out of its sheath, but he had promised Ada he would never draw the sword in the house. He knew that he really could not hurt himself while sitting on his bed with it, but a promise was a promise.

He swung the sheathed sword above him, smiling at the swishing sound it made as it sliced through the air. How he had missed sword practice! And they had only had one lesson with Daerada with their new bows before being hurt! He bounced his casted foot on the bed.

“Today you are coming off,” he whispered to the cast on his foot. “I will save you forever, but you will sit on a shelf after today. I want to run and shoot arrows with my bow and dance with a sword, and I cannot do any of those things with you attached to me.”

The cast remained silent. Elrohir sighed. He fingered the buckle that held the sheath in place on the sword, then flicked it open. He pulled lightly on the sword, until he could just see the shine of the metal. He stared at it for a moment, as if mesmerized. His words of promise came back to him. Guilt flooded through him, and he quickly pushed the sword back into the sheath and fastened its buckle.

“You are too much of a temptation for me,” he told the sword, rather dramatically. “I shall put you away and get up, so I cannot be tempted by you again.”

With that he rose and readied himself, putting on clean clothing and washing his face and hands. Elladan slept on as Elrohir slipped from the room and moved quietly down the darkened halls. He had not been up this early in the morning before, and he was fascinated by the slight echo that interrupted the silence each time his cast touched the wood floor. As he neared the Hall of Fire he heard the slow, low tones of a ballad being sung. He crept near to the door, surprised to learn that some elves really did stay up all night. The song made him melancholic, not sad but thoughtful, and he slipped through the open doors so that he might hear better. A small group of elves was gathered in the middle of the room, seated on cushions and rugs, and some had lutes and harps and other instruments. Some were strumming their instruments while others sang. Elrohir had heard such music before, but for some reason it seemed different to be hearing it in the twilight. Starlight and moonlight twinkled in through the large open windows that ran nearly floor to ceiling, shining on the elves as they sang, and enhancing the glow of the singer.

Elrohir entered, willing his cast to silence, and crept as near as he dared, shielding himself behind the low couches and benches that ringed the room. He slid a cushion from the bench in front of him, and lay down on it, his chin resting on his crossed arms, allowing him to watch the singing elves from behind and beneath the bench. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift with the crescendo of the music, feeling it flow through his body and make him feel as if he were riding in the air with the notes.

Lost in the music, he jumped when a large warm hand came to rest upon his back. He turned his head slightly, his face burning, to see who had caught him in this place he did not have permission to be. It was Glorfindel. He smiled wanly.

To his surprise, Glorfindel smiled back, pulled another cushion from the bench and laid it next to his, then lay down so their heads were nearly touching. They spoke no words as Lindir continued his haunting ballad, and several times Elrohir stole a shy glance at Glorfindel, surprised to see his eyes closed.

Lindir finished, and there were low murmurs from the elves as they discussed the next lay they wished to sing. Glorfindel rolled to his side, facing Elrohir, and tucked the elfling’s loose hair behind his ear.

“Why are you up so late, Elrohir?” he asked.

Elrohir opened his eyes wide in surprise. “I am not up late; I am up early,” he whispered.

Glorfindel laughed lightly. “At this time of the night I suppose one is as accurate as the other. Did you have a bad dream?”

“No,” Elrohir answered, shaking his head. “I was too excited to sleep.”

“Excited for what?”

Elrohir rolled on to his back and lifted his cast in the air. “I get this off today!” he exclaimed softly. “Then I can run and practice swordplay and use my bow.”

Glorfindel nodded knowingly, and Elrohir smiled. He knew Glorfindel would understand.

“I tried to lie quietly in my bed,” he confided, “but I was tempted by my sword, and I did not want to wake Elladan.”

“Swords can be a great temptation,” Glorfindel agreed. He studied the child for a moment. “I think that couch would be more comfortable than this floor. Shall we sit there and listen to the music?”

Elrohir smiled, surprise then joy evident in his eyes at Glorfindel’s suggestion. He sat up and put his cushion back on the bench, then took Glorfindel’s proffered hand and walked with him to the couch. They settled upon it, Glorfindel placing a pillow in his lap, and Elrohir sprawled out next to him, his head on the pillow and his eyes on the musicians. Several of the elf maidens rose and began to dance as another song was begun, and Elrohir was entranced by the grace and beauty of their movement as they twirled slowly around the outside of the small circle. Their hair was loose, swirling about their shoulders and swinging freely as they dipped and swayed. Elrohir was amazed, for they seemed to be part of the music, as if it flowed through their bodies and controlled their movements. He found himself relaxing under Glorfindel’s soothing hand, which gently stroked his hair, and soon fell fast asleep.

* * *

Celebrían entered the Hall of Fire quietly, the soft swish of her skirts the only noise in the now silent space. The musicians and dancers had departed, leaving only the sleeping elfling and his keeper on the comfortable couch. Glorfindel had sent word to her that Elrohir was in the Hall with him. She approached them silently, the sight of one of her sons deep in slumber a cherished vision to her mother’s heart. He looked so innocent, and she was grateful for these years of carefree childhood.

She smiled at Glorfindel as she knelt down at his knee, her hand reaching immediately to stroke her son’s dark head.

“Thank you for watching over him,” she said quietly.

Glorfindel returned her smile. “He could not sleep, he said, for he was excited about his cast coming off today. I hope for his sake that Elrond determines it can be removed.” His long fingers reached over the cast, rubbing lightly over the scene with the gown hanging from the tree branches.

Celebrían’s smile widened as her gaze followed his fingers to the cast. “Lessons of patience are lost on young ones,” she agreed. “My father will be pleased, as he has been looking forward to teaching them archery, and they so enjoy their sword lessons with you and their father. They will be glad when they can again do all they wish to do.”

Glorfindel appeared thoughtful for a moment. “Their childhood is idyllic in many ways. I am glad they are growing up at a time when shadow has been vanquished, at least for a while.”

“They shall remember their trip to the waterfall fondly, for the joy they had before the accident, but as time passes they will also come to realize the sacrifices made for them that day,” Celebrían replied, her own fingers now tracing the scenes painted on the cast.

Glorfindel grinned slyly. “Of their mother’s deed they know not, for their father sent them off when the items were discovered.”

Celebrían sat back on her heels, an eyebrow arched in a look she had borrowed from her husband. “Of what deed do you speak, dear Glorfindel?”

Blue eyes sparkled with mirth as they met hers steadfastly. “You know of what I speak, dear Lady.”

Celebrían’s eyes twinkled merrily in return. “Do tell, my Lord.”

“Nana,” yawned Elrohir sleepily, interrupting them. A slow grin spread across his face and he stretched, raising his arms. Glorfindel caught his hand before it struck him, and Elrohir suddenly realized where he was. He sat up, leaning against Glorfindel’s side. “Is it morning? Is Ada awake?” he asked, excitement in his voice.

“Yes, Ada is awake,” answered Elrond from the door. He entered the room, coming to stand before his small son. “Why are you not in bed, Elrohir?”

“I could not sleep, Ada,” Elrohir replied solemnly. “Please, Ada, will you take it off today?”

Celebrían laughed aloud as she saw Elrond pondering whether to point out to Elrohir that he had been sleeping. Instead a smile crossed his face and he answered, “I will look at it after breakfast.”

Celebrían laughed as Elrohir clapped his hands and slid from the couch. He took the hand she held out to him, and with a wink at Glorfindel, she led her son from the room.

Elrond stood with arms crossed over his chest, staring silently at the powerful warrior seated before him. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked upon the suddenly innocent countenance of his good friend. He sighed, and sat down next to him.

“Thank you for watching over Elrohir this morning,” he said graciously.

Glorfindel nodded.

“You were in discussions with Lady Celebrían,” Elrond prompted him.

“Yes,” Glorfindel answered.

A long moment of silence stretched out between them. Elrond finally clapped Glorfindel on the knee and stood. “My beloved wife I treasure and would protect from any misdeed. We are fortunate to have your loyalty, for I know that you too would keep any harm, large or small, from touching a hair of her head.” He smiled and nodded at the golden one, and then left the room.

Melodious laughter floated from the room behind him, and he knew his message had been understood.

* * *

“Albast, today I get my cast off!” Elrohir announced as he entered the healing rooms. He moved quickly, the cast making its slight thumping noise as he made his way quickly to where the man reclined on a couch.

“That is good news, Elrohir!” Albast replied with a smile, as clasped the hand of the child.

Elrohir sat down cautiously next to the man, and studied him quietly. The man’s face was ashen, and he looked ill. Elladan skidded into the room and ran to join them, but he stopped suddenly as he saw his twin looking so grave.

“Albast, are you sick?” Elladan gently touched the man’s arm.

“I am feeling better than I was during the night,” Albast reassured them.

“I am going to get Ada,” Elrohir decided.

“I will go,” Elladan said, jumping to his feet. He looked apologetically at his twin. “You will be able to run later today.”

Elladan reached the door just as Elrond entered. “Ada! Albast is sick.” He grabbed Elrond’s hand and pulled him to the couch.

Elrond’s gaze settled on Albast, and he quickly evaluated the man’s condition. Other healers were hovering near, having tended him during the fitful night. He moved to the man, resting his hand upon the man’s forehead, then ran long fingers down the man’s face, feeling beneath his chin and down to the pulse point of his neck. He smiled with reassurance at his patient, but his eyes were masked and to those who knew him, his impassivity suggested deeper concern.

Albast had taken a turn for the worse two days earlier when a fever they had thought defeated returned during the long watch of the night. Elrond had tended him and had his sons kept away. The man had improved some during the day, but this second difficult night concerned Elrond. He finished his examination, his warm hands imparting strength and comfort to the man’s body and soul.

“We shall remove this cast,” Elrond told Albast as he ran his fingers lightly down the plaster. “I believe the wounds to your leg are the source of your illness now.”

Elrohir squeezed Albast’s hand. “I am sorry we did not get to paint it for you,” he said sadly.

“I am glad you did not,” Albast answered sincerely. “For I would be reticent to ask you to paint another one, and I am sure my leg will eventually need another cast, one that will stay on for a longer time.”

“Yes, indeed,” Elrond replied with a smile. “This is a temporary removal.”

Elrohir grinned happily then. He turned to his father. “Ada, I think you should take off Albast’s cast first. I can wait. My leg is not the source of any illness for me.”

Chuckles were heard throughout the room at Elrohir’s choice of words, but Albast squeezed the small hand tight, gladness in his eyes for this young one’s concern. Elrond’s eyes shone with pride, for his son had thought of another’s needs before his own, and this type of behavior he wished to encourage. But Elrond had to turn away to hide his emotion then, for Elladan had taken a damp cloth from the healer, and placed it gently on the man’s fevered forehead, his small fingers smoothing the man’s hair away from his face as he listened to the plans for his friend. Elrond felt joy that his sons’ presence brought comfort to the man, but also fear, for Albast’s condition was worsening and his sons had never known grief.

“Albast first, and then Elrohir,” Elrond agreed.

He nodded to Glorfindel, who had joined them, and then went to prepare his tools while the strong warrior gently lifted the feverish man and carried him to the padded table where Elrond would work. Elladan and Elrohir immediately moved to join them.

“Why don’t you two go play, and I will come for you when it is Elrohir’s turn,” Elrond said gently.

Elladan took Elrohir’s hand and pulled him close. “Oh, no, Ada,” Elladan began resolutely and Elrohir finished the sentence, “Albast needs us.”

Elrond stepped back and drew them to him, bending down to meet their eyes. “If I ask you to leave, you must go without question. Will you promise me that?”

“Yes, Ada,” they replied in unison, and though their eyes questioned what they might see that would cause their father to send them away, their voices did not lend words to their thoughts.

Glorfindel situated the twins near Albast’s head, allowing them to hold his hand and keep him company as Elrond worked. He kept a close eye on all involved – watching to see if Elrond should need aid removing the large plaster cast, if Albast should show signs of distress, and if the twins should see something that necessitated their removal.

After Albast winced twice at the slight jostling of his leg, Glorfindel held a cup to his lips and the man swallowed a draught of medication to numb his pain. Elrond waited for the effects to be felt, and when he resumed his ministrations the man lay still and quiet. He pulled the plaster carefully from the leg. A putrid smell filled the air, causing the twins to both wrinkle their noses, but both leaned near to see the pus stained bandages that had been uncovered. Elrond dampened the bandages, allowing him to free them, and it became quickly obvious that the wound, which had been nicely healing, was now grossly infected. A warm compress over the old wound released more blood and pus, and the sickly sweet and metallic smell permeated the room.

Elrond examined the leg, his sure fingers discovering that the bone itself appeared to be knitting well, but the tissues and small blood vessels held infection. He silently thanked the Valar, for if the bone became infected he feared they would lose the man to death. He flushed and cleaned the wound as gently as possible, then packed it with healing herbs and wrapped clean bandages about it. He reattached the skeleton of a splint that would protect the healing bones, and then bound the whole leg in linens.

He had glanced at his sons several times, but they appeared curious and unfazed by the smells and sights they had witnessed. Elrohir continued to hold Albast’s hand, and Elladan stroked his hair and placed fresh cool cloths on his forehead as the healer handed them to him, throughout the entire procedure.

“Finished,” Elrond announced softly. Albast only nodded to him, the medicine making him too sleepy to speak.

Glorfindel lifted the man with the same ease he would a small child and carried him back to his couch, settling him carefully amid the blankets and propping his leg on cushions. With a gentle touch he covered the man’s forehead with his own hand, and felt him relax again.

Elrond held out his arms to Elrohir. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Ada!” Elrohir cried. He wrapped his arms around his father, squeezing him tightly, and as Elrond sat him on the high counter, he whispered in his father’s ear, “Thank you for taking care of Albast, Ada. He is our friend.”

“I know,” Elrond answered.

Elladan was quickly at his side, and Elrond lifted him to the counter as well.

“Now, how are we going to remove this so that we don’t damage the cast?” Elrond asked with a smile.

“I thought we were going to use this?” Glorfindel brandished a club over his head, causing the elflings to squeal with delight and pretend fear.

“No, Glorfindel! You would break my foot all over again, with the cast!” Elrohir cried.

Glorfindel gently tapped the club against the cast. “I would be gentle. Truly, I would,” he tried to convince the child who vehemently shook his head at the statements while Elladan giggled.

“Ada, I think you better do it,” Elladan decided. He whispered to Elrohir, who whispered back. “We think Glorfindel is overzealous with that thing!” Elladan finished triumphantly.

Groans and snickers filled the room, and Glorfindel shook his head at Elrond. “You must speak to that tutor of theirs. . . do you really want them sounding like a vocabulary text?”

“I can explain the words to you, if they are beyond your comprehension,” said Celebrían as she breezed into the room. She hugged her sons and kissed her husband, then winked at Glorfindel before heading over to check on Albast.

Glorfindel scowled at her, then hissed in Elrond’s ear. “It is not the hair on her head that needs harming, but her teasing tongue!”

Elrond laughed, delighted. “I love that tongue,” he whispered playfully. “Your loyalty must protect that as well.”

Glorfindel rolled his eyes, but laughed good-naturedly, and they set about the task of removing the cast with as little damage to it as possible. Elrohir sat patiently throughout the process, holding his breath at times, as Elrond painstakingly cut through the plaster until it could be removed from his foot.

Glorfindel took up the cast, eyeing the edge carefully. “I will seal the edge back together, and you will hardly be able to tell where the cut is,” he announced with a smile.

Elrond was already busy examining the foot, washing it and gently manipulating it in all directions. Elrohir was grinning and gave no sign of discomfort at any of the movements. He pressed down on his father’s hand and provided resistance when Elrond pushed up on the sole of his foot, and the smile grew wider and wider until Elrond set him on his feet.

Elrohir took a few tentative steps on his foot, and then ran a few steps, finally turning in a circle and running back to throw himself at his father.

“Ada, I am healed!” Elrohir’s flare for the dramatic led to general laughter in the room; even Albast watched him from his couch with a smile. He ran about the room, grinning at all who congratulated him and bestowing hugs on his mother and Glorfindel.

“Nana, where are Daerada and Daernaneth?” Elrohir asked breathlessly. “I must go show them!”

“They are in the garden,” Celebrían replied, laughing as Elrohir grabbed Elladan by the hand and the elflings flew from the room.

“Lady Celebrían,” Albast spoke softly, gently kissing the back of her hand as she still held his, “your sons are a delight and a credit to this house. They have aided my recovery immensely, as I believe Elrohir would say.”

Celebrían softly touched the man’s cheek, then leaned forward to kiss his brow. “Your words are as music to my mother’s ear, for they are my pride and my joy. Thank you.”

She stood and with a final smile at the man, followed after her children.

Glorfindel snorted. “She glows, and he swoons at her kiss,” he complained. He turned on Elrond. “And you let her . . be her!”

Elrond laughed, the sound pure and lovely. “Come, mellon-nín, let us go join Celeborn and Galadriel in the garden. A little tea will refresh you.”

Glorfindel scowled again outwardly, even as he delighted in the sound of Elrond’s pure laughter, and they left the room, Elrond stopping to assure Albast he would check on him later.

* * *

“Albast is a Man, and Uncle Elros was his first King,” Elrohir explained to his grandparents. “He especially liked hearing the parts of Ada’s story when Elros was in it.”

“How is Albast today?” Galadriel asked, as Elrond and Glorfindel entered the room.

Elrond’s face reflected the gravity of the man’s condition, even if his words remained neutral. “We have drained the infection, which does not appear to be in the bone.”

“Is Albast a descendent of Uncle Elros?” Elladan spoke up.

“I do not know how direct of a descendent he may be, but in some ways you can say that nearly all of King Valandil’s people are descendents of Elros, as are the people of the Kings of Men in the south,” Elrond answered.

“So, that makes them related to us,” Elrohir surmised.

“Distantly, yes,” Elrond laughed.

“Ada, why did you choose to be an Elf when Uncle Elros chose to be a Man?” Elladan asked.

There was silence in the small garden, and all eyes were turned expectantly to Elrond. He paused for a long moment before answering.

“I do not know that I considered my decision as a decision, but as a foregone conclusion, Elladan. It was not something I thought about when the Valar told us we must choose. I was an Elf,” he replied.

“As Elros was a Man,” said Galadriel softly.

Elrond’s eyes flashed in a mixture of defiance, anger and disbelief at her words, for his heart refused to believe they were true, but Galadriel held his gaze unflinchingly. Gradually his face softened, and he lowered his eyes from hers. He felt Celebrían’s arm wrap through his, and he allowed her into his heart. Her presence upon his mind was calm and tranquil, and as he let her feel his emotion he was surprised to feel her strength. She rode the waves of confusion and anger, gradually calming the storm and easing his pain. He turned and met her eyes, and the love he saw there suddenly knocked down some of the barriers that had been constructed about his heart in his childhood years as if they had been made of straw.

“Tell me more about Elros,” she said softly. “Tell me what it was like to live in those days before and during the War of Wrath, and to stand before the Valar and make your choice.”

She held his gaze, and she held his heart. He twined his fingers with hers, and kissed her fingertips. “It was Círdan who first knew that change was coming to Beleriand. . .” he began, smiling at the delight on his sons’ faces.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

“I need wood and workers,” Círdan announced gruffly. “Ereinion, give me Elrond for a few days. He can organize my plans and get the work started.”

Gil-Galad finished chewing the broiled fish, savoring the meaty flavor, before answering. “Where is Elros?” he asked.

“At sea for at least another week,” answered Círdan. “But I want Elrond regardless.”

Elrond watched the exchange with curiosity. Gil-Galad had him working on several projects involving defense of the isle, and he spent a fair number of hours in the healing houses as well. He knew that Gil-Galad would send him to help with whatever Círdan wanted, but he would eventually get the information out of the old mariner that he wanted as well.

“I am sure we can arrange something,” Gil-Galad answered agreeably. “What will he be doing?”

“I need wood to build more ships.”

“What will you use these ships for?” asked Gil-Galad, his curiosity truly piqued.

“Moving people and things,” Círdan answered, not looking up from the table.

Gil-Galad and Elrond exchanged glances, slight smiles on their faces. When Círdan would not meet the eyes of those he conversed with, a mystery was at hand.

“Are there elves moving here? Or away from here?” Gil-Galad queried.

“What kinds of things? Animals? Household goods?” Elrond quizzed him.

Círdan clapped his hand loudly on the table, and then tossed his napkin on to his plate. Without meeting their eyes, he commanded, “Elrond, meet me here in the morning.”

Gil-Galad grinned devilishly. “Elrond is not available tomorrow. He is meeting with the advisory council to go over the defense plans being implemented by the military council.”

Círdan snorted. “These plans are more important than anything your councils have ever devised.”

“What word have you received, Círdan?” Gil-Galad finally asked, his tone serious and respectful.

Círdan sighed audibly. “The word to build more ships.”

Elrond moved to sit closer to Círdan, who eyed him suspiciously.

“Do not touch the beard,” he growled.

Elrond laughed. “I have not done that in twenty years, Círdan.”

“You thought about it for long after that,” the old mariner groused.

“Are they coming?” Elrond asked softly.

“Of course they are,” answered Círdan, his eyes blazing.

“You have told me they would, ever since I lived here,” Elrond agreed. “You said that my father went to ask for aid from the Valar, and you told me the Valar would come. But have you received new word?”

Círdan met his eyes steadily. “I have received word to build more ships.”

“Then Elrond is at your disposal,” Gil-Galad said soberly.

* * *

Elrond looked at the vast array of sketches and designs laid out on the table. His eyes widened as he considered how long Círdan must have been working on the plans, and he studied the elf, fascinated. Círdan looked old, something Elrond had never really seen in an elf before, but not as old as Men he had seen. Yet he was hardy and hale, able to captain a ship, climb nimbly about in the rigging, and wield a sword as he must have in younger days. Elrond clasped his hands behind his back as Círdan sat down next to him, for he had to admit that the beard was tempting to touch. He had loved the few times that Círdan had held him as a child and allowed him to touch his beard. It was not as soft and silky as the hair of elves, but coarser, more like what the hair of men felt like, but not as coarse as their beards.

It was a difference between men and elves that Elrond had noticed as he grew older and spent more time with Men. He had first cared for injured Men nearly five years earlier, and since had seen and treated injured humans often. The adult males grew hair on their faces, chests, nether regions, and even their backs. Elrond had noticed that he and Elros, having some mortal blood, had some hair on their bodies, unlike the elves, who were smooth all over. Except for Círdan, elves only grew hair on their heads.

The sound of Círdan clearing his throat caught Elrond’s attention, and he raised his gaze to find Círdan glaring at him, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

“What fascinates you so, Elrond?” Círdan asked, his tone gruff but his demeanor honest.

“Men have hair more places than elves do. They have hair on their faces, their chests, their groins, and some even on their backs. Elves do not,” he explained, adding hurriedly, “well, except for you. But your beard is different from theirs.”

“How so?” Círdan asked.

“It is not as coarse,” Elrond explained. His hand moved unconsciously to the long white hair, and he touched it gently. “Men’s beards are very coarse, and curly,” Elrond broke off as he heard a low growl emanating from the old elf. He quickly let go of the strands he had been holding and folded his hands in his lap. His face burned and he turned away, unable to believe he had touched Círdan’s beard without permission.

He heard a deep chuckle, and the sound rose, finally bursting forth as Círdan laughed out loud. Elrond watched him, his eyes again wide, and to his disbelief, Círdan put an arm about his shoulders and hugged him. The old elf laughed deeply, his eyes twinkling, and he pulled Elrond’s dark hair back from his face and, looking him in the eye, roared with laughter again.

“You are a healer, Elrond, and have good powers of observation,” Círdan said through his laughter. “It is why I want you to work on this project. But for just a moment you looked just as you did when you were five years old, and I held you in my lap and you stroked my beard.”

With that Círdan squeezed Elrond tight, and Elrond felt the softness of that beard against his cheek. He immediately noted the thickness and texture and stored that information away in his mind, for he did not know if he would ever have the opportunity to touch it again. And then he laughed, for by the final roar of Círdan’s laughter, he guessed the old elf knew exactly what he was doing.

“Now, pay attention,” Círdan commanded. “We are building ships to hold all the people of Balar and possibly others. I do not know what ‘others’ so do not ask. The ships should be entirely sea worthy, able to go long distances, although I do not know if they will go anywhere. We must all be able to live on them, but I do not know for how long. These designs show measurements for length, height and width, and general requirements on the materials we need to build them. I have also listed here what types of materials we need to finish the insides. I do not know how these ships might be used, so I do not know if we will have time to furnish them completely. We must plan for some necessities, like food, as if we were under attack. I have estimates here of the number of ships we need to build. Do your own calculations and list your assumptions, and I want to know what we need, how much of it, and where you think we can obtain it. I will be at the shipyard.”

The words had rushed from Círdan like the sea coming in at high tide, and Elrond was still taking in the information as Círdan rose, clapped him on the back, and walked out the door. He stared after him in disbelief as the door slammed behind him, and then turned back to the array of designs and numbers spread out over the table.

“It must be a confusing thing to receive word from the Sea to build ships, and know not why,” he said softly. He turned back to the plans, his mind already whirling with numbers and assumptions and ideas for where to obtain information. His eyes gleamed with excitement for the challenge set before him.

* * *

Elros sang a ballad of the sea as he walked up the beach to the house. He still preferred this route, rather than following the streets of the village from the shipyards and docks to the street on which they lived. He was barefoot and shirtless, his pack slung over his back and his shoes tied to the strap. He enjoyed the feel of the sand on his bare feet, and the light salt spray against his bare skin. His skin was bronzed from the many hours he spent on the deck of a ship, tanned much deeper than any of the elves he knew.

He slipped his shoes on and began to climb up the rocky path to the house. Instead of heading for the back door, as he usually did, he dropped his pack and walked out to the cliff that faced westward over the sea.

Círdan stood there, deep in contemplation. Elros waited for his mentor to acknowledge his presence. It was several minutes before Círdan spoke, and he did not turn his gaze from the sea.

“You will go on the Alphiel next week, following the coast towards the Falas, much the same route as we took five years ago.”

“What should we expect to see?” Elros asked.

“You will tell me what you see,” Círdan replied.

“I have never seen so much activity in the shipyards before,” commented Elros. “Why are you building more ships?”

Círdan finally turned to look at him, but his face was unreadable. “More ships may be needed in the future,” he replied. “Would you like to learn to build them?”

Elros smiled broadly. “Yes.”

* * *

Elros walked the perimeter of the room, looking at the maps and drawings that covered the walls of the chamber that Elrond had claimed for his workspace. The locations and specialty of each craftsperson on the Isle were marked, along with their potential output of labor. The coast near Sirion was plotted, from the River Sirion to Cape Balar, with the types of wood present and the quantities. The amount of wood, and the labor and equipment that would be needed to transport the wood to the Isle, were documented near each grove of trees. Diagrams and sketches of the ships and their interiors were also laid out, with lists of goods that would be needed if the ships were occupied. On the table was Elrond’s plan, with markings added by Gil-Galad and Círdan where they added their assumptions or corrected his.

Elros plopped into a chair at the worktable and skimmed the lists on the tablet of paper.

“What do you think Círdan is planning for?” he finally asked his twin.

Elrond looked up from the list of names he was creating: a population list of Balar, mapped by house or residence. He was preparing information that would be collected about each household: the number of elves residing there, their abilities or trade, and their realm of origin, although he did not know why Círdan wanted this information.

“I do not know,” Elrond replied honestly. “I do not know if he knows.” He paused for a long moment. “I think he has received some foresight, or word from the Sea, but if the message is more than ‘Be prepared to all board ships,’ he has not told me.”

Elros was silent as he looked again over the lists. “There is a village here, near the Cape of Balar, and another near the Havens of Sirion. The men might help cut the wood.” He too grew silent, then suddenly asked, “If the elves have to leave suddenly, what of the Men? Are they preparing?”

“Círdan said the ships would be used for the elves and possibly ‘others’ but he did not know who the ‘others’ might be,” answered Elrond. “Perhaps it would be for Men.”

“Are you mapping their villages?” Elros asked.

“I have mapped where they are, since we may be taking timber from near their homes, but I was not asked to map their populations or anything similar,” Elrond replied, noting the fire in his brother’s eyes.

“I am being sent on the Alphiel next week, for a run up the coast. Perhaps there is fear of an attack, a large attack, from Morgoth, and we are being sent to look for signs,” postulated Elros.

“Many scenarios have run through my mind in the last week,” confided Elrond. “I have to push them aside, or I will not be able to do the work Círdan and Gil-Galad have set before me.”

Elros raised an eyebrow. “Gil-Galad is involved in this too?”

“Yes,” replied Elrond. “Whether he knows something or merely trusts that Círdan is right, I do not know. But remember, brother, that Círdan is among the oldest of the elves. He awoke at Cuiviénen, and met the Valar when they enticed the elves to Aman. He speaks to Ulmo and Ossë. He has seen much that we cannot comprehend. Perhaps the King believes that too. He must, for he believes what Círdan says.”

Elros knocked on the side of his brother’s head, laughing. “There is enough in your head for us both, little brother. Do you remember all the stories told?”

Elrond slapped his brother’s hand away and mussed his hair in retaliation. “Do you recall the names of the stars and which sail to move when the wind drops and the schedule of the tides?”

“Yes, and you probably know all that too!” Elros laughed as he smoothed his hair down. “Although I do not think Círdan will allow you to sail his ship.”

“Not unless he wishes it dashed upon the rocks,” agreed Elrond. “Let us go eat; Cook has fixed a massive plate of fish and baked fresh bread in triple quantity, just for you.”

Elros extinguished the lantern as he rose, and with a final glance at the maps hanging from the walls, he followed his brother to dinner. Something was about to happen; it seemed the only question was when.

* * * * *

Author’s Notes: Since I am writing this story as a ‘history lesson’, I feel compelled to make clear what is stated in the Silmarillion or HoME and what I am making up. Would hate to start any fanon trends *grin*

1. Maturity of Elrond and Elros: I am showing them maturing at the rate set by their mortal blood based on the other mixed race children: Dior, Eärendil and Elwing. They each married (Eärendil and Elwing to each other, as parents to the twins, and Dior to Nimloth, as parents to Elwing) and had children by the time they were 30 years old, so I decided to follow suit with Elrond and Elros.
2. This is not new to this chapter, but I thought it was good to say it again: The age of Elrond and Elros is unknown when Sirion falls; we know they are fostered with care by Maglor, but we do not know for how long or where, and we only know that Elrond chooses to stay with Gil-Galad at the end of the first age. I have used information from Tolkien’s letters about the twins being found in a cave, but even that does not say who found them. For my story, I have them being raised by Círdan and Gil-Galad, and Celeborn was involved some as well. It just worked best this way to show Elrond learning skills that would be of value to Gil-Galad, for Elros to develop a love of the sea (he built the greatest sea-going nation ever in early Númenor) and for Elrond, at least, to be present at the War of Wrath (as he says he is in the FotR, Council of Elrond).
3. Maglor being willing to die for Elrond: It might have happened, but is something I made up earlier in the story. It does not contradict canon, however.
4. Círdan’s friendship with the Noldor elf Fingolfin, the help of the Noldor in rebuilding and strengthening the Falas, and Fingolfin’s role in developing Balar and building the tower of Barad Nimras: these comes from the Silmarillion (Chapter 14: Of Beleriand and its Realms) and HoME Vol XI (Part One: The Grey Annals).
5. Gil-Galad was fostered to Círdan at the age of ten, and escaped by ship with him during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears when Gil-Galad was about twenty-six years old; the Falas were destroyed at this time by great engines of fire and strength. They settled on the Isle of Balar, built by Gil-Galad’s grandfather, Fingolfin, as a last refuge for the elves.
6. Some elves of all the realms of Beleriand attached themselves to King Gil-Galad after the Fall of Sirion. There was a mix of Sindar, Noldor, green elves and possibly men of the Edain living in Balar.
7. It is unknown where the rest of the Edain lived after the elven realms fell. The Silmarillion and HoME just do not say.
8. Elrond’s healing skills: Most of this is made up and I have been influenced by fanon. His skills as seen in LOTR seem rather magical, and thus I have given him some unique healing skills.

Chapters 14 - 16

 

Chapters 20 - 22