Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of J. R. R. Tolkien, nor any of the various dramatic incarnations thereof. No profit is being made from this work.

Foreword

Greetings! Welcome to this story. It follows a scene from the seventh chapter of an earlier story called Vows. Vows is about Maglor, and includes a scene where he is forced to return Elros and Elrond to Gil-galad, an event that causes him much distress. Since Nilmandra is an Elrond person, here is a story of Elrond and Elros moving into a new stage in their lives.

Have fun, and I will see you at the end.

Far In Distant Lands To Dwell

“Here we are. This was to be your tent.” A young page, his jaw only beginning to transform into its adult contours, placed the two meager packs he held in his hands on a trunk that had been covered with a swath of blue silk to serve as a table. He turned and smiled at the twin boys, only a little older than himself, who had reluctantly followed him into the tent. Elros clutched Elrond’s hand as if it were his only anchor in a tempest, and glared around at his new surroundings. Elrond stood with his head bowed, and did not raise his eyes from the ground. The page’s smile faded after a moment.

“You . . . you must be tired,” he murmured. “I suppose it has been a long day for you already, since you have traveled so far to come here. I will leave you alone now. Unless you wish to see the Sons of Fëanor depart?”

Elros’s teeth clamped down on his lip. Elrond wobbled a little, but did not fall. “No,” he said, so softly that the page could barely hear him. “We have said our farewells. That part of our lives is past. We will never see Maglor again.”

“And it is a good thing, too,” the page said. “After that kidnapper held you captive for so long –“

“Bite your tongue!” Elros cried, advancing on the startled page with his free hand clenched in a fist. “You do not know Maglor. If you dare to say another word against him, I will knock you down.”

The page took a step backwards, then lifted his chin. “Very well,” he said. “But I warn you that I am not the only one from whom you might hear such things. You would do best to accustom yourselves to it.” Then he flashed a shy smile in the twins’ general direction. “But you are tired, and I will not argue with you now. Make yourselves at home here, and I guess that the King will come in to see you shortly. If you need anything, you have only to call me. I am Fairion.”

“Thank you,” Elros said. “Will you leave us alone now?”

Fairion sketched a quick bow, and left the tent. Elros and Elrond looked around. The place was furnished sparsely, as befitted a temporary field dwelling, but the cots, cushions, and trunks were beautifully decorated and of the highest quality. Certainly they were finer than anything that Maglor or Maedhros owned.

“Gil-galad must be wealthy,” Elros said.

“He is the King,” Elrond replied.

“Maglor and Maedhros are princes.”

“Maglor has the farm,” Elrond said, “and he likes things to be practical and sturdy rather than ornate. And Maedhros spends his wealth on his soldiers, not his home.”

Elros let Elrond’s hand go, and flopped down on one of the cots. He heaved a great sigh, and draped one arm over his face. Elrond stood awkwardly in the middle of the tent, not daring to touch anything.

“What do you think Gil-galad is like?” he asked.

“I do not know.” Elros’s voice was muffled. “And I do not care. He and Maedhros went behind Maglor’s back to take us away. I will never like him.”

Elrond wrapped his arms around his body. “You will not fight with him, will you?”

Elros rolled over onto his side and regarded his brother solemnly. “If I do, it will not be my fault.”

“Elros! He is the King. You cannot fight with the King.”

“If he says one word against Maglor, I will. Just you watch me.” Elros’s words were brave, but his mouth trembled as he spoke. He buried his face in a pillow, then twisted his head so that he could keep one eye on Elrond.

Outside the tent, they could hear the noises of horses and soldiers moving around, and they knew that the sons of Fëanor had departed. Not knowing what to do, Elros and Elrond waited in the tent and tried to pretend that they were not afraid. They did not have to wait very long before they saw two adult figures silhouetted against the wall of the tent. The two conferred briefly, and then the entrance flap was drawn aside. Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, entered, still wearing his full armor, and stared at the boys. A strange mixture of emotions flitted across his face.

Belatedly, Elrond remembered that Maglor had told him to bow when he greeted Gil-galad. With a certain amount of effort, he made his arms fall loose at his sides and managed a short, stilted bow that came more from his shoulders than anywhere else.

“My Lord Gil-galad,” Elrond choked out.

Gil-galad nodded gracefully to both boys, and turned the corners of his mouth up into what he doubtless intended to be a friendly, welcoming smile. “So,” he said. “Elros and Elrond. Be welcome.” He glanced from one wary face to the other, then settled his gaze on Elrond. “Let me guess. You are Elros.”

“Elrond.”

“Ah. My apologies.” Gil-galad let out a chuckle that sounded almost nervous. “Well, I am sure that I will learn to distinguish you in time. But for now, allow me to express my joy over the return of the Sons of Eärendil.”

“Do not use that name!” Elrond’s shout surprised everyone, including Elrond himself. He set his jaw and glared at Gil-galad, aware that Elros was watching the scene with mingled interest and trepidation.

Gil-galad opened his mouth, clearly intending to scold Elrond, then changed his mind and shut it again. He pursed his lips, and then rearranged his face into a more reasonable expression. “But you are the sons of Eärendil,” he said. “No matter how long you dwelled in his house, Maglor was not your father.”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed. “He was more of a father to us than Eärendil ever was. Maglor took care of us and loved us as if we were his own. We have never even laid eyes on the man who sired us. Eärendil is no more to me than the stud stallion who covers a mare and then does not recognize when his foal is born.”

Gil-galad blinked, clearly not accustomed to being snapped at by an adolescent boy. Elrond wrapped his arms around his body again, and glared at Gil-galad. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Elros sitting up and clutching a pillow to his chest. At last, Gil-galad sighed, and looked away.

“You are young, child, and it has been a trying day for you already,” he said. “Perhaps you and your brother would feel better if you slept a little. I will send Fairion to call you when the noon meal is ready.” With that, he turned on his heel and left the tent.

“I am not a child!” Elrond shouted after him. “And I am not tired!” He whirled around, then stomped over to the cot that Elros was not occupying, and flung himself down on it. His face crumpled, and he choked a little, but he did not cry. Elros watched him, still holding his pillow.

“I hate him,” Elros burst out in a ferocious whisper. “I hate that Gil-galad. He does not know anything about Maglor, or about us. He had no right to take us away.”

“What if he wants to separate us?” Elrond asked.

From the horrified expression on Elros’s face, Elrond could tell that Elros had not considered that question. He threw the pillow to the ground and squirmed onto the cot next to Elrond. Elrond wound his arms around Elros, and they clung to each other, trembling. The tent flap moved again, and both boys started. Elrond tightened his grip on Elros, in case Gil-galad had come to pry them apart.

But instead of the tall, imposing, armor-clad figure of the High King, they saw Círdan, dressed in a plain gray tunic and trousers. He smiled at them, and his eyes twinkled above his beard. Elros and Elrond tried not to stare at the beard, but they could not help stealing glances at it.

“Elros and Elrond,” Círdan said. “Ereinion said that he had encouraged you to nap, so I thought I should stop in and welcome you before you were too far along the path of dreams. I hope I have not disturbed you.”

Elros and Elrond shook their heads.

“Good. May I sit?” Círdan indicated the empty cot. Elros and Elrond nodded, and Círdan sat down with a sigh of pleasure. “Ah. It is good to have a little time to breathe. Well. Let me look at you. It is a pleasure to see you two here.” He gave a wry smile that was almost lost in his beard. “You have changed, of course, but I suppose that was to be expected. After all, you have grown up.”

Puzzled, Elros and Elrond sat up straighter, and Elros moved so that he sat next to Elrond on the cot. “Do you know us, sir?” he asked.

Círdan looked startled, then chuckled. “Ah, you do not remember. I suppose that was to be expected as well. You were hardly more than babies when Sirion fell.”

“You knew us then?” Elrond asked.

Círdan nodded. “Elwing – your mother never came right out and complained, but she was lonely during those years after Eärendil left. I did not blame her – she had the two of you to care for, and though her ladies-in-waiting were friendly, none of them were especially bright. I think she still felt Eärendil’s absence keenly. I would go and visit her often, and I think she welcomed the company. I always enjoyed the opportunity to see you. Every time I came, you had grown bigger, and you could do more things.”

He paused in his tale, for a strange look had come over Elrond’s face. “I remember –“ Elrond began, then stopped.

“What?” Elros asked.

“Nothing. It is a silly thing.” Elrond shook his head, then glanced at his brother under his eyelashes. “Sometimes – it is a dim memory, and I cannot always remember it – sometimes, I think I remember playing on a carpet with you, and Nana is there. Sometimes I remember her talking with a man, while I play with his feet. I think I pretended that they were sailboats.” He looked up and met Círdan’s eyes. “I always thought that the man was Ada, but he could not have been . . . “ His voice trailed off.

Círdan nodded. “I remember those visits. You would have been two, perhaps three years old. You always looked so serious while you sailed my feet around the carpet.”

Elrond could not suppress a smile at the image, and Elros even giggled a little. “What about me?” Elros asked. “What did I do?”

“You, Elros?” Círdan laughed. “You would stand on your Nana’s lap and try to grab my beard. You were fascinated with it.”

Elros grinned even as a blush spread over his nose. Elrond laughed, and punched him lightly in the arm. “You were a rude little baby,” he said.

“I am not the only one,” Elros said. “You were less than polite to Gil-galad today.”

The smiles vanished from both boys’ faces, and they looked guiltily at Círdan. “Is Gil-galad angry at us?” Elrond asked. “I did not mean to be that nasty to him, but he called us the sons of Eärendil, and I suppose that we are, but . . . he does not understand.”

Círdan shook his head. “No, he does not understand. I do not think any of us really understand, including yourselves. Do not worry, though. Ereinion was annoyed when he left you, but not very much. We discussed the encounter, and we agreed that he had perhaps not made a particularly good impression on you. Do not resent him for it. He means well, but he has never spent much time with young people. This was not what we expected from a return of hostages.”

“But we were not hostages,” Elros said. “Maglor loves us as if we were his own children. He told us that. No one believes it because of who his father was.”

“And because of things that he did as well,” Círdan said mildly, “though perhaps he did not share so much of that with you.”

“If you mean Sirion and Alqualondë, we know all about those events,” Elrond retorted. “That does not change the fact that Maglor loves us.”

Círdan nodded, a sober expression on his face. “I am sure he does love you. You are both obviously well cared for, and I saw the grief in his eyes at your parting. I think he will miss you.”

Elros and Elrond stared at Círdan for a moment. They had not expected anyone in Gil-galad’s camp to understand their feelings for Maglor, or the terrifying shock of being suddenly removed to a home and a people that they could not remember. But Círdan clearly knew how they felt, and he seemed to think that their feelings were acceptable. Elros broke first. Two fat tears rolled down his face, and he let out a sob that sounded like a hiccup.

“I miss Maglor,” he wailed. “I want to go home.”

Círdan took Elros’s hands and tugged lightly. Elros followed the tug and moved to sit on the cot next to Círdan. Círdan wrapped his arms around Elros and let him cry. “Let your tears come, Elros,” he murmured. “Do not be ashamed to mourn your loss.”

Elrond watched this scene with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms encircling them. He imagined that he was a hedgehog, curled into a tight, prickly ball that no one could hurt. His nose stung, and his vision suddenly became liquid. He bent his head over his knees to hide his tears, but Círdan was observant.

“You need not hold your grief inside, Elrond,” Círdan said. “I will think no less of you.”

So Elrond lay down on the cot and wept until he had no more tears left. Elros had cried himself out already, and lay quietly, his head in Círdan’s lap. Círdan sighed, then stood up, easing Elros onto a pillow as he did so. He crouched between the cots and laid his hands on the twins’ dark heads. “Follow the path of dreams,” he whispered, “and perhaps you will find your escape there.”

He opened the large wooden trunk that stood between the cots and took out two blankets, woven of soft wool and dyed a cheerful blue. These he draped over the twins’ exhausted bodies, in hopes that the slight weight would provide some comfort, despite the warmth of the morning. Then he left the tent quietly, so as not to disturb the two who had found a small measure of peace.

Fairion came to wake Elros and Elrond for the noon meal. They rose without complaint and folded the blankets. Fairion smiled nervously in their general direction, but kept a respectful distance. Elros gave an awkward shrug and held out his hand.

“You need not fear us,” he said. “I will not really knock you down.”

Fairion laughed as he took the offered hand in his. “I hope not! But after what you said to the King, I would not be surprised.”

Elrond looked startled. “You heard that?”

“Not exactly,” Fairion said. “But I saw him come out of the tent looking like thunder, and I heard what he said to Círdan about you. I was impressed,” he added. “You were brave to stand up to the King like that.”

“It is not difficult,” Elrond said. “You need only be angry enough.”

Fairion sighed dramatically. “Then I shall never stand up to him,” he said, a note of mock lament in his voice. “I find that I am rarely that angry. It takes so much effort to be angry, and I suppose that I am simply too lazy to do it.”

That made both Elros and Elrond smile. For the first time that day, they began to feel as though Gil-galad’s court might eventually become a home for them, for it now contained a friend.

But there was no time to get to know Fairion now. The noon meal was waiting, and they were to be presented formally. Fairion straightened their tunics, and they dragged combs through their sleep-mussed hair. At last, Fairion looked them up and down, and flashed a quick smile.

“You are ready now,” he said. “At least it is not dinner in the castle. Then you would truly have to dress up, but for a noon meal in the field, you can wear your own clothes.”

Elros and Elrond glanced at their plain tunics and trousers. They were made of serviceable linen, well woven, and cut so as to allow freedom of movement while retaining some shape. Both wore light brown trousers. Elros’s tunic was dyed a cheerful red, while Elrond wore a pale green. “I suppose we will have to wear a livery like you when we get to the castle,” Elros said to Fairion. “Maedhros thought that we would serve as pages.”

“I would like that,” Fairion said. “If you do, I will be sure to show you all the little tricks. But you are not pages now, and I am to usher you in, since we do not have a proper herald with us at the moment. That means you should follow me to the dining tent.”

The dining tent was at the far end of the campsite. By the time Elros, Elrond, and Fairion arrived there, most of the camp had already gathered. Fairion made them wait just outside the tent while he peeked through a flap to make sure that everyone else was inside. The smell of soup wafted through the open tent flaps, and Elros and Elrond’s mouths began to water. Maedhros had made them eat a little breakfast, but neither they nor Maglor had been able to stomach much food.

Fairion seemed to have received some signal from inside, for he turned and motioned to the twins that they should come to stand behind him at the entrance to the dining tent. Inside, someone rapped on the table, and silence descended. They heard Gil-galad begin to speak.

“My friends,” he said, “we all remember the terrible massacre of Sirion. Who could forget the terrible news that the Sons of Fëanor had descended upon our people once again to raid and ransack another stronghold in their quest for the Great Jewels. Sirion fell that day, and we counted it a terrible loss. Not only did Elwing, Dior’s daughter and the last of his children, vanish at the hands of the marauders, taking the Silmaril with her, but her children, the Halfelven, were taken captive as well.”

Elrond set his jaw and glared. Elros kicked him in the ankle. “Be quiet,” he murmured. “Gil-galad is the king, and that is his table. He can say what he wants.”

Elrond scowled, but said nothing. Inside, Gil-galad continued his speech.

“Today, by the grace of Eru Iluvátar, one wound out of the many inflicted at Sirion has been healed. The Sons of Fëanor have graciously agreed to release their hostages into the welcoming arms of their own kin.”

Fairion turned to Elros and Elrond. “That is our cue,” he said. “Follow me.”

With that, he straightened his spine, marched grandly into the tent, and held the flap aside. Elros and Elrond exchanged a quick glance, then walked inside, trying to ignore the deep bow that Fairion gave as he dropped the tent flap closed behind them. They squinted in the shade of the tent, and were able to see the long lines of tables, at which sat soldiers who stared at them. At the far end of the tent was a higher, grander table, draped in blue. Gil-galad stood at his place, and Círdan sat there as well. There were two empty chairs between them, and the boys guessed that those chairs were meant for them.

Gil-galad smiled, and extended his hand to the boys. “And so, I present to you, Elros and Elrond, the Sons of –“

“The Sons of Elwing!” Elrond cried, his voice ringing loud and clear. Murmurs of surprise rustled up and down the tables. Gil-galad stood frozen in his place, blinking. But Círdan smiled, and his eyes twinkled. Gil-galad turned to him and raised an eyebrow. Círdan nodded approvingly, and the corner of Gil-galad’s mouth twitched.

“Elros and Elrond, the Sons of Elwing,” he finished. The soldiers applauded, and the boys made their way to the high table, where they took their seats between Gil-galad and Círdan. Gil-galad nodded, and the servers began to place tureens of soup on the tables so that the soldiers could help themselves.

Círdan winked at the boys. “That was well done,” he said. “Compromise is the great art of survival, and the hardest one to learn. I think you will do quite well at it.”

Gil-galad accepted a goblet of wine from a server, nodded his thanks, and turned to Elrond. “May I presume that I am forgiven for my blunders earlier this morning?” he asked.

Elrond blushed. “Yes, sir. I apologize for being rude to you, my Lord.”

Gil-galad laughed, and Elros and Elrond realized that, for all his glory, Gil-galad was still very young. “I suppose we all could have handled that first meeting better,” Gil-galad said with a chuckle. “But one advantage is that things can only get better from here. I must say, Elrond, you have a fine voice. Did Maglor train you in speech and song?”

Elrond nodded. “Elros, too. We can both sing, and Maglor told us always to speak clearly whenever we had something to say that was worth saying.”

“I can well imagine.” Gil-galad sipped at his wine and considered Elrond for a moment. “A herald must have a good, clear voice,” he said. “You are too young for the job, but not too young to start the training. What would you say to that?”

Elrond shrugged. In his grief over having to leave his home and his beloved guardian, he had not given much thought to what he might do in Gil-galad’s service beyond serving as a page. Being a herald sounded interesting, at least, and Maglor had once told him that it involved a great deal of study. Elrond liked books and stories, and he supposed that he could do worse than to become a herald. “I think I would like to try that, sir.”

Gil-galad nodded. “That is settled, then. I will apprentice you to my master herald when we return to Balar.” He looked at Elros next. “What about you?” he asked. “Will you go with your brother and study heraldry as well?”

Elros cast a sidelong glance at Elrond, and shook his head. “Not I,” he said. “I want to learn to be a knight.”

“You must start as a squire, then. Do you think you can do that?”

Elros nodded. “I can do anything that anyone asks of me,” he announced firmly. “That is, if I may stay with Elrond.”

Gil-galad looked at the identical worried expressions on the boys’ faces. Clearly, this was an issue of concern for both of them. Normally, apprentice heralds and squires had very little to do with each other, but Gil-galad could see that this all but guaranteed problems with the Sons of Elwing. He was only now beginning to appreciate what his strategic victory over Maedhros and Maglor had cost the twins, and he did not want to be the cause of any more grief in their lives. Rules could be bent in the service of a greater good, he decided, and who better to decide when to do that than the High King?

“I think something could be arranged,” he said. “Perhaps you might both bunk together in the squires’ dormitory, or even share part of your training. It is good to know how to do several things, after all. Would that be acceptable?”

Elros and Elrond nodded, their relief plainly visible on their faces. Gil-galad allowed himself a small, relieved sigh of his own. It would be more difficult than he had anticipated to integrate the Sons of Elwing with their own folk, but at least he had passed the first hurdle.

Meanwhile, Elros helped himself to a generous portion of soup. It turned out to be thick and fragrant with herbs. He put a spoonful in his mouth, and found that it tasted as good as it smelled, though it was nothing like Maglor’s cooking. Something seemed to break down inside of him then, and all of a sudden, he realized that he was hungry. He began to eat busily, but paused when he had eaten half of what was in his bowl. He glanced up at Elrond, and saw that his twin had been eating just as eagerly.

For the first time since they had arrived, Elros began to feel that life could return to normal. Elrond was still with him, after all, and Gil-galad had all but promised not to separate them permanently. Elrond grasped Elros’s hand under the table and gave it a quick squeeze. Heartened, Elros gave him a real smile, then turned back to his bowl of soup.

END

Afterword

Many thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story. And many thanks to Nilmandra for all the work she does to produce this wonderful site where people can read it!