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The world was ending, the sea was closing in, eating at the western slope of Mount Rerir, and Elros held a dying elf in his arms.
It was a storm; screaming wind and rain sticking his skin like needles, and of course the sea - the sea which used to be leagues, miles, kingdoms away to the west of these mountains, but now Ulmo had forced it this far in the final war against Morgoth. Here, Lord Caranthir of the House of Fëanor used to rule, his seat used to be south of Mount Rerir, at Lake Helevorn, and before him the Sindar. Here, people used to live and trade and love and now it was about to be falling under the dark waves of the sea, never to be seen again.
Elros had seen it before already, had seen it happen to Balar, Falas, Nevrast, Hithlum, Dorthonion, Doriath, Taur-im-Duinath - all of Beleriand was sinking and Elros would have cried for this land, had not an elf been dying in front of him.
He should be across Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, already - his company had been ambushed by some last desperate Orcs and they had fled and Elros had promised to meet them in a pass crossing over to Eriador. He should be there now. His brother had passed with another company, with Gil-Galad and Círdan, down south in Ossiriand. But he had found him, a Sinda, presumably, from the dark hair and mumbling Sindarin - Elves tended to speak their first tongue when they were dying, Elros had learned -, and he was bleeding from many arrows, most being already picked out, most likely by himself.
The elf had yet to open his eyes and Elros tried to think about what to do, but it was as if the wind and sea drowned them out.
He held a hand to the elf’s cheek and it was cold, yet he could see him breathing.
“Can you walk?” Elros asked, voice loud.
What a ridiculous question, he told himself.
But the elf opened his eyes and one, two seconds passed and then they widened more and the face became one of astonishment and surprise and Elrod wonderd what in the stars could be so surprising about himself.
“What - what is- “
The elf had to cough so violently that Elros could feel the strain in the body he held and he felt a strike of fear.
The world is ending, you fool, he reminded himself. You do indeed have a damn good reason to be afraid. It sounded like Maedhros and it comforted, if just a little.
“What is your name?” the elf asked when the fit was over, in a heavily accented Sindarin Elros had come to learn to be from Lake Mithrim.
“Uhm”, he eloquently said at first, weighing his options.
Elros had a number of names to go by when he was asked and he liked none of them. Elros son of Elwing; Elros son of Eärendil; Elros son of Maglor, when he felt the need to shock someone; Elros of the House of Hador; Elros of the House of Fingolfin; Elros descendant of Lúthien - they all had his name, Elros, yet none was him.
“Elros”, he answered, not giving the usual clue to which Elros he was, which was the polite thing to do.
But west of him Ulmo was putting his homeland, Beleriand, underwater and why should such things as politeness still exist at the edge of the world?
The elf looked desperate. “Who is your father?” he asked, nearly a whisper which Elros could barely hear over the waves.
The usual irritation rose as it always did. Astounding that of all things, this is a thing which matters now, he thought. But the elf was dying, so he answered with what most people liked to hear.
“I am the son of Elwing and Eärendil.”
Was that tears in his eyes?
“What is your name, elf?” Elros asked, probably too harshly.
“Annael”, the elf whispered and now Elros’ eyes widened.
“Annael, the foster father of Tuor?” he asked because what twist of fate was this if it was true?
A weak laugh which ended with a gurgle from the blood which probably had begun to fill his lungs.
“Yes”, Annael said and his smile was surprisingly warm. “Strange to meet you here, Elros Peredhel.”
“Yes”, Elros answered back. “Here, at the end of the world.”
For a moment, only the cold rain running down both’s faces, the howling wind and, the crashing of waves against stone and mountain and once, a home, filled the silence between them. Both thought of the other’s story, a foster father to a man orphaned by a battle worthy of unnumbered tears, and a boy, survivor of a kinslaying, foster-son to a kinslayer and descendant of many crowns. Both thought of what connected them, two strangers on a mountain under a dark sky.
A twist of fate, indeed, Maedhros’ voice supplied in a wry manner as unhelpfully as it had done when it existed in Elros’ life.
“Not the end”, Annael said at last, now looking calmer. “Far from it, Elros.”
If he was meant to understand what that meant, Elros failed to do so and Annael saw it and smiled.
“When you have lost a home, you need to find a new one. And there shall be no darkness from now on, Elros. At least for a while.”
Elros was silent for a moment, taking in those words. He felt warm blood sipping through his fingers and it reminded him. He should not be here, not now. And Annael was dying.
“Then let us share the journey in the search for one, Annael, at least for a part of it. At least over the mountains.”
The wind howled, the dark sky loomed, the sea destroyed, the ruins of Caranthir’s fortress at Lake Helevorn was swallowed up and when the sun rose, Beleriand was no more.