Chapter Text
Elladan ducked a low hanging branch, feeling the burn in his lungs in a way he never had before. He reached out and caught Elrohir before he could fall, ignoring the shriek in the back of his head at the too small hand on the too small arm before he was facing forward once again. There were sounds of battle in the distance and the scent of blood in the air. Elladan had no idea how they had ended up in this place, in these new bodies, when the last thing he remembered was Aragorn facing off with the ghost of the King of the Mountains...
And then nothing more.
Elladan had woke gasping, one hand reaching for his twin before his eyes had even opened. All the breath had shuddered from his lungs when Elrohir had reached back. Elladan had a moment to stare up at the dark canopy above them, trying to figure out what had happened, when the cries of orcs and the screams of their victims had torn through the air. Elladan had jolted to his feet, gasping at the ache in his chest and on his side, and had hauled Elrohir up as well, taking off through the forest away from the sounds of violence.
And now they were running, running from something, running through a forest that Elladan had never seen before, in a place that even smelled strange. They ran and ran until the sounds of fighting faded and the forest about them began to grow lighter with each moment. Only then did Elladan let them stop, falling to the deep, moss-covered ground and gasp for breath.
“Where are we?”
“I do not know,” Elladan shook his head. As the light grew about them he sat his twin on a fallen log to look him over. But when his eyes could focus his hands stilled. For that was not Elrohir's face that was looking back at him.
“Elladan,” Elrohir whispered, eyes a touch too wide. “You...are you...”
“You too,” Elladan whispered back, raising a shaking hand to touch Elrohir's cheek.
“What is going on?”
“I do not know,” Elladan repeated, feeling chilled down to the bone in a way he never had before. “I do not know.”
“This can't be –”
The snap of a twig was loud in the silence of the dark forest. Elladan twisted around, wishing he had a sword or a dagger, something – anything – to protect his brother. But instead of an enemy or a wolf or a warg or even an orc, what stepped out of the shadows was the last thing Elladan expected to see.
For there, dressed in dark grays and greens, was Erestor, his hair braided back from his face, with a quiver over one shoulder and a bow on his back. He wore a sword at his side.
There was no recognition in his eyes when he saw them both.
“Erestor?” Elrohir said before Elladan could stop him.
Erestor's eyes went wide. “How strange that you should know my name,” he said. His voice was...strange. Accented in a way Elladan had never heard before.
“But we –”
“Why are you here?” Elladan cut his brother off before he could say something even more incriminating. He felt the way Elrohir grabbed the back of his shirt. All Elladan could do was shake his head. He, too, wanted nothing more than to run to Erestor and throw himself into that elf's arms. Erestor had been part of their family for literal Ages. There was no one, other than their father, that they trusted more.
“King Dior searches for his sons, taken by the dwarves of Belegost and Nogrod.” Erestor tilted his head to one side. “Even we of the East have heard such news. I picked up the trail of an orc band two weeks ago and thought I might learn more about the sack of Doriath from them. I was most surprised to see you both in their company, bound and hurt as you were.”
Elladan opened his mouth but he had no idea what to say. King Dior? Of the First Age? How – what was – would that make them...
“You know...you know who we...”
“You are the Princes Elladan and Elrohir,” Erestor said. “I am here to take you home.”
“El,” Elrohir whispered from behind him. “El.”
“Oh,” was all Elladan could get out. It felt like something heavy and hot had taken up residence above his stomach. “I think...I think I am...”
Then darkness took him.
Erestor studied the children from over the fire he had made. The elder, Elladan, was still unconscious from the wounds the children had no doubt taken during their time with the orc band. The younger, Elrohir, was curled up next to his twin's side, watching Erestor with eyes that were a touch too wide. Erestor left him to it, knowing – better than most – the horrors the two children had no doubt seen in their time with the orcs.
Erestor set those memories aside and finished up a simple meal for the one child awake. Elladan was sleeping and it was best that he rest while Erestor's magics did their work on him. Elrohir waited until Erestor ate from the pot first before he picked up the rough bowl Erestor had carved for him to eat with small, neat bites. The child was gaining color back quick, thanks to the herbs Erestor had added to the stew, along with the magic he had infused into the pot itself. Elrohir's gaze grew sharper with each bite.
“Thank you,” the young prince said once he was finished with his meal. Erestor was pleased to see that the child had manners. Even more shocking was that the child went to the stream to wash out his own bowl without prompting. How interesting. How very strange. Erestor had not thought the children of a king would know to do such things. But then again, with their history...
“Thank you for cleaning up,” Erestor said as the child settled next to his brother once again.
Dark eyes glanced at him and then back to his sleeping twin. “You are healing him,” the child said instead of responding to that.
“Yes,” Erestor said.
“With magic.”
“Yes.”
“You know how to do that?”
Erestor blinked at that. “Of course I do.”
The child glanced at him again. “How long have we been...” His lips pressed together into a trembling line.
Erestor let out a soft breath at the question. “You were taken as small children, near ten years ago now. Do you remember that?”
The child went still. “No,” he whispered. “I do not.”
As he had feared. “Do you remember your family?”
At that the child ducked his head, hiding his face in his knees. A single shake of his head was his only answer. “Are you – are you even sure that we are – we aren't –,” the child shook his head again.
At that Erestor rose and settled next to the child, but left a little space between them. “You bear the marks of your grandmother,” he told Elrohir. “King Dior made very sure all those who searched for you knew of the marks.”
“...Marks?” Elrohir's eyes appeared over the tops of his knees.
Erestor held out his hand for the child to see that he was reaching for him and waited through the flinch as his hand came near the child's face. “Your necks bear the mark of the Silmaril your grandmother cut from Morgoth's crown,” he said and put his hand on that small head. “And your hair bears the strands of gold and silver from that gem that Lúthien used to send Morgoth through the Door of Night and free us all of his tyranny.”
The child's head turned and that sharp gaze pinned Erestor in place. “What.”
Erestor frowned back at him. “Do you not remember?”
But Elrohir shook his head, face as pale as Erestor had seen it the day before. “We – we're not – this can't be –,” he shook his head again and Erestor felt his heart ache at the shine of tears in the child's eyes.
“Do not fear. All is well. What you do not remember I will tell you,” Erestor said softly. Who knew what kind of horrors the orcs and Morgoth's squabbling lieutenants had done to the children while they had been in their care.
“Will you?” Elrohir looked up at him, then. The tears in his eyes had yet to fall.
“I will,” Erestor told him.
“Will you stay with us, too?”
Erestor blinked at that. “For as long as I can.” His breath caught when Elrohir reached out for the first time and curled a fist into Erestor's shirt, his grip so tight it bleached his knuckles white.
“And if we...if we asked...” Elrohir drew in a sharp breath and met his gaze again. “If we ask you to stay forever?”
“Child...”
“Will you?”
It felt like stepping off a cliff blindfolded, never knowing how he would land. But there was only one answer that beat in his chest. “I will,” he told that glittering gaze. At last the tears spilled over. “For as long as you will have me, I will stay with you both.”
Then he found his arms full of a child who cried silent tears. All he could do was hold Elrohir close and murmur assurances to that soft hair that glittered in gathering twilight. He never saw the way Elladan's eyes slipped shut from where he had been watching them speak. Erestor held Elrohir until the child had fallen asleep in his arms and then put the lad to bed next to his brother, who Erestor was happy to see was healing faster than he had even dared to hope.
Erestor settled in to keep watch next to them, banking the fire so they would not draw any curious eyes. It was going to be a long trip back to Doriath. There would be many enemies between them and the safety there. Orcs and wargs and the remains of Morgoth's lieutenants fighting over the lands left in their master's demise. But it was not those enemies that gave Erestor such pause.
No, it was the spreading might of Gondolin that had him worried the most. For to get to Doriath Erestor would have to guide his children through the might of that great empire that was expanding with each season, beating back even the sons of Fëanor in their ferocity, until it seemed that all of Beleriand would fall to their rule at last. It had been many years since he had escaped that shining city. He had no desire to go back. But some touch of premonition would not leave his mind. To get the children back to their family Erestor might have to face the very same empire that once tried to kill him and perhaps even come face to face with the ones he once would have done anything for, if only he had not been set up as a traitor to King Turgon and blamed for Eärendil's wounding.
Erestor pushed such thoughts from his mind and drew his cloak about his shoulders, glancing down at the children to make sure they slept soundly still. He never saw the way the stars glittered above him for a moment, before they dimmed once more. And, far away on a pass that overlooked the wilds of Eriador, stood a trio of elves in dark clothes bearing the badge of Gondolin, all of them staring up at those same stars before looking down into the dark forests below.