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2025-09-21
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2025-11-03
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The Ransom of Elrond

Summary:

Elros was hiding under the bed when the nightmares came for his mother.

Notes:

The Sindarin word for mother, Emel, is used by Elros throughout this fic to refer to Elwing.

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

It was dark under the bed and so cramped that Elros could hardly breathe.

But he couldn’t leave. The bells had rung like they’d never rung before, and Nurse had grabbed him from the corner in his and Elrond's room where he’d been left to think about his latest mischief and flung him here and told him to hide, hide, hide, I’ll be back with your brother soon -

He had scooted into the back corner under the bed so that there would be enough room for Elrond when Nurse brought him.

He was still waiting.

It shouldn’t be this dark; it was Emel’s room, and the window of Emel’s room stretched up to the ceiling almost down to the floor, stopping just before the little bench that was hugged against it. It was only afternoon, and there should still be plenty of light spilling through it, enough even to reach the back corner under the bed.

Only there had been storm clouds this morning, and they had only gotten thicker and thicker, and there was smoke now too, tickling the back of this throat, and Nurse had slammed the curtains shut before she left to try to keep the smoke from sneaking in.

He had been trying to count ever since Nurse left. He thought - he thought she should have been back by now, but he wasn’t sure. He had never checked to see how high he could count when walking from the lessons where Elrond was to Emel’s room, and he kept getting distracted by the way his heart kept slamming into his chest and losing count.

The rhythm of his heart almost sounded like footsteps. That’s why it kept distracting him. He kept thinking he heard footsteps on the stairs, and -

The door slammed open, and warm light flooded into the room.

Emel was here. He knew it instantly from the light; only Emel had that light around her, dancing over her heart. Emel was here, which meant it was her footsteps, and her dust stained slippers that slid to a halt right at the foot of the bed.

He wanted to call out, to tell her he was here, but it was hard to get his breath when he was so cramped and his heart was still pounding so hard.

Another set of footsteps pounded up the stairs. Heavier ones. Boots. The guards had boots like that, so it might be Artanor, or -

The boots halted. He could just see them out the left side of the bed. They had little stars emblazoned on the buttons.

“The necklace, please,” and that was not Artanor’s voice.

His mother’s shoes stepped back.

“You have nowhere left to run, my lady. Give me the necklace, and I promise I shall leave you be at once.”

The clasp on Emel’s necklace was tricky, he knew, but the chain was big. If it didn’t get caught in her hair, she could take it off in just a moment, and then the man would leave, and he could get out from under the bed and tell Emel that they needed to go find Elrond, and -

The light was still dancing in the same place on the floorboards; the necklace had to have gotten tangled in her hair, and he should crawl out and help her. He was her good helper, she always said so, and he knew he should, and he would, if he could only convince his arms to move.

His mother’s shoes stepped back again.

And there were more boots on the stairs.

His mother’s shoes went flying back, and he had to look out the right side of the bed to see them at all now; she was just before the bench by the window, and he wondered if she was going to throw that instead, throw it and make the men leave -

“The stone, please, Lady Elwing,” the man said, and his voice was sharper now. “Unless you really wish to keep playing these games when my brother here has a knife at your son’s throat.”

For a moment, Elros’s hand flew to his own throat; this was a nightmare, it had to be, and sometimes in nightmares things became true before you realized them, like knives materializing at throats.

“Elrond,” Emel whispered, and Elros had to shove his fist at his mouth to keep himself from crying out.

Elrond, Elrond, Elrond.

Nurse hadn’t found him. The nightmare men had found him, but now mother would throw the necklace, and they would leave, and Elros could drag Elrond under the bed with him until Emel was absolutely sure all the nightmares were gone -

The light didn’t move.

“My father’s jewel for your son, my lady,” the man said. “We can all still leave here with what we need most.”

Yes. Yes, they needed Elrond; more than anything, Elros needed Elrond, and Emel knew that, Emel would throw the necklace any moment, any moment - he couldn’t imagine how tangled it must be in her hair that it was taking so long -

“Rot in the darkness,” his mother hissed, and then her shoes leaped up, onto the stool, and then further, out of sight -

The boots lunged forward.

The light vanished.

Shouting. They were shouting.

It’s gone. It’s gone. It’s gone.

The necklace was - Emel was -

But Emel had to give them the necklace. She had to give them the necklace or they were going to - Elrond was going to -

He shoved himself out from under the bed, scrabbling frantically at the floorboards to push himself forward. “Wait!” Wait, they had to wait - He banged his back against the edge of the bed planks as he clawed his way free, but it barely slowed him. He knew what he needed - it had to be there -

He snatched Emel’s jewelry box from her table and spun toward the nightmare men. They were by the window; the taller of them was still staring out of it, but the other one, the important one, the one who was holding Elrond, had turned.

Elrond was hanging in the nightmare man’s arms, pale and limp and trembling like he had been when he had fallen into the well last summer and had to be dragged out, but he was trembling, so he could still be alright, like he had been then; the knife was still at his neck and not buried in it.

He ripped open the lid to the jewelry box. It was carved and pretty, and normally he liked to look at it, but that didn’t matter now; the men hadn’t come for boxes. What mattered was the strand of pearls the oyster divers had collected and given to Emel, and the little chain gold necklace she had been wearing when she fled Doriath and now had to wear as a bracelet, and the rings Atar had given her; those weren’t necklaces, but they had jewels in them, that might be good enough -

“You can have these,” he said quickly, thrusting the box out. “You can have these instead.” They weren’t as good as Emel’s special necklace, he knew, but there were more of them; that had to count for something.

They were both looking at him now. They weren’t moving.

Not hurting Elrond, not taking the box, not moving at all, so he kept talking because if these weren’t enough - “I know where Nurse’s are too,” he blurted out. She had lots and lots of them, pretty chains of beads and sea glass that glinted in the light. He wasn’t supposed to take them without asking, but this was for Elrond; she would understand, and if she didn’t, she could stick him in his room for as long as she liked, but he needed them, and - and they had wanted the jewel, wanted the stone, and, “And I have a rock collection, you can have that too,” and he couldn’t think of anything else, he couldn’t, but there had to be something, there had to because all of that together wasn’t worth Elrond; there wasn’t anything in the world that was worth as much as Elrond.

They still weren’t moving.

“I’ll help you look for more,” he added desperately. “I’m good at finding things. I’ll help you find every necklace in Sirion if you won’t hurt Elrond.”

The one holding Elrond looked down at the knife in his hand. Something flickered across his face, and then he jerked the knife back and shoved it into its sheath.

Elros nearly dropped the jewelry box in relief. Elrond still wasn’t moving except for shaking, but that was alright; that was just what he’d been like after the well, and he’d be alright once Emel - once Nurse got him a blanket and something hot to drink and Elros hugged him till they fell asleep.

But the man holding Elrond said, “We don’t want your box.”

The fear came back at once because he thought they had a deal, and if they didn’t -

“You have to,” he said desperately. “Or - or Nurse’s, or the rock collection, or - “

“Take it,” the other one said abruptly. “Take it and take him.”

The one holding Elrond was still for just a moment before he finally strode forward and reached for the box.

Elros clung to it a moment longer. “If you take it, you can’t hurt him,” he insisted.

“Agreed,” the man said, and his voice was strange, but Elros didn’t care. He let go of the box and let the man stick it into a pouch at his waist, and he didn’t protest when the man shifted Elrond into one arm and reached for Elros too.

He reached for Elrond’s hand, and it was alright that Elrond didn’t hold hands properly back; Elros could look after him now.

 

(The box was small and scratched in several places, but it was still beautifully carved, and Elrond still recognized it instantly when Elros pulled it out and laid it out on the table in Elrond's room to be divided up with their other handful of heirlooms before Elros sailed for Numenor.

“How did you come by this?” he asked in wonder, turning it over and over in his hands. He had thought it long burned.

“Oh, Maglor gave it back to me when he sent us off to Gil-Galad,” Elros said with a strange twist to his smile. “Scared me half to death with it too; I thought it might mean . . . well. You know.”

Elrond did not know, though he wouldn’t admit it. Elros knew perfectly well that Elrond had withdrawn into himself sometime during the battle for Sirion and had not come back to himself until weeks later, drawn out half by the power of Maglor’s songs and half by his brother’s desperate pleadings, but Elros had never quite realized what that meant. Elrond had known perfectly well where they were and why and with whom when he had come back to himself, and so Elros had never realized that Elrond’s memory of that period was . . . strange.

He had known that Sirion had burned; he could have listed several people he knew to have died in that burning. He knew his mother had leapt from the window. He knew, he knew, he knew.

But they were facts, presented without context, and with no detail connecting them in between. It was not how elvish memory was supposed to work, but even now, he was still not quite an elf.

He had never wanted to explain it to Elros; Elros should not have to be alone with his memory of what had happened.

He could explain it now, he supposed. Now that Elros was leaving him in turn. He could lay out their memories as one last thing to be divided between them instead of shared between them at need.

He hummed as if in understanding instead and opened the box.

He remembered playing with the jewels inside as a child. He hadn’t realized then how paltry they were for a princess of the elves; how even the jewels worn to war by a host of Aman would outweigh them.

But he knew the story behind each piece, and they had been given with love, nonetheless.

There were rocks in there too, and those he did not remember; he looked up at Elros questioningly.

They were interesting rocks; some brightly colored, some strangely shaped, some gleaming with hints of quartz or crystal. Elros seemed faintly embarrassed by them.

“I used to give them to Maglor when I thought he was angry,” he admitted. “I knew they wanted the Silmaril most, but I suppose I hoped any rock might help. I realized eventually. I hadn’t thought he’d kept them, though. I never actually opened the box when he gave it back.”

Elrond remembered that habit of Elros’s now. He’d thought at the time it was to cheer Maglor up; Elros had kept his own rock collection in Sirion that he’d treasured, and Elrond had more than once presented a pretty one to cheer him out a sulk back then.

“I thought you should have them now,” Elros said. “Since you’ll see Emel again one day, and I won’t. You can give them back to her.”

There was something very strange in Elros’s voice as he said this. Elrond did not quite dare question it. He focused instead on quietly sorting out the rocks he remembered Elros giving Maglor from the ones he didn't; those memories he thought he could risk asking for, and he should, before - Before.

Elros shrugged. “Or you can see if Maglor will take them back if you can find him again. Your choice.”

Elrond looked at the tiny necklace his mother had worn as she ran out of Doriath. “That would be an interesting choice to explain to her someday.”

For a rare moment, Elros’s voice turned to steel. “That would be fair,” he said. “As she has a rather interesting choice to explain to you.”)

Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The war with Angmar was not going well.

As evidenced by the army currently surrounding them.

“We can hold as long as we must,” Elrond said quietly to those on the wall with him. There were not many; this was meant to have been a small mission. Strength had been needed, not numbers, so it had been only Farande, Maglor, Artanor, and himself. “Have no fear on that.” They had taken one of Arnor’s lost fortresses, and it was yet surrounded by a strong moat; the water was stagnant, but the power of Vilya rooted in it well enough. He could hold off the army for as long as their lembas could hold out, and the bulk of their forces were still with Glorfindel, not with this doomed mission. They would be missed soon, and Glorfindel would not be slow to send aid. They could hold out long enough.

It was hard to remember that in the miasma of terror the Witch-King produced, but remember it they would: he wove his will and strength into the words.

The Witch-King rode forward. “Elf-lord,” he called, and his voice rattled like bones in a grave. “You have a trinket I would have as tribute.”

The ring felt very cold on Elrond’s hand.

It was a risk to take it out of the Valley, always. It was a gamble he had felt he must make.

He had not lost the gamble yet. Not for certain.

“I know not what you mean,” he called back.

The Witch-King laughed, and the bitter breeze laughed with him. “Three rings made Curufin’s spawn, and two elf-kingdoms yet stand unassailed. One ring you may hide from me, but two are plain. I will have the one you bear, or I will take it from your bones.”

Behind Elrond, Maglor had gone tense. “We can hold this, and he knows it,” he said, voice barely a breath. “What is he playing at?”

Even if it were not so, they had options yet; there were a thousand places within the fortress he could hide the ring, and the land might hide it long if he asked it to. It was madness for the witch-king to declare himself so openly.

“You may keep your treasure if you insist on it, little elf-lord,” the Witch-King called once more. “But I fear if you do, it will cost you your son.”

The breath went out of Elrond’s lungs.

From the crowd behind the witch-king came a rumble of movement. A great rack wheeled forward, and on it - stretched upon it -

“Elladan,” he breathed.

Steel bound his limbs to the sides of the rack; steel muzzled his mouth, keeping him from any song of power.

Or cries to his father.

Blood leaked from a crusted wound to his shoulder, to cuts littering his arms and legs. Nothing too damaging; nothing irreversible.

Not yet.

(And Elladan had been with Glorfindel. Well could he believe that Elladan had been to scout or on some mission, but he would not have been sent alone.)

(He so rarely was sent without his brother.)

(Where was his brother?)

“Give me my tribute, little elf-lord. Or I will take it from his flesh.”

Elrond couldn’t speak.

Maglor took one look at his face and called down for him. “Time,” he shouted down. “We do not have the tribute you seek; you must give us time to see if we can think up a different one.”

The great rattling laugh sounded again, and this time it chilled Elrond to his bones. “I will send for my tools,” he said. “You have for as long as it takes for one of my men to run.”

Maglor had to grab his arm to force Elrond to move behind the protective cover of one of the towers. The others followed after.

“I can make the shot,” Farande said quietly. “If it’s the better option.”

For a moment, Elrond couldn’t quite comprehend what she meant; there were a plethora of enemy targets, of course, some trickier to hit than others, but even if Farande took out the Witch-King himself, all it would buy them at most was a few minutes of confusion.

Then he realized what she was actually saying, and bile rose up violently in his throat.

Farande would shoot Elladan if Elrond asked her to. If Elrond decided that it was the better option to give the order to shoot his own son then to - then to -

There had been elvish arrows in Celebrimbor’s body when they had recovered it. Several of them. It had not been malice that propelled them.

By the pallor on the faces around him, he did not think he was the only one thinking of Celebrimbor.

“I’m the better shot if it comes to it,” Artanor said.

Farande slashed a hand dismissively. “You’ve not shot kin before. You’ll flinch. I won’t.” She hesitated for a moment before adding, “If you’re concerned about the potential for necromancy, Lord, my promise - ”

Elrond held up a hand.

He did not want to plan how to kill his son.

He did not want to hear how to do it best, how to scrap together comfort that at least he had done it well.

“Surely it could not do that much harm if we just gave it to him.” There was a note of pleading in his voice that he hated; he had a duty to these people that left no room for such weakness.

But the ring - the ring was such a little thing, and just one of three, surely, surely -

His counselors looked to one another, pale, silent.

One of three.

And if he gave it up, what holes would he rip open in the defenses of the others? How many of Lothlorien would fall?

How many of Imladris, with her protections ripped open and the armies so near to her gates?

“I am reluctant to argue with my nephew on the dangers of giving it up,” Maglor said quietly, speaking up from his vigil at the edge of the group. “Given the lengths to which he defended that position.”

The ring burned like ice on his finger.

He would die to protect its secrets, as Celebrimbor had died for it. He would die to protect his people, as so many of his family had died for them.

But his son - to stand and watch as his son died as Celebrimbor as died, as Finrod had died, as Celebrian had so nearly died, in torment and horror and cruelty -

He turned his face away from the others sharply, unable for a moment to bear looking at them.

“Give us a moment,” Maglor said softly, and not even Artanor argued.

He felt as if he could not breathe, but somehow he managed it; when the others had withdrawn, he said, “After the children were born, I kept dreaming I was at the top of a tower, and someone was standing there with a knife at their necks.”

Maglor’s breath hitched.

“They always wanted the ring in the dream.” He stared blankly at the grey fields stretching below. He was at the wrong angle to see his son, but he knew - he knew - “I couldn’t control myself in the dream. I couldn’t do anything. I just stood there, watching, until they raised the knife a little.” Somewhere out there, his son was waiting, so much worse than a knife to his neck. Waiting for his father to save him. “And then I jumped. No matter what I did, I couldn’t stop myself; I always leapt into the ocean below.”

Maglor’s breath was very ragged. “That’s - understandable,” he said. “Considering.”

He couldn’t tear his eyes from the long drop below. “There’s no ocean here.”

Maglor moved pointedly in front of him. “No,” he said. “There is not. Which means we shall have to take inspiration from elsewhere. I think it is long past time I took a page from your brother’s book.”

He blinked. “Elros? What - ?”

Maglor smiled a strange, fey smile. “I’m going to offer them my rock collection.”

 

There was a numb blankness in his mind where a memory should be. It was a large, intrusive blankness that kept nipping at him - now, now, when he had absolutely no time for it.

Now when he was standing on the wall and staring down at the gathered enemy forces, straining for a glimpse of his son. Now when he had let Maglor lead them out here on sheer force even when he did not understand the plan because surely Maglor didn’t mean - surely he couldn’t mean -

“Will you yield it?”

“I’m afraid I do not have it to yield it,” Maglor called down, voice threaded through with a trace of power. “I have a counteroffer for you.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out -

Light.

Dancing, brilliant, glorious light.

For a moment, no one on either side of the standoff could tear their eyes away.

“One silmaril for one life. The last chance at a silmaril, really, considering what happened to the others . . . the very last relic of a power so precious that your master’s master coveted it. That the Valar themselves bargained for it. And it could all be in your hands.”

For a moment, the Witch-King stared in stunned silence. “You would not yield it,” he said, and for once the rattle of bones in his voice sounded as if it came from the once-king’s own grave. “I know my histories better than that.”

“No? Shall I swear it to you then? If you know your histories so well, surely you must trust to that.” Maglor’s teeth were bared now, in what you might, possibly, mistake for a smile.

But Maglor did not swear; Elrond knew that, just as he just as well as the Witch-King did that you could not expect someone to yield up a silmaril, no matter how precious the blood at the other end of the knife -

“Thus swears the last of Feanor’s sons: that if you send forth Elladan, son of Elrond, and let him freely be received into our gates with no more harm than he has already suffered, then I shall cast down the silmaril before you that you may take it up.” There was a strange, burning light in Maglor’s eyes, and a stranger power crackling through his voice as he continued on. “Thus swear I before Eru Allfather, Manwe, and Varda, if they choose to hear me yet!”

The air sizzled as if lightning had struck. The Witch-King took a step backward before recovering himself, eyes darting between Elrond and the jewel.

“Done,” their enemy said.

And sent forth Elrond’s son.

Notes:

Tags from Tumblr:

#maglor gets his finest moment after his less than stellar actions in the last snippet
#the witch-king very much gets burned on the silmaril btw; not pictured here is him attempting to pick it up and immediately dropping it/leading a retreat in howling pain
#Farande is in fact alluding to her promise in I Could Not See to See if Elrond is worried that the witch-king will trap Elladan's soul (or if Elrond just doesn't want her around after this) then she is willing to do her part to solve that problem. Elrond does not find this helpful

This almost didn't get crossposted to here because I feel like if I post a redemption chapter for Maglor, then in fairness I should post one for Elwing, and I don't have any great ideas for hers. My archiving instincts won out, however, so here we are.