#poor little elros. he's in shock still but trying to be brave for his brother

[lordgrimwing]

Foundlings #01

“Hello,” Nerdanel said softly to the boy sitting on the dinner table, his torn pants rolled up past his knees so she could clean the scrapes and cuts on his legs. “I’m Nerdanel. What’s your name?”

He had a tangled mess of dark brown hair, twigs and leaves sticking out from where they’d gotten tangled. His twin—so perfectly identically there could be no mistaking it—looked no better as he clung to Maedhors, held protectively in her eldest son’s arms.

“Elros,” The one in front of her said in a tiny voice roughened from whatever he’d gone through in the forest.

“Hello, Elros,” She set a wooden bowl half-full of warm water on the table next to him, then held up one of the soft green hand towels Fëanor wove last winter. “I’m going to clean up all these cuts and put a salve on that will help you feel better.”

“Elrond’s hurt worse,” The boy protested weakly, pointing one trembling finger at the drying blood on his brother’s face from a cut on his forehead. “I’m okay.” His voice shook almost as much as his hand.

“He’ll be okay, too,” She assured, dipping the cloth in the water and dabbing away the mud and blood on his shins. 

Liquid welled up in his eyes.

“Does it hurt too much?” She asked, softening her touch still further though she was already being as gentle as she would be with a newborn lamb or goat kid.

“Where’s our mom and dad?” he asked instead, tears forming tracks in the dirt on his face. 

That, she could not answer save to spare a glance up at her son. He shook his head slightly, either not knowing or not wanting to say until the twins were safely taken care of and tucked into a bed to rest. She feared the worst. They all heard the unnatural wind howling through the trees last night.

“You don’t worry about that right now,” She settled on, scooping two fingers into a jar of pungent, brown ointment. “You’re safe now. Just let the grown-ups worry about all that.”

He flinched when she wiped the numbing salve into the largest cut just under his right knee. She murmured soothing words to him as she worked.

As she finished, Caranthir came over with two mugs of tea made from the roots and bark of several useful plants she harvested every fall. He’d sweetened the drink with honey to hide the bitter taste for children, though he’d refrained from adding goat milk as she’d directed. Milk sometimes reduces the tea’s somnolescent properties. 

“Here you go,” She said, passing the mug to the young boy’s hands. “I want you to drink all of this while I take care of your brother. Can you do that for me?”

“Okay,” He whispered, raising it to his lips and sipping the warm drink.  

Outside, the sun sank down through the trees, casting a rose gold light across the land.

Fëanor paced in front of his second son, sitting on the step just outside the kitchen door so he could go in quickly if he was needed for something. Besides the two of them and the wandering chickens, the yard was deserted, everyone else away and busy: Celegorm left two days before to hunt an elk at Nerdanel’s request; Caranthir, Amrod, and Amras went into town; and Curufin took his son to catch fish for dinner. Fëanor’s skin itched at having them all so far apart.

“Where did you find them?” Fëanor asked, rubbing a twisted wood and hair figure between the fingers of his right hand to block unnatural ears from listening to the conversation.

It would watch the homestead closely for any sign of the children his sons stole from it. The scrutiny would wane eventually, but until then they must be extra vigilant in keeping it at bay. He’d need to make sure everyone remembered to wear their amulets and keep their talismans close to hand. Celebrimbor, especially, needed to be careful; small as he was he might easily be lured away. Fëanor clutched the figure tighter.

“About an hour passed Lone Lark peak,” Maglor reported. “We found them just before dawn and rode as hard as we dared to get back here.”

The slopes near Lone Lark were steep, with ample loose slate to send any unwary traveler tumbling down the mountain. 

Fëanor looked to the north, toward that spot, though there was no way to see it from this side of their mountain. Not so close then, but close enough for it to find them if it wanted the children. 

“We didn’t find their parents,” His son continued, his slim shoulders falling. “But I’m sure they’re dead.”

“Why?” He asked sharply. He had to know everything so he could keep the family safe.

Maglor looked up from the grass blade he’d been tearing into thin strips. “Mae found what’s left of the camp. It looked like a bear or a panther attacked them: shredded tent, claw marks on trees, a lot of blood. I can’t guess how those boys escaped and got all the way to Lone Lark.”

“No, no, don’t you see?” Fëanor asked, taking his son by the shoulders, one hand half clasped around the figurine. “Have I not taught you to recognize this? This is Its doing!”

The presence lurking in the trees finally struck again. 

“Whatever spared those boys, fate or luck or some greater power, it will come looking for them.”

A terrible feeling deep in his gut told him this was only the beginning of a great and dreadful awakening. 

Maglor’s mouth fell open.

“Did you do anything to hide your path back here? Tie mugwart to the horses’ feet? Burn vervain so the ashes fell before you?” He asked. 

“No,” Maglor whispered.

“You led it straight here!” Nowhere was safe or totally free from the creature’s reach, but he’d rather it didn’t know exactly where to come looking to finish them off. If the children saw it, it would surely be here soon, seeking to devour them entirely after that small taste. If only his sons hadn’t found them, or else had the sense to ward off any attention before bringing the foundlings home. He had only one choice now.

He unsheathed the sharp knife he kept on his belt.

Maglor stood suddenly, arms out, blocking the door. “Stop, Pa.” He commanded, his gentle voice turning hard. “They’re children. What are you doing?”

Fëanor raised the black knife and pointed it at his son. “Your hair,” He snapped.

“My hair?” The younger elf repeated, teetering on confusion as he realized he may have been hasty in his assumption of ill intent.

“Yes, I need it. Maedhros’ too—and the boys’.” He reached for his son’s long black hair as he spoke. “We saved Celegorm. We’ll save them, too.”

He failed Fingolfin, so many years ago. He wouldn’t let it claim these children too, not now that he’d learned so much.

Maglor untied his hair and bowed his head to Feanor’s blade.

“Something to obscure them, first.” He continued, the pattern and weave appearing in his mind. “Bind you four together to confuse its senses. You’ll need to wear the talismans at all times until I can weave them into the family’s protections.”

He took a handful of hair and severed it near the roots, then wound it several times around his hand, catching the wooden figure under the strands to keep it pressed to his skin. 

“I’ll start tonight, with the stars at their brightest.” He could not finish until Celegorm came back and he could take fresh hair from him, too. There was no telling how long that would be, but of all his sons, his third had the keenest senses for the terrible presence haunting the mountains. He may already be riding back toward the safety of their home.

Maglor opened the kitchen door for him, and they went inside. He quickly claimed what he needed from Maedhros and the two drowsy boys sitting on the table.