Archive of Our Own

He is six years old, and everything is on fire. 

Everything is made of stone, he thinks, how could it be burning? 

His twin grabs his hand. A warm hand, dirty and desperate, tugging him, begging him to move. He stumbles forward, foot catching on something. He falls forward, scraping the palm of his hand. The stone below his hand is painted red, drops of blood sitting on it. How strange. 

He looks up. An elf stands close by in the street, red hair flowing back. It is only a moment that he stands straight. An arrow whistles by, hitting him just above his chainmail. 

Red. It splatters over them, graceful arc of death. Someone shakes him, and the world comes back into focus. Soldiers rush down the street- the twins jump to their feet, clutching each other's hands, ready to be saved. 

A tall elf stands behind them. But he does not see them, striding past them, ready to meet the soldiers. His brother lays dead on the ground, the brother he shares his red hair with. Their mother's hair. 

The soldiers of Sirion have no chance against the elf, even if he stands alone, his sword held in his left, right hand long gone. 

The twins run, trying to get out of the city. Just like their mother's brothers, they rush through a battleground, hoping, wishing not to be found. Exhausted, they fall to the ground. 

The blood is still spattered across his face, and the scrape on his hand is still bleeding. 

A strong hand grasps his shoulder. 

Father? He thinks for a moment, but when he looks up he sees the tall, red haired elf, blood stained and majestic. 

They are in a cave. Alone. His hand has mostly stopped bleeding, and he holds his brother's hand tight. The water falling over the entrance of the cave breaks the light, only a dim glow entering from the outside world. 

Two small forms covering against the stone, dirty and bloody, abandoned by their orphaners. They do not speak, the silence hanging in the air too heavy for them to lift. But someone stronger stands just outside the curtain of water. Guilt eats away at him, guilt from a thousand different times his father's choices had carried him. Guilt from two young boys stranded in a forest, starving slowly to death without hope. He steps through the water. 

A silhouette of a warrior stands before the water. He is terrible and tall, a long sword hanging from his belt. He looks down at the children huddled against the rock. 

"Elves of the cave," when he speaks his voice is soft, melodic, "and elves of the water are you. Elrond and Elros shall you be," he speaks as if he had not left them mere hours ago, riding away with his brother. 

A terrible red haired elf rushes down the street, and then stands still as stone, his sword dripping blood to the ground. Elrond watches him, paralyzed, unable to move from the ground. The tall elf slowly turns, sword pointed at him now, droplets of someone now long dead's blood falling to the ground. Elrond seems to fall back, and- 

Cold, clammy, drenched in sweat, he sits in his bed. It is dark, and he is alone. Elros is asleep in his room, and Elrond must not bother him when he sleeps. Do you understand me? He is resting, as you should be- and go! Go!" 

"Nelya, don't yell at him!" Maglor turns about, shooing them both towards their rooms, "You cannot treat them like-" 

"You brought them here! I did not ask you to, if you cannot keep them quiet, I shall-" 

Elrond sits beside one of Maglor's harps, fingers dancing nimbly across the chords. His voice rises in harmony with it, Maglor sitting by the wall, listening. His lips are pursed, and when he moves to stand, Elrond stops, assuming he made some mistake without noticing. But Maglor shakes his head, and waves at him to continue. He raises his hand to the harp again, and as he opens his mouth to sing, Maglor joins his music with his own harp. 

Elrond is careful, poised, keeping the music harmonious. His hands feel clumsy, cold and frozen on the harp. One wrong choice could shatter the perfect chords, the heavenly peace. The music flows, rising and falling, every new sound a harmonious relief, a promise of one more calm moment. He cannot let the calm shatter into discord, he must be the one to keep it whole, no matter the consequences. 

His fingers are cold and hurt, the chords cutting into them slowly. He has been playing for hours. 

Elrond sits at his desk, rhythmically kicking it's leg, reading his book. He reaches the end of the chapter set for today, and sets down the book. It is leather bound, a new copy. The title page has a small tear on it, he ruined the book the moment he opened it. 

He opens a drawer on his desk, pulling out a sheet of paper and a different book. This one is older, with yellowed pages and faded inking. His finger glides over the page, shivering at the sensation of paper against his skin. He dips his quill in the inkwell, and in his neat and controlled hand, writes Celion beside the winding line representing the river. He closes his eyes for a moment, memorizing it. 

"Good job," comes a voice from behind him. Maglor looks over his shoulder at the nearly finished map. 

"Kinslayers! Kinslayers!" Elrond sits up in bed. It is still dark outside, but red torchlight comes in through his window. He scrambles to it, trying to see outside. 

"Kinslayers!" Comes the shout again. Elves on horses are in the courtyard, and the people he knows are fighting. 

There is a small fire, and the house is going to catch fire like Sirion. 

Elrond dashes from his room, and over to Elros'. They run from the house together, rushing blindly from it. Out in the courtyard, they are faced with a battle. Elrond stands in the middle of it, wide eyed, frozen. Elros picks up a fallen sword. 

"What are you doing here?!" Maglor finds them, "get back inside!" 

"It's- it's on fire," Elrond mumbles. Maglor looks up, anguished, blood stained and angry. They have only been living here a month. 

The house is whole, no fire licking at it, no smoke pouring out the windows. 

Elrond tries to focus on their tutor. She is explaining something but he can't seem to make his eyes focus just right. It's not that he can't see, but the pressure behind his eyes makes them unreliable. He blinks, trying to clear his vision. The pressure in his head makes it hurt, and no matter how he seems to position himself it only gets worse. 

He doesn't know why it would get worse now. There's almost always some pressure, some bearable pain, but now he feels as if his head might explode. 

"Elrond? Are you paying attention?" The tutor looks at him, and gets to her feet, crossing the floor, "Are you quite alright?" She asks, seeing his pale face. 

He's nauseous, and he wonders for a moment whether he should open his mouth. 

"My head hurts," he says finally. 

A few minutes later he is laying in bed, and a healer stands over him. 

"Did the light hurt your eyes?" He asks. 

Yes. But everyone's eyes hurt in the light, just like touching velvet or crowds do. 

"No," he says. 

Elros sits in the grass, staring up at the dark sky, Elrond beside him, watching the stars. 

"How long do you think until they find us?" Elros asks lazily. 

Elrond doesn't answer, just stretches his hand out to his brother. He takes it, glancing over at Elrond for a moment. They stay together, treasuring their moment of freedom. 

They have an unspoken agreement not to call each other their names when they run away. Their names, their very identity given to them by the place their abandonment left them in, by the only one of everyone to leave them behind who cared enough to return. 

They hear their names called from the bottom of the hill, lantern light not reaching up to them yet. 

"Do you think about what would have happened if nana took us with her?" Elrond asks quickly, desperate for this last moment before they return to reality. 

"Yes," Elros looks up at the stars, "maybe we would be stars like him," Eärendil's light shines down on his sons from far away, not seeing them, not hearing their quiet questions. Or maybe if he does, Elrond thinks, he just doesn't care enough to answer. 

Elros holds his sword aloft, ready to fight. Elrond lifts his, and moves to attack. He does not care for fighting, but Maedhros is watching, and he has to try. Their swords klink together, and he cringes at the noise. They dance around each other with practiced movement, with ease that can only be achieved by hours upon hours of practice. Elrond grits his teeth, forcing himself to challenge Elros. He knows his brother enjoys swordfighting more than he does. 

He does not understand why. Why anyone would want to break things when it's so hard to fix them. The fixing is right, it makes him feel right. 

Elrond is in a healers tent. Herbs simmer quietly on the fire just outside the tent, a cloth soaked in it in his hands. He washes the wound carefully, and then takes the clean bandages from the table beside him. The elf groans as he presses down, and secures the bandage. 

He is focused, mind clear, nothing but the elf before him existing. He sings softly, under his breath. He knows the maiar blood makes his songs more powerful, so he uses them carefully. He mixes some herbs, and lifts the cup to the elf's lips, and then gently lays him down, finishing his song. 

Elros stands in the doorway, just back from a hunt, watching his brother work. 

Elros sits on the edge of his blankets, only a small light shining. They have to be careful, even the smallest amounts of light shine through the tent. He holds a needle out to Elrond. 

"Come on, I've wanted them pierced for a long time. It's unfair that they don't let me anyway, Maedhros has like ten just in his ears," he says, pushing the needle into Elrond's hands. 

"They'll be angry," it's a quiet, low admission of fear, barely more than a whisper. Elros stops, pulling the needle away from him. 

"Alright," he says softly. 

"Sorry, I- you know I want one too-" 

"No, it's fine," Elros says, standing up. 

Elrond directs his horse to follow after Elros'. The sunlight filters through the leaves of the ancient trees, casting them in a green-gold glow. They are riding away from the Fëanorians. Maglor and Maedhros' followers turned around a good mile behind them, leaving them with exact instructions. They are going to the High King's court, because of the war. 

"You are barely even fourteen," Maglor had said, "you cannot stay here. You will be protected." 

Elrond rubs his forehead, chasing the dull ache. He slips his hand down to his horse's mane again, rubbing his fingers together- 

"Stop fidgeting! You are to stand still!" Elwing's voice is barely over a whisper, but it's stern and cold. They stand in a wide reception hall, someone important is arriving to Sirion. 

Elrond stops tapping his wrists together, instead biting the inside of his lip and scrunching up his toes. 

His mother smiles down at him, and pets his hair in place. 

His hands are still against his horse's mane. 

The High King himself stands before them, looking down at them with a strange expression. He is in the middle of a war after all, and he has just been faced by the sons of Eärendil and Elwing, descendants of Lúthien, who have just spent their last seven years with Fëanorians. 

Elrond clasps his hands, steadying himself. His chest aches, and his thoughts run through his mind all but too fast to catch. 

"Are you well?" The High King finally asks, looking over both of them. 

They nod, looking up at him. 

"Very well. Come, they shall show you to your rooms. We will speak over dinner." 

Elrond follows after Elros to their rooms. Two rooms right next to each other, and as they both go inside, they find a door connecting the two. 

A tall elf awaits them in the training field, smiling. 

"I am Anormaethor, and I will be teaching you," he tosses them both wooden swords, "sword fighting." 

Elros looks at the wooden sword disappointed. They have been training with real swords since they were eight. Elros takes up his position, and before Anormaethor could say another word, Elrond brings his sword down on Elros'. They move quickly, even with the clumsy wooden swords, trusting the other to see every attack before he would be hit, just as Maedhros had told them to. 

"Stop!" Their teacher calls with wide eyes, and they both immediately stop. "Are you both quite alright?" He looks frightened. 

"Yes," the twins answer in unison, and then Elros ads, "Could we, perhaps, have real blades?" 

"Elrond!" It's a loud whisper from the other side of their door, Elros is whispering against the keyhole. 

"Yes?" Elrond asks, rubbing his forehead for the millionth time, pleading with the pressure to dissipate. 

"Should I get the healers?" Elros whispers. 

"Will we not get in trouble for that?" 

"I do not know," Elros sounds dejected, and Elrond can hear him slide to the ground. He takes a deep breath, and presses his fingers into his eyes, chasing the pain away from them. 

The door quietly opens, and Elros is by him. 

"You shouldn't be-" 

"Maybe we can be in each other's rooms here," Elros says, even though he does not believe his own words. But looking down at Elrond, pale and in obvious pain, he does not care if he is lying. 

Elrond kicks his desk rhythmically, reading. 

"I miss Maglor," Elros says. Elrond looks up from his book, startled. 

"I… I am not sure." 

"Not sure if you miss him?" 

Elrond nods, leaning back in his chair. 

It doesn't matter anyway. 

"I don't miss the tents," Elros continues, "but the house was nice for a time." 

Elrond just shakes his head, and resumes reading, his foot beginning to tap again after a minute. 

Eärendil is in the sky. The flashes of the Silmaril reach the Havens, the darkness of night split in two. His sons sit huddled together by a window, watching the sky, hoping that he will win, that he will slay Ancalagon, and that he will come back for them. Maybe just come see them. 

A final flash comes, and Eärendil's star rises, and floats away in the night. 

"Come, we must go sleep," Elrond says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

"I-" Elros' voice breaks, and he gets to his feet. On his way out of Elrond's room, he kicks the wall, and Elrond cringes, flinching still sitting on the floor. 

Elros stands before his ships. An entire fleet, full of his people. 

"Look, Elrond. I am taking them home," he says, turning to his twin, tears in his eyes. And Elrond understands, he nods his head unable to speak, he understands. He knows Elros is choosing his path, building a home he was never given, with his people. 

"I see, brother," Elrond says, "I see." 

It is only a short embrace, and then Elros strides up onto his ship, the King of his people. Elrond looks up at him, capturing in his mind's eye the image of his brother, and smiles softly. He looks at home. 

Elrond stands on the seashore. Alone. Elros is among men, his kin now. 

He stares at the waves. There is a Silmaril buried deep under them. He looks down at the sand below his feet. Somewhere below the earth, another Silmaril burns beside Maedhros' body, probably long gone now. Not the Silmaril, Fëanor's craft would withstand the innards of Arda, but not his son. 

A cool salty wind blows in from the sea. Elrond screams. An agonizing plea for mercy, for death, for release. He stares at the horizon, at the very edges of the sea, tears soaking his cheeks. He screams again, letting himself break; not other things, those are too hard to fix, but himself. He doesn't need to be fixed, he can go on broken. He has, he can continue to. 

He falls to his knees, relishing the pain of the rocks pressing into him. 

He sits at his desk, buried in his work. There is a city to run, to build. Lindon is barely standing, and already there is so much to do. He promised Gil-galad these statistics by the evening, and he has barely gotten through writing his report. Elrond buries his face in his hands, pressing his fingers into his eyes, pressing into the dull ache. It barely seems to subside these days, not that it has ever truly been far. 

He takes a drink of his tea, hoping it will be enough to keep him awake. He takes up his quill, and continues. 

He sits on his bed, head in his hands. The buzz in his mind from Gil-galad's wine is starting to wind down. He longs to escape, succumb to the wine. He stands to his feet, crossing to the window. He stares up at the starry sky, up at his father. He knows not to ask anything of him now, there will be no answer, but still, he begs. He begs to just be seen, witnessed by his father. He had not seen him face to face since he was just a child, more of a baby. 

Look father, right hand of the High King, lore master and healer, look at me! 

He stands on the battlefield. Eregion is in flames. No matter what he does, his people are overpowered, his forces are not enough. He fights off yet another of the enemy, and tries to assess the situation. So much blood. So much blood on the ground. Here, the ground drinks it in, not like at Sirion. Here, he walks in bloodied mud. 

There comes a shout from the other side of the battlefield. Dwarves. 

High up in the mountains, away from it all, they begin building. Elrond makes the plans sitting in his tent, next to a waterfall, in a valley. Imladris , Elrond thinks, a deep valley. That will do. 

He finishes the plans, and that very afternoon, they begin building. 

The house is beautiful. All of his people are under a roof now, and the refugees arriving every day have a place to stay. It is a homely house, the home he always wanted. 

There is a hall. The hall of fire. The fire never flickers out, forever burning. A small, safe fire going on and on. A tamed fire, one that will never destroy the walls it is nurished between. 

There are gardens, beautiful and taken care of. Even in wartime, they are well kept and cultivated. 

Sauron's forces draw nearer every day. He knows that. They are all but under siege. Their food supplies are already being cut off, but the joy of the house still lasts. 

The refugees are scared, and hurt. Elrond walks among the new arrivals, helping wherever he can. He sings in the houses of healing, pressing as much power into the songs as he can spare for them. 

The sheets are cool beneath his hand. His voice feels raw, the thousandth song he has sung today rushing through his throat. He leans over the little girl, commanding his fëa to give the song power. 

"She will be alright," he stands, his vision blurring for a moment. The girl's mother thanks him, but he just tries to smile at her, making his way to the next room. 

Gil-galad sits across from him. There are few people in the room, only the highest in command. A glittering ring sits on the table before the High King. 

Vilya, the ring of air. Just like Eärendil's Silmaril , Elrond thinks, but after all each ring has one of his fathers' Silmarils' elements linked to it. 

He nods. Yes, he will take it. Vilya slides on his finger smoothly. 

He feels its power, raw and strong. He takes a deep breath, feeling it, letting it wash over him. 

She is the most beautiful maiden he has ever seen. Her silver hair mimics her mother's, but is more star-like and less like the trees. She is as tall as he, and her words are soft, her very being kind. She is kind not because she has found her way to, but because it is the only thing she knows to be. Elrond loves her and envies her, and wishes for her company all through her and her mother's short stay in Imladris. 

The battlefield is a raging sea of bloodied warriors. Gil-galad has fallen, and Sauron himself is on the field. The battle, and with it the war is all but lost. 

Elrond hates the swords, and the blood, and he hates the stuffy tents they had been sleeping in. He hates how they are breaking each other, and he hates how they are breaking the land. 

He takes that hate for all he is doing, and brings his sword down on the enemy. The orcs cry out before him, lunging at him, but they have nothing to meet his anger and pain, and nothing to meet his hope. 

His pain for all that war has taken from him, and his hope to still build something anew. 

Elrond holds the shattered sword. The last pieces of his brother, they seem to him. But he looks down at the boy standing before him. Narsil is nothing compared to a life. The last piece of his brother stands before him, a young, frightened boy. His blood. 

He reaches out his hand to the boy. He will have a place in this world, and his brother will live on. 

"May I braid your hair?" Celebrían asks softly. Elrond catches his breath, surprised. He takes a deep breath, memories swirling through his mind and away into the night. The air is cold in his lungs, as he takes a breath. 

This will be different , he tells himself, it will not involve detangling several weeks of matting, an irritated Maglor, or Elros trying but failing to help. 

He nods, turning to one side, giving Celebrían access to the back of his head. First, the small braids are undone on the back of his head, and then on the side. There comes a light clink from the table, and a brush slips through his hair. A voice rises behind him, beginning to sing softly as she brushes, weaving melodies as she parts the hair. 

He feels a presence opening to his mind. Celebrían begins to braid, exquisite patterns unfolding beneath her fingers, her song matching them. Their thoughts begin to mix, not quite speaking to each other, but rather letting their emotions and desires swirl together. 

Elrond and Celebrían sit on a balcony in Imladris. Celebrían's nimble fingers play with Elrond's hair, his dark brown contrasting her silver. 

"Star-dome…" she muses, "how did your mother choose that name?" 

Elrond laughs softly, "Maglor gave me that name." 

"Oh," Celebrían's hand stills. 

"Because he took Elros and I from a cave, and I suppose star-dome and star-spray were the first words that came to his mind." 

Celebrían looks at him, but he doesn't shift his gaze from the stars. 

"What was your name before?" She asks gently. 

Elrond doesn't answer for a minute. 

"I don't know." 

Elrond holds a tiny peredhel. His tiny fingers curl around his, Celebrían holding their other baby. Twins, just like Elros and he had been, two tiny identical boys. He smiles at the tiny being in his arms. 

So small, so fragile, so dependent. They will grow up in safety, far from the war. The homely house will remain homely, and they will be allowed to grow and play the way children should. 

He looks at Celebrían, his beautiful, lovely wife. She smiles back with tired eyes. 

"Rest, my love," Elrond says, taking both of their sons into his arms. 

It is late at night. The twins have just turned six today, and Elrond cannot sleep. He sits in the Hall of Fire, staring at the flames. He has trusted the flames thus far, but now that his children are as old as he and Elros were when their home was burned to the ground, he cannot. 

He wonders idly if he will spend the whole year sleepless, sitting by this one fire when there are many in the house. 

He rubs his forehead, pushing at the ache. The flames dance and flicker, but don't leave their place. 

Two small boys run around the garden. Their shouts can be heard across Imladris, some wild game. They are eight years old, and they have not once touched a sword. Elrond watches them through his study window. He wishes to be outside with them, playing their games, but he must finish this paperwork first. 

He tears his eyes away from his children, and continues writing in his elegant, controlled cursive. 

A little girl sits on Elrond's knee, a tiny Lúthien. She watches Elrond with wide eyes, listening to his song. Her raven black hair is tied back and braided. She is happy, and Elrond feels as if his heart may break just looking at her. 

He sings softly, putting as much power into the melody as he dares. He carefully dips the bandage in the herb infused water, and washes the wound. Celebrían lays before him unconscious. The bandage is warm under his hand, but the inflamed flesh is warmer, burning up. 

He binds the wound, and continues singing, staying by her all night. He changes the bandages, brings new herbs, and continues singing to her. Don't break the harmony. 

He reaches to all of the maiar blood left in him, begging for enough power to save his beloved. 

But her eyes- she is barely a ghost of herself, an empty shell left behind. It makes Elrond think of Maedhros, old memories he does not want to recall. Things he could not fix. 

He sees himself in her broken fëa, his own brokenness, and his inability to fix it. But she cannot go on living with her pain. Her wounds are different, and he knows. Everything in him screams, pleads, begs not to lose her too. Not after everything. 

He sits by her side, and waits for her to tell him she must go west. He knows he will have to be kind, and help her go. 

He will follow one day, when he is finished on this side of Arda. 

Elladan and Elrohir are quiet. Those playful little boys have turned into fearless warriors, and Elrond wishes more than anything that he had had a chance to spare them the pain and loss. But they are different. Where Elurín and Eluréd were given nothing, Elros and he were given survival, and Elladan and Elrohir were given a home. 

They are ready to ride into battle. His sons are ready to fight, to reclaim his brother's realms. 

Arwen is wise far beyond her years. She is fearless but kind, and Elrond would do anything for her. His Lúthien, he thinks so often, seeing more maiar in her than he had seen in any of their family. 

Perhaps it is fitting that she weds a mortal, and choses mortality. She will be happy with him, if only for a short time. Just like the time he had with Celebrían. He smiles thinking of seeing his love again, this time forever and beyond, until the remaking. 

He stands before the last ship. It is time to go. He has done the best with what was given him, and it is time. He knows Celebrían will be waiting for him. Perhaps so will Elwing and Eärendil. 

His children all chose to stay, but he cannot blame them. He stayed to set right many wrongs, and now his children stay to keep them right. He had chosen to stay through so much heartache and pain for this world too. The setting sun shines on the sea, and he steps onto the ship. 

Celebrían looks just as she did the last time he saw her. Her slender hands reach towards him, every single shared moment between her fingers. He wants to laugh, run to her, cry, just watching her from the ship. 

He is finally off the ship, and she is between his arms again, her hands pressed against his cheeks. They cling to each other, the years spent separate rushing past them. 

"You are here," her words seem distant, almost unreal. 

Elrond stands on the seashore. The waves lap at the sand, sinking into it. He watches the water disappear into the sand, drawing back and forth. 

He looks up. A woman walks along the coast, white dress flowing about her. She looks just as she did six thousand years ago. He takes a deep breath, and steps forward. 

His mother stands by the sea. The waves crash against the sand. 

The world is on fire, and he is six years old. 

He looks down at his hand. There is no blood, just seawater.