Work Text:
Early Second Age
“Ah, it’s the little Fëanorian.” The petty Lord grinned as Elrond flinched. “Still here? When will you follow your dear Kinslayers and rid us of your presence?”
Elrond looked around, but there was no one at the beach but the petty Lord and his friends, and a large falcon circling in the distance, dark against the clear sky.
“Leave me be,” he said quietly, wishing desperately that Elros were here. His twin had always known what to say, had always had a witty retort ready, had always shielded Elrond from Gil-Galad’s more unpleasant courtiers.
But Elros wasn’t here. He had gone over the sea, and their fates were severed forever. Elrond was alone.
The courtiers laughed. “I don’t understand why the King tolerates him,” one of them said. “He is not even a proper Elf.”
“It’s a disgrace,” another agreed. “What have we come to, that some half-blood Fëanorian is allowed at court? He would be long gone, if the King did not pity him.”
Elrond clenched his fists. Gil-Galad had told him not to let their words get to him, but still there were tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. He tried to leave, but one of the courtiers blocked his way.
“Running away like always?”
“Leave me be,” Elrond repeated, but his voice shook. He desperately wished that someone, anyone, would come to his help, but the only living being in sight was the falcon, which seemed to circle more closely now.
Elrond took a step back, the courtier grabbed his arm, and the falcon struck. Faster than even Elven eyes could follow, it drew its long talons across the courtier’s face. He screamed and raised his hands to the bleeding gashes as the falcon, flapping its enormous wings, tore at his hair and clothes, picked at him with its beak, unfazed by the others’ frantic attempts to shoo it away.
Bleeding, with torn clothes and loose hair, they fled.
Once they were gone, the falcon turned and flew around Elrond, looking at him with its piercing black eyes. He flinched back, but the falcon did not attack him. Instead it landed on his shoulder and nuzzled against his face, soft and warm against his skin.
Hesitantly Elrond raised his hand and stroked its feathers, noting a raised scar on its face, beneath its left eye. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“You sent for me, your Majesty?”
“Elrond,” Gil-Galad said. “Please, take a seat.”
Elrond sat down across from Gil-Galad and studied him, wondering why the King had called him into his study.
Gil-Galad cleared his throat. “I have received concerning reports from several of my courtiers. They claim that you, on multiple occasions, sent a large eagle to attack them, and most bore injuries that match their claims.”
“It’s a falcon,” Elrond said.
“Pardon?”
“The bird,” he explained. “It is a falcon, not an eagle.”
Gil-Galad closed his eyes. “Taxonomic specifications aside, please stop sending your pet bird to attack people. I understand that the courtiers in question are often unkind, and I do not believe their claim that they were only holding friendly conversation with you before the bird incidents, but you still cannot resort to violence, whether direct or indirect.”
“I’m not – it’s not my bird,” Elrond said with growing exasperation.
“Explain.”
“It simply showed up one day when they had cornered me near the shore and attacked them. I am not sending it on them, and I doubt it would stop if I asked it to.”
“Are you certain you do not deliberately cause it to attack anyone?”
“I am.”
Gil-Galad sighed. “Well, at least those courtiers seem less inclined to corner you now. Do try to keep your bird from attacking innocents, though.”
“It is not my bird.”
“If you say so.”
Gil-Galad raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, dismissing him with a wave of his hand.
442 SA
Elros was gone. Elros was gone. The bond that connected Elrond to his twin had unraveled, with impossible gentleness and a finality that left him unable to breathe. It had been centuries since he had seen Elros, spoken to him, but through all those years their bond had been a comfort to him.
Now he felt utterly alone, here in his rooms in the palace of Lindon, with his head pressed against the cool glass of the window, gazing at the faraway stars and for the first time in his life drawing no solace from their gentle light.
He stood there, unmoving, dazed by the all-consuming grief in his chest, until the silence of the night was broken by the flapping of large wings. Outside the window the falcon soared, drawing closer.
Without thinking, Elrond opened the window and held out his hand. The falcon landed, looking at him with its intelligent eyes, and Elrond marveled at the bird’s gentleness – its sharp talons did not leave even a scratch on his bare skin.
“At least you are still here, my friend,” Elrond said softly, “but you will doubtlessly abandon me in the end as well, just like everyone else has.”
The falcon cawed quietly and climbed onto his shoulder, preening his hair that had come loose from his braids, its warmth a comfort to Elrond’s aching heart.
“You would have liked Elros,” Elrond told it, unsure why he was talking to a bird. “He– everyone liked him. He was kind, and charismatic – always the outgoing one between the two of us, making friends with everyone… The Edain loved him, made him their King and followed him across the sea to a destination unknown. I wish I could have seen the kingdom he built there. I am certain it is magnificent.”
He stroked the Falcon’s soft feathers as he continued to speak of Elros, telling stories of their childhood, in Sirion and in Amon Ereb, of the War of Wrath when they had fought side by side in Gil-Galad’s army, of their choice and parting.
“He was happy, when he died,” he said quietly. “I know it. I could feel a sense of peace, of serenity… and then he was gone.”
Tears ran down his face freely now, but he did not feel as numb anymore as he had when he had felt his twin-bond with Elros unravel. He sat and wept as the stars wheeled outside, and the falcon’s quiet presence soothed and steadied his fraying fëa.
The night seemed endless, but he must have fallen asleep at last, for when he woke, the sun shone through the open curtains and he was alone, with no trace of the falcon save for a single dark feather braided into his hair.
After that night, the falcon became a steady and treasured presence in Elrond’s life. It was not always there, nor could it be called at will – not a pet, it was a wild animal at heart, and it came and went as it would. At times it was gone for months or even years, but it always returned, and Elrond learned to recognise it by its size and unusually dark colouration, and by the scar beneath its eye.
Elrond awaited its visits in eager anticipation, often leaving his window open to allow it entrance, and more than once did he return from a long and exhausting day to find the falcon perched on his bookshelf, the sight immediately soothing his frustration.
Many sleepless nights did it spend with him, calming his waking fears and dreaming portents both, and rarely did he not hear the flapping of wings and its familiar caw when riding in the forests or wandering by the shore. On one memorable occasion, when Elrond forgot an important report, it soared through the open window of the council chamber to drop the scroll into his lap and flew back out before anyone could react.
Before 1200 SA
The first thing Elrond became aware of was that his head hurt. He opened his eyes and immediately closed them again when the light filtering through the trees overhead turned the pain from a dull throbbing into piercing agony.
As the fog over his mind slowly cleared, he became increasingly aware that his entire body ached, covered in cuts and bruises. A root dug into his back, and Elrond frowned in confusion. He opened his eyes again, more carefully this time, letting them adjust to the brightness.
He was in a forest, surrounded by trees and underbrush, with no living thing in sight but some birds and a spider crawling over his hand.
“What…” Elrond muttered, the memories returning but slowly. He had been on a diplomatic trip south, when he had split from his travelling party to search for a rare medicinal herb that grew in these lands, but just as he had spotted the distinctive white-green leaves at the bottom of a steep ravine, the ground beneath him had shifted and he had tumbled down into the dried riverbed.
Slowly he sat up and groaned when further injuries made themselves known. His right arm seemed broken, and he most certainly had a concussion. He was alone in a strange forest, with no idea where he was, nor how to find his companions again.
Elrond was about to despair when he heard a soft, familiar caw overhead, and a falcon landed beside him.
“Hello, my friend,” he whispered softly. The falcon gently preened his tousled hair, then took off and returned with Elrond’s pack in his claws.
Elrond sighed in relief as he opened his bag of healing supplies and treated the worst of the injuries. A stick from the forest floor and a bandage made a splint for his arm, and a tincture of herbs dulled the pain in his head until he could think clearly.
When he had done all he could, the falcon nudged him until he got to his feet, then took off again, flying between the trees before circling back, looking at him expectantly.
“Do you want me to follow you?” Elrond asked, and the falcon cawed and flew in the same direction again.
“Very well, lead the way.”
He followed it through the dense forest. They progressed slowly, for Elrond’s body still ached and he could not walk very fast, and many times he had to sit down and rest until his head stopped spinning.
More than a day they travelled thus, and the falcon guided him surely and patiently through the unfamiliar terrain, until in the distance he saw a campfire and heard Elven voices.
As soon as he had stumbled onto the clearing where his travel companions sat, his legs gave out and he fell to the ground.
“Lord Elrond!” Þornandil cried and hurried to his side. “You’re alive! Oh, my Lord, we were so concerned! Are you injured?”
“Arm broken,” he muttered. “Concussion. Will live.”
“Oh, thank the Flame Imperishable! Come, my Lord, and rest.”
They helped him up and led him to the fire, filling a bowl with stew and holding it while he clumsily ate with his left hand.
“What happened, my Lord?” Þornandil asked, and Elrond told them of the herb he had sought, and the rockslide.
“You are never going off on your own again,” they muttered. “How did you even find us?”
“The falcon led me here.”
“The falcon?”
Elrond smiled. “I met it in Lindon a while ago. It attacked some courtiers that were harassing me, and it has been a dear friend ever since.”
Þornandil pointed to the sky. “Is this the falcon?”
And indeed above them the falcon circled, and Elrond drew comfort from the familiar flapping of its wings.
The years passed, and for a long time there was peace – a strange but welcome thing to Elrond, born into ruin and grown up into war, who had seen a continent drown before he had reached his majority. At Gil-Galad’s side he came into his own, his wisdom growing with every year, and his regard at court grew in equal measure.
Elrond was many things - a healer, a loremaster, Lord of a House filled with old Fëanorians, and the King’s herald.
When Annatar came to Lindon, it was Elrond who advised Gil-Galad not to trust his sweet words, who encouraged Gil-Galad to turn the fair Emissary away, and never would he forget the flash of pure rage in those golden eyes as Annatar was escorted from the throne room.
Nor would he forget the dread he had felt when news reached them that Annatar had been welcomed into Eregion. He feared for Celebrimbor, but his cousin would not listen, swayed by Annatar’s skill and brilliance, and so Elrond could do nothing but hope that this once his dreams of foresight deceived him and all would turn out well in the end.
1500 SA
The journey to Eregion seemed to be dragging on endlessly. The road had sustained far more damage over the winter than anyone had expected. Many times they were forced to dismount and lead their horses on foot for miles, and some parts of it were entirely impassable, necessitating arduous and at times perilous detours.
With Orc ambushes becoming more and more frequent in recent years, the travelling company was more on their guard than ever, moving slowly and cautiously, sending scouts ahead whenever passing through particularly dangerous terrain, and the anxiety and slow pace were grating on everyone’s nerves.
The weather, too, was not conductive to pleasant travels – it was cold and windy, the sharp breeze blowing down branches that blocked their path and piercing through blankets and bedrolls at night.
All in all, by the time they were halfway to Ost-in-Edhil, Elrond’s travelling company was miserable and impatient to arrive at their destination.
Elrond himself was not feeling much better. He yearned for the warm, comfortable rooms of his cousin’s city, and for a proper meal – he was growing quite tired of Lembas, but there was little game to be found, and as his companions did not share his weariness of their rations, he did not want to waste their time hunting.
One night he sat quietly at their campfire, listening to the others’ conversations and nibbling unenthusiastically on a slice of Lembas, when he heard the flapping of large wings overhead, and a pigeon was dropped into his lap. Elrond looked up just in time to see a falcon – his falcon – fly away, and return just minutes later with another pigeon.
His companions looked on in confusion as Elrond called out in thanks to the falcon and smiled as it flew away.
“Is this the falcon you spoke of that you met in Lindon?” Rethiril asked.
“Yes,” Elrond said softly. “I believe it is.”
“It must be quite fond of you, my Lord.”
They returned from Eregion in a hurry, riding as fast as their horses would carry them. Elrond’s deepest fear had come true – Annatar, ‘Emissary of the West,’ had been revealed to be Sauron, deceiving Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-Mirdain to ends yet unknown.
The King had to be informed as soon as possible, and Elrond was grateful to his loyal companions, who followed him without question and not once complained when he urged them to further speed, despite the weather and the state of the road.
Elrond clutched the reins tightly enough that his knuckles were white, his mind far away, filled with fear for his cousin, so brave and defiant in the light of this horrible revelation, so determined to make amends for whatever harm his trust in Annatar may turn out to have caused. Not for the first time Elrond cursed his foresight, for portents of war hung heavy over him, filling both his dreams and his waking hours, and he knew his companions sensed his dread.
So it was that they paid little attention as they rode, haste and anxiety making them careless and distracted.
They were only a few days out from Lindon’s outermost guard posts when the sharp cry of a bird abruptly pulled Elrond from his thoughts of betrayal and war. Overhead, the falcon circled, drawing closer and closer, a dark object in its talons which it dropped above Elrond. He instinctively caught it and realised what it was – the hilt of an Orc knife.
“Halt!” he called and reined his horse.
“What is it, my Lord?” Rethiril asked.
Elrond looked up at the falcon. “Where?” he asked quietly, and the falcon flew straight ahead for a few paces before returning to land on his shoulders.
“There are Orcs ahead,” he told the others. “Possibly an ambush. We will ride south for some miles and take the parallel road.”
And indeed, when they reached the guard post and informed the soldiers stationed there of their suspicions, a large band of Orc was found near the northern road and dealt with.
Elrond and his companions arrived safely in Lindon and made their report to the King.
1600 SA
" – but it turned out Ecthelion had misjudged the pressure, and the stream from the fountain quite knocked him off his feet when he first turned it on."
Elrond laughed, his dessert half-forgotten on the table before him as he listened to Glorfindel's tales of Gondolin. The newly returned Elf was an excellent dinner companion, he thought, watching Glorfindel's golden hair gleam in the flickering candlelight.
Still, even the mirth in his eyes as he told of Ecthelion's little misfortune could not erase the grief and loneliness reflected there. Glorfindel needed friends, but though he had many admirers, few saw the Elf behind the legendary Balrog slayer, and so Elrond had taken it upon himself to welcome him to Lindon and into his House.
It was hardly a chore – Glorfindel was kind and faithful and skilled on the battlefield and in the gardens both, and he had fast grown dear to Elrond. It was a delight to spend time with him, and not for the first time did they talk late into the night.
"Ah, Lord Elrond?" Glorfindel's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "There is a bird at the window. I think it wants to be let inside."
Elrond looked up and indeed, the falcon was sitting on the windowsill, a dark silhouette against the night sky. He opened the window, and the falcon climbed onto his shoulder and gently nibbled on his ear in greeting.
"Welcome, my friend," Elrond said gently as he returned to the table. "It has been a while since your last visit."
"You know the bird?" Glorfindel asked, watching the falcon curiously.
"I first met it shortly after Elros' departure, when it rescued me from some particularly unpleasant courtiers, and it has been by my side ever since, coming to my aid many times."
"It looks as though it is judging me," Glorfindel said with a wry smile, and Elrond laughed.
"It judges everyone who comes close to me. I do not understand why it is so protective."
"A remarkably loyal bird." A slight frown formed on Glorfindel's face. "Since when have you known it, again?"
"Since – oh, it must have been near the beginning of this Age."
"Elrond," Glorfindel said. "That is well over a thousand years. Have you ever known a bird to live that long?"
"Manwë's eagles do, I believe," Elrond said slowly, for in truth he had not thought of this until now. "Other animals, too – Huan lived for centuries, it is told, even beyond Aman."
"Still it is strange."
"Perhaps," Elrond conceded. "But the falcon has been nothing but faithful and kind to me, and it has earned my trust many times over."
“You know,” Elrond told the falcon after Glorfindel had gone, “it is strange, don’t you think?”
The falcon tilted its head and cawed quietly.
“I am glad of it,” he hurried to reassure it. “I would not know what to do if I lost you, my friend.”
The question of the falcon did linger in his mind, but soon paled against far greater concerns.
1695 SA
There was a dead bird on Elrond’s desk. A large crow, black as the night, with a scroll tied to its leg, its blood staining his paperwork.
Elrond sighed. It had been a pleasant day, and so he had left the window open while he was meeting with a diplomat from the Golden Wood, but this was not what he had expected to return to.
Slowly he approached the bird and removed the scroll, wondering how he was going to explain the red stains on some official letter to Eregion.
Gil-Galad tiredly looked up from his desk when Elrond entered his study.
“What do you need, my friend?”
“Your Majesty,” Elrond said, taking a seat across from Gil-Galad and holding out the scroll, “what do you make of this?”
Gil-Galad took the scroll and opened it, frowning. “Black Speech,” he muttered darkly. “A message from Mordor. How has this come to you?”
Elrond told him of the dead crow in his office. “I believe it may have been brought by the falcon.”
“Your falcon? Why?”
“I have heard that some mortals use tamed falcons to intercept hostile messenger birds,” Elrond explained. “And I do not know who else could kill one of the Enemy’s creatures, or leave it in my room without notice.”
“Well, tamed your falcon certainly is not.”
“No,” Elrond conceded. “But benevolent.”
“To you.” Gil-Galad sighed. “But let us not discuss the falcon now. Somehow we have intercepted a message of the Enemy. We know thus that he has returned to Mordor, and is planning something – preparing for war, I am certain. We must be ready. Tell me, Elrond, is there any who can read this script?”
“One of my people can,” Elrond said. “I had her look over it – she said she would need more time to fully translate the message, but that it seemed to concern Eregion. We must warn Celebrimbor.”
Gil-Galad studied him, and Elrond noticed just how weary the King seemed. “Can we trust him?”
Elrond saw how it pained him to even speak the words. “Yes,” he said firmly. "Celebrimbor may have been deceived, but he has not been compromised. He and his people are as loyal and steadfast as ever.”
“Never has your wisdom led me astray, my friend. I shall trust you in this as well.”
1697 SA
As Elrond beheld the ruin of Ost-in-Edhil, the Elves desperately fleeing the burning city as his army covered them, he felt a rush of gratitude for the falcon, for without the intercepted message warning them of Sauron’s plans they would certainly have been too late to save anyone from Sauron's destruction.
Only Celebrimbor they could not save. Dear, brave, defiant Celebrimbor who had refused to flee, whose body was now broken and defiled, turned to a banner of horror and despair.
Elrond's heart tore apart as he beheld his cousin, but he could not, would not avert his gaze until he could no longer see through his tears, and although it pained him beyond belief, he gave the command to retreat.
Glorfindel beside him took up the command, his shining armour matted and stained with blood and grime after the merciless battle, and yet he fought tirelessly as he led the refugees away from the city, clearing a path for their retreat even as Elrond took the rear. They fled north along the mountains, desperately hoping to get far enough away before the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm were overwhelmed and Sauron returned his attention to the Elves of Lindon.
They were almost, almost out of reach of Sauron's forces when a cold shiver ran down Elrond's spine and he turned just in time to see a black arrow shot at him, and a large silhouette dive from the sky and throw itself before him.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and Elrond could do nothing but watch, frozen in horror, as the falcon fell from mid-air with a sharp cry, pierced by the arrow, its wings flapping helplessly as it crashed to the ground.
Elrond heard himself scream, a terrible sound of rage and despair, but there was nothing he could do, with Sauron's forces behind him and refugees whose lives he could not risk, and so he rode on even as grief choked him and his heart shattered.
They rode for hours, northwards away from fallen Ost-in-Edhil, away from Sauron’s army, sheltered by the mountain range, until they deemed it safe enough to halt, to regroup and care for the wounded.
For the first time in his life, Elrond did not stay to help the healers. He blindly ran from the crowd, speaking to no one, not halting until he found shelter behind some tall rocks away from everyone else, and there he fell to his knees and wept.
At first he thought he was imagining the soft flapping of wings above him, his grief-stricken mind deceiving him, but a broken caw and a gentle nudge against his leg made him look.
There the falcon was, its feathers soaked with mud and blood, the broken shaft of the arrow sticking from its body, its dark eyes matted.
“Oh, my friend,” Elrond gasped through the sobs shaking him, reaching out to gently cradle the bird in his lap. “Why, why did you follow me into this horrible fight?”
He could feel the falcon’s heartbeat beneath his fingers, fast and irregular, and he knew its time was running out.
“Elrond?”
He flinched at Glorfindel’s voice behind him.
“Elrond, are you…” Glorfindel fell silent as he saw the bird in Elrond’s lap.
“Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, Elrond…”
He laid a comforting hand on Elrond’s shoulder, but Elrond shook it off.
“It was meant for me,” he choked through his tears. “The arrow was meant for me. I failed Celebrimbor, I failed my falcon…”
Glorfindel said nothing, only sitting with him in silence as Elrond sobbed, overwhelmed by grief and guilt.
At last he stood. “I will let you say goodbye in peace,” he said quietly, “and ensure you are not disturbed.”
He left, and Elrond was alone with the falcon.
“Do not leave me,” he whispered, desperately holding its fragile body. “Please, I could not bear to lose you as well…”
He tried to heal it, but he knew little of birds; his craft was no use to him here, and so he simply wept and pleaded for his friend to stay.
Suddenly its wings flapped in his grasp, and he laid it down, fearing that he was causing it pain. Through the tears blurring his vision, he saw it grow and shift, its shape changing slowly, and he hardly dared breathe until the transformation was complete and before him lay an Elf, with dark hair wet with blood and dark eyes unfocused and glazed over, and a raised scar across his face.
“Elrond,” the Elf whispered, lifting one trembling hand to cup his cheek. “Elrond…”
“Who…?” Elrond gasped. “Are you…?”
“Aye, I am the falcon,” the Elf said softly. “My name is Erestor. Your fathers asked me to watch over you when you left them.”
“You are the one who has been by my side all those years?”
“I never meant to– to reveal myself. But I would speak with you just once, to tell you…” A tear fell from Elrond’s eyes and onto Erestor’s face, leaving a clear streak in the blood and grime.
“I watched you out of loyalty for your fathers at first, but later…” Erestor’s breath hitched, and he clutched his side where an arrow protruded from his blood-soaked tunic, and Elrond held his hand until the pain receded.
“Ai, Elrond, I have fallen in love with you,” Erestor breathed, his eyes fluttering half-shut.
“You… you love me?”
“How could I not?” Erestor’s voice trembled. “Elrond…”
“You have saved my life countless times,” Elrond whispered. “How can I ever thank you?”
Erestor smiled wryly. “Kiss me?”
His voice was so quiet Elrond had to strain to hear it. He bent down, gently stroking Erestor’s face with one hand as he closed the distance and carefully pressed his lips against Erestor’s.
Elrond had never before kissed another. Erestor’s lips were soft and warm, and behind the blood there lingered the taste of pine and clear mountain air. Erestor’s hands were in his hair, holding on tightly, and Elrond could not imagine ever letting go. Warm, prickling energy flowed where his fingers rested on Erestor’s skin.
They kissed until they were out of air, and as he drew back the love he saw in Erestor’s eyes took Elrond’s breath away.
“Erestor,” he whispered. “Erestor…”
Only now did he realise that Erestor’s eyes were clear, unclouded by pain and exhaustion.
“It is gone,” Erestor gasped with a look of surprise and delight. “The wound… You healed me, Elrond!”
And indeed the deathly pallor was gone from his face, and when Elrond drew the tunic aside he found only a faint scar marring the fair skin.
Erestor sat, and Elrond drew him into his arms and into another kiss.