b2mem | "Ruins and Silence" by Astris

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Title: Ruins and Silence
Author Name: Astris
Prompt: "On the appointed day, on the morning of Midsummer, the trumpets of the Eldar greeted the rising of the sun; and in the east was raised the standard of the sons of Fëanor, and in the west the standard of Fingon, High King of the Noldor." The Silmarillion, Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad
What if the outcome of one of the battles of Middle-earth was different? How would history have changed?
Summary: At the end of the Third Kinslaying, Elwing (presumed dead by most everyone) flees north. Twelve years later, Elros hears word of his mother's survival.
Rating: Teens
Warnings: allusions to violence (kinslayings)
Author's Notes: I most definitely plan to expand this story into a very long and involved AU, exploring the effects of this change in much greater detail. However, for now, Elros and Elwing's reunion may stand on its own.

Havens of Sirion, 538 Y.S.

Elwing falls, and the waves do not take her.

Elwing falls, a glittering jewel at her breast, and there is no burst of downy feather, no wind under a seabird's wings, only a cry of pain and blood on the rocks, light spilling from the jewel she clutches in both hands, the swell of the tide tugging at her legs.

The waves roar, the fury of the sea for the blood of Elwing's kin, the people of the Havens.

The kinslayer's cry of fury and despair is nearly drowned out by the noise, but Elwing knows enough to stay still, to hunch down behind the spray-soaked rocks and press her nose to the tangled weeds (hide as she did the last time they came, when her father fell and she ran away––at his word, but fled still).

He does not come down. Presumes her dead, perhaps, the rocks or the waves taking her and the Silmaril forever out of his reach.

She closes her eyes and breathes in salt and iron, agonizing pain from the leg crushed beneath her shattering the world into shining pieces, the Silmaril clutched in her hands warming to her skin. The light reminds her of sunlight through the leaves of Doriath and her mother's laughter.

(And far out at sea, a ship founders in the dark western waters, the waves tearing at the splintered hull. Far out at sea, darkness falls, and Eärendil's feet never touch the shores of Valinor.)

~*~*~*~

Amon Ereb, 550 Y.S.

Elros crossed the courtyard as stealthily as he could, holding his boots in one hand and padding across the rough cobblestones in his bare feet, staying close to the shadow of the wall. The vines that ran up the side of the buildings trembled as he passed, dew-soaked leaves brushing against his arms.

He reached the stables and let out a long breath, relaxing visibly as he eased the door shut behind him. The gray mare in the stall at the end pricked her ears up, whinnying softly as he slipped on his boots and hurried over to her.

"Shh, girl," he whispered, digging in his pocket for a lump of sugar he had liberated from the kitchen earlier that day. Mistatári mouthed at his hand, swallowing the sugar with a soft smack of her lips.

"You're out awfully late, brother."

Elros spun and nearly tripped over the saddle he had left out that afternoon. He recovered his balance, not quite sputtering out,"Elrond!"

His brother was just inside the next stall over, leaning against the door with his arms folded. How had Elros missed him coming in?

"Going somewhere?" Elrond asked, easing the stall door open with one hand, pressing down to muffle the squeak of the rusted hinges.

"How did you know?" Elros shook his head ruefully. "I thought I was perfectly secretive about the whole thing. Does everyone know?"

"Oh, I'm sure that Maglor never noticed, but it was clear enough to me––you're usually so fastidious about putting all your equipment away." Elrond's eyes flicked down to the saddle at Elros' feet, then back up again. "Still. I knew I would find you in here tonight––even guessed the time close enough that I only had to wait about half an hour for you to show up––but I couldn't figure out why you would choose to leave at this particular time, and with such secrecy."

"It was hardly a secret––"

"Hence the sneaking, I suppose."

"I wasn't––" Well. He supposed he had been, and Elrond had been standing rather close to a window in the side of the stable with a clear view of the courtyard that Elros had just so magnificently snuck across. "I just didn't want to have to explain myself," he finished, and it sounded weak even in his own ears.

"Well." Elros caught the twinkle of amusement in Elrond's eyes. "Since I seem to have cornered you, perhaps you may want to try to find that explanation you were so unwilling to create."

Elros sighed, leaning against his mare and running a hand through her mane idly. He wasn't even entirely sure that he himself knew why he was leaving now, but–– "We used to talk about leaving here and running away, remember?"

Elrond nodded. "And we would always realize that two children did not stand much of a chance in the Orc-infested wilds of Beleriand, yes. We are not so far out of childhood now, you know."

"Yes, I know that, I'm not––" Elros shook his head irritably. "That's not the point, Elrod. The point is that there is––the messanger who came from the west, remember?"

Elrond nodded, looking thoughtful.

"Well, she said something of the survival of some of the refugees of––of Sirion. Remember?"

"Yes, I do, but that was nigh on a month ago. And if there were refugees at some point, enough time has passed that they would have scattered, or found refuge among other people, so why––"

"She didn't say this in front of Maglor," Elros pressed on, "but I heard her speaking to one of the healers about fixing a long-broken bone beacuse––she said––there was one lady of Sirion who had been badly injured in the slaughter, whose leg had healed twisted and it was painful for her to walk, but––"

"Elros." Elrond's eyes widened.

"What if––" He swallowed, then: "Elrond, it could be. Don't pretend you wouldn't think so, if you had heard."

It could be her.

Elrond's face twisted. "There's no use going to find someone who left us. If she'd cared, even in the slightest, then wouldn't she have come back?"

It was an old argument, and Elros didn't have the time to trace those well-worn paths again. (If she knew––even so, wouldn't she have come––) "Regardless. With or without your approval, I plan on leaving."

"So you're riding north to look for someone who could be there, or could be dead, and you probably have no idea where exactly you're going to begin looking––"

Elros lifted his chin defiantly. "Yes. That's exactly what I'm going to do."

Elrond's mouth worked soundlessly, as though he was trying to figure out how best to dissuade his brother. Finally, he closed his mouth and shook his head helplessly.

"I'll do my best to throw Maglor off the trail, then," he said, sounding resigned.

Elros smiled. "Thank you, Elrond." He bent and picked up the saddle, tossed it over Mistatári's back. He cinched the straps tight, then retrieved his saddlebags from where he had stowed them that morning.

He led the mare between the stalls and out into the night air, boots scuffing on the hay-strewn floor. Elrond followed quietly, and leaned against the stable door as Elros swung one leg over the horse's back and nudged her forward.

"Be careful," Elrond called after him as they trotted out into the moonlit courtyard, Mistatári's hooves loud on the stones. Elros twisted around in his saddle, a grin spreading across his face.

"I always am, brother." He dug his heels in, urging his horse forward, through the open gates.

~*~*~*~

Havens of Sirion, 550 Y.S.

The boy on the horse came cantering up at about midday, hoofbeats audible long before he crested the horizon, tattered cloak streaming out behind him. Galadriel nearly smiled at the sight––young as he was, he was riding with impressive haste.

He dismounted at the bank of the river, surveying the rushing water with a look of dismay on his face. His horse pawed at the soft mud, dipping its head to investigate some of the weeds growing there.

Galadriel stepped from the shadow of the ruined building and cleared her throat. The boy (not so young, now that she was close enough to see, but still not fully grown) spun, startled.

"Sorry," he said, "I was just––" His eyes widened, startled recognition flashing in them. "Galadriel?"

"Elros," she replied, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I'm pleased that you recognize me, after all these years. Were you headed to Balar?"

"I––no, I was––" He shook his head, visibly confused. "How did you know I would be here?"

"And how do you know that I wasn't simply walking through the ruins of Sirion all on my own, with no intentions of running into a distant relative?" Galadriel shrugged. "Your brother sent a messenger bird. Something along the lines of my brother rides west, send him my regards."

Elros groaned. "I am perfectly capable of taking a journey without him watching over my shoulder, I do not need him to do such––things."

"I will tell him you said hello, then." Galadriel smiled. "So. Why such haste, Elros?"

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice as if seeking to keep a secret from the silent ruins. "I have heard rumors that––that some of the survivors of Sirion went north."

Galadriel nodded, schooling her expression to perfect blankness. "And if some of them did?"

"I thought that perhaps––I would find someone. In particular."

And did you think to consider whether or not that someone would wish to be found? "Refugees are many, in this land."

Elros made a noise of frustration. "Galadriel, surely you know who I mean."

Then say her name, child, and do not––of course I know, there is only one refugee that you or your brother would be interested in.

She raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. "Perhaps."

He bit his lip, shifting slightly, then burst out, "I want to find my mother, Galadriel, I want to find Elwing, is that enough for you?"

"And why––even if I knew where she was, which I cannot say for sure––would I tell such things to one who has been sheltered by kinslayers for the past twelve years?" She thought about what the others on Balar would say (the reason she had come alone, to the one place where she knew Elros would inevitably return to), and Gil-galad's disapproving face––we cannot trust anything that side of the family has touched.

And did he not think that she knew that already––better than him, perhaps?

Elros shook his head. "You don't understand. You could never––"

"I remember Doriath," Galadriel cut in, voice sharp, "and Sirion, perhaps better than you. I know the oathtakers. Tell me, Elros––why should I trust you any more than I would trust my cousins?"

The mournful cry of the wind filled the space between them, whistling through the fallen rubble.

Come on, Elros––it is simple enough, and then you may have what you wish and be on your way.

"I care nothing for them," Elros finally said, voice low and furious, "I will never forgive them for what they did, and I would never betray my kin as they did."

Galadriel made her decision in the space between one heartbeat and the next, and spoke before she could think on it a moment longer. "North. Where Turgon once ruled, there is a refuge for those who would have it. If your mother is there, I know not, but––if not there, then perhaps rumors of her death are true." She smiled ruefully. "Your mother is a hard woman to pin down. Always was, in fact."

Elros smiled gratefully, the expression making him look suddenly younger. "North. I can handle riding north, I think."

"Will you stay awhile, or will you ride on now?"

"Ride on," Elros said, and she nodded her approval. "Thank you, Galadriel."

~*~*~*~

Vinyamar, 551 Y.S.

Every morning, Elwing stood at the top of a wall that faced west, leaning against the edge and staring at the horizon as if searching for something. And every morning, Faeleth, once a soldier of kinslayers, accompanied her there. She spent a half hour in companionable silence when Elwing was in one of the moods where she refused to see anyone, or spoke with her of things gone by when she was more talkative.

(Sometimes Elwing would not even speak to her, but Faeleth stayed regardless––her right, after all, when Elwing owed her such a debt. A debt paid in blood, because Faeleth had been the one to find a broken elf at the base of a cliff, and had not been able to convince herself to leave her for dead.)

Today, Elwing's hands were clenched in her dress, fingers twitching slightly. Her mouth moved as she traced the thin line between sea and sky with her eyes, and Faeleth wondered if she was speaking to someone.

Your hands long for the Silmaril, as they always do––where do you keep it, Elwing, is it safe?

The princess of Doriath (a fallen kingdom––this world only had such rulers now, seemingly) did not sleep well at night. Not without her father's jewel, her grandmother's light. Faeleth had seen the light spilling from under Elwing's covers, the nearly peaceful slackness of her face when she slept with the Silmaril next to her.

"Elwing?"

Dark eyes darted towards her, Elwing's fingers tightening on the fabric. "What is it, Faeleth?" This is not your place to speak, her voice seemed to say, not here, the only place I can find peace when I need it.

Words trembled at the tip of Faeleth's tongue: You did not sleep last night, Elwing, what ails you?

"There was another Orc raid yesterday," she said instead, knowing that other words would only serve to drive Elwing further within herself. It had taken some time to learn that, but Faeleth had always been able to see the cracks in Elwing's still demeanor, the fury and bitter hatred that surged behind her eyes. Still there, after so long. (Perhaps always there.)

"I know that."

Faeleth nodded. "They have been getting bolder. The refugees who settled further west have been drawing back, closer to Vinyamar."

"They should have known that they were too close," Elwing said distantly. "Though I suppose we are always too close, here in this land."

"We should have helped," Faeleth insisted, voice even. Elwing knew as well as she that moving to Vinyamar had been as much a symbolic choice as anything else––and yet Elwing insisted on pretending that this was nothing, this place, and their presence nothing more than the barest survival.

(Faeleth knew much about symbolism, after all––had followed after elves who thought it everything until it turned to bloodshed.)

"We don't have the army for that. We don't have much of an army at all, in fact, and I do not think that fighting a few marauding Orcs is a good use of their time."

It was foolish to press this topic further.

Faeleth had never claimed to be wise.

"There are other armies in Middle-earth, Elwing, and others you could join with if you truly wanted protection––"

"No one on these shores can fight our fight," Elwing snapped, hands dropping to her sides. She twisted around to glare at Faeleth, the movement nearly dislodging one of the wooden crutches leaning against the battlement beside her. "Would you look west for salvation, then? Because the Valar have ever been deaf to our entreaties––and there comes a time when the wise person ceases to pray to the silence."

"That is not what I spoke of." And interesting, that you would jump to that, first––of what do you think when you stare at that horizon, Elwing?

Elwing snarled something under her breath, eyes sparking fiery anger. "There you go again, Faeleth, always playing that little game of yours––what have I said now, that tells you so much? Do you want me to speak of Valinor, and all the futility of appealing to the West?"

"If you wish to."

Elwing seemed torn between storming off and striking Faeleth––a common expression, when they spoke, though Faeleth was sure she had no idea why that would be. "I know of––there have been attempts to send word to Valinor. Whether any of them reached––would you rather think that my mother-in-law came to the very shores of the Blessed Land and found no help from the Valar, that the powers who were sent to protect us no longer care, or would you rather pretend that no one ever crossed the Sea, that the Valar don't know?"

"If they cared to know, they would." Faeleth could see the bubbling fury on Elwing's face, and wondered why she thought that was any better than the bitter emptiness, why she kept trying to get Elwing to scream out her rage. (Was fire, in the end, any better than the brittle glass she was otherwise?) "And it is said that not all of the Valar have forsaken us."

"Surely they know. Then the only answer––the only logical solution to this problem––" Elwing spat the word out, a clear mockery of Faeleth's calm, "––is that they do not care."

"Do you truly believe that?"

"I have seen nothing to convince me otherwise." Elwing drew back suddenly, icy calm snapping over her face like a mask. "What would you have me do? I will not cling to the shadow of a forgotten hope, a foolish faith that my ancestors thought likely. I do not believe in salvation from the West."

And you will not provide your own people with salvation, though they expect you––still––to have it.

Oh, Elwing.

Faeleth did not reach for Elwing's hand, did not wrap an arm around her in solidarity. She knew what she would feel––thin shoulderblades shaking beneath her touch, like a starving bird made of shining glass, fragile enough that she always feared that Elwing would shatter beneath her fingers, strong enough that she always feared being burned. (Illogical, and yet.) And Elwing would pull away, stubborn and frightened and desperate, and Faeleth would feel like it (she) was never enough.

"Is that what you wanted to hear?" Elwing sounded almost tired.

A horn blew from the ruined keep, cold and distant. Faeleth's head jerked up.

"East watchtower," she said, voice clipped. Another note sounded. "Rínilmë has the dawn shift, she must have sighted––"

Elwing reached for her crutch and stood, leaning heavily on the sturdy wood. Her left leg had healed almost completely since Sirion, but her right was twisted at an unnatural angle, foot dragging limply on the ground as she moved. Faeleth offered Elwing her hand instinctively, and Elwing jerked away.

"I'm fine." She started back along the battlement, towards where the crumbling towers of Vinyamar loomed beside the slopes of the mountain. Her crutch made a hollow noise every time it struck the stone. "Come, Faeleth, let us see what has decided to disturb our peace today."

~*~*~*~

The throne at Vinyamar stood empty for many decades, deserted by a king who sought refuge in a hidden city.

The throne at Vinyamar stood empty until Elwing walked through the doors (unsteady, but on her own feet) and sat down and ran her fingers over dust-covered arms and said mine.

Mine until this, too, falls.

There had been twelve of them then, refugees of Sirion who followed Elwing north, far away from their ruined home (and Faeleth, for whom it had never been a home, had still considered herself a refugee––traitor, too, but refugee nonetheless). More had come. More always came, because promises of safety were rare in this land, and Balar was too far south and an island besides. There had even been some descendents of Hador, fleeing from the Easterling hold on Hithlum; families from Brethil leaving the progressively more Orc-infested south.

A place of safety, if those still exist, Elwing once mused, tapping her fingers idly on the edge of the throne. The golden crest above her head was missing a good portion of the inlayed stone and metal, scraps of glittering silver littering the dais. Elwing did not see fit to clean her throne, nor did she wish any to do it for her.

Ruined thrones for ruined princesses, she told Faeleth in one of her darker moods. A decaying keep is perfect for someone like me, don't you think?

Today, Elwing swept a layer of dust from the seat before lowering herself into it, dropping her crutch beside the throne. She arranged her dress carefully before nodding to the soldier stationed by the door.

The door creaked open.

Faeleth's first thought on seeing the lone figure standing there was one of relief––it was not another refugee group, hungry and frightened and followed by a host of enemies, it was not a messenger with tidings of a raid. But there was something about the way the elf entered the hall, eyes fixed on Elwing, and something about the way his eyes flashed back the light as he approached, halted a few steps from the dais––

She recognized that light with a flash of fear. Ah, Elbereth, no––

(Where are my sons, Elwing had snarled, throwing Faeleth's hands from her, the bandages at her side spotting red as her wounds broke open again, where––)

"Mother."

Elwing's hands clenched on the throne arms, fingers digging into the splintered wood. Faeleth didn't dare look at her.

(Dead. The Fëanorians took them. And if not dead now, then as soon as they realize they are useless as hostages.

Elwing's face, twisted with rage and grief, they would dare––)

"Mother," Elwing's son said again, made an abortive movement, as though about to step closer. "It's––it's me. Elros."

Faeleth heard Elwing swallow, then: "Elros."

The boy nodded, eyes eager. "Yes, I––I came from the south, when I heard that you might be alive, I came as soon––"

"And where," Elwing cut in, "have you been these past twelve years?"

Elros fell silent. Faeleth could feel the tension in the woman beside her, see it in the way her hands were still tensed around ancient wood, muscles corded tight. And still didn't dare look down at Elwing's face.

"After Sirion fell, Maglor Fëanorion took us in," Elros finally said, and there was a muttered curse from one of the guards, the sound of a sword being loosened in a sheath. Elwing's hand jerked, a piece of wood splintering free, blood welling up from a shallow gash across her palm.

"Kinslayer," Elwing hissed under her breath, then, louder, "And your brother––is Elrond still alive?"

Elros nodded.

"And your hosts––have they corrupted you, as well? Would you be so willing to kill your own kin for the sake of something––"

"No!" Elros started forward, frantic, and Faeleth's dagger flashed free of her belt, words of warning rising in her throat. Elwing's hand shot out, seizing Faeleth's wrist.

"Words are but empty air," Elwing said, deceptively calm, keeping her eyes on Elros. "Why have you come, if not at the kinslayer's whim?"

"He didn't––I never asked permission to go, they don't even know that I left Amon Ereb," Elros protested.

Amon Ereb, the soldier in Faeleth noted, Maglor and his soldiers––and likely Maedhros, as well. Far to the south, but it was always good to know where one's enemies were.

"Don't they? How do you know they haven't tracked you here, trusting in you to lead them to this place, to––" She stopped short of saying to me, did not quite say to the Silmaril. "You have come, yes, but how can you expect me to trust you?"

Surprise and hurt flickered across Elros' face, and Faeleth couldn't help but think of the cold anger Elwing would have thrown back instead. "But you have to––"

"I do not have to trust anyone, least of all one who has been fostered by kinslayers all these years."

Elros seemed to deflate slightly, brow furrowed with confused hurt. "Mother, you don't understand."

"Then pray explain your version of the situation to me, because I find it more than clear," Elwing snapped.

"I came looking for you because I wanted to see you, because all these years I thought you dead and to find that you were not was––" Elros swallowed before continuing, as though the words were being dragged from him. "I had to come, mother."

And do you think that you were the only one who mourned, the only one who would have gone looking if news came? Faeleth risked a glance at Elwing, nearly opened her mouth to tell her it was fine, that Elros was a stranger but it was clear that he was not lying, that Elwing did not have to pretend that she did not care, but it was not her place to say that and she––

(They're dead, she had said, and it had not been a lie, it had been a natural conclusion from what she knew of the brothers of her dead lord, but here was Elros and here was Elwing and in the end––)

Elwing, I'm so sorry.

"So you have come," Elwing replied cooly. "What do you think?"

"I think..." Elros' eyes darted to his mother's grip of Faeleth's wrist, keeping the knife pointed at the floor, and dared another step forward. "Mother, can we speak somewhere––privately?"

"No. Whatever you have to say, you may say it here."

Elros' face hardened. "Very well. You wish the truth from me? Every since Sirion, after the sons of Fëanor with the blood of our kin on their swords found my brother and I and told us that you had jumped, that you had abandoned us to keep a jewel from them, Elrond and I have been alone."

Faeleth wrenched free of Elwing's hand, starting down the steps towards Elros, seeking to silence him, keep him from continuing to shatter Elwing––

"Faeleth!" Elwing's voice cracked like a whip, stopping her dead in her tracks (and every time, Elwing seemed to snarl, you forget that I do not need you to protect me, have never––)

"And we thought you dead," Elros continued, voice rising, "we thought you dead, and when we were offered kindness, any kindness, we took it––because who would not, who could help that, even if it were offered with bloody hands––but I always wished––" His voice broke, and he stumbled up the last steps, fell to his knees in front of Elwing, hands clutching at the fabric of her dress.

Elwing did not meet his eyes.

"Mother, please." Elros lowered his head, buried his face in his mother's lap, and Faeleth could see his shoulders shudder, a broken noise muffled by Elwing's skirt.

"I abandoned you," Elwing said, nearly inaudible, "abandoned, you say, to murderers, and you––"

Elros shook his head, tightening his grip on her.

"I will not beg you for forgiveness." Elwing jerked upright, her bad leg folding beneath her as she moved, and she barely caught herself. Her hands shot to Elros' shoulders to steady herself, and Faeleth caught the anger that flickered across her face. "Whatever you sought when you came here, I cannot give it to you."

Elros shook his head, a bewildered smile breaking across his face. "Mother, I only––I only wanted to see you."

Elwing's mouth snapped shut, something unreadable crossing her face.

"Will you let me stay awhile?" he asked, not stirring from his knees, craning his neck upward to peer at his mother. Elwing's body was trembling like a tight-strung wire, her hands on his shoulders digging in.

(where are my sons)

"You may stay," Elwing finally said, the words clearly forced from her. She pulled away, just barely catching herself on the throne. Faeleth started forward, but froze at the glare Elwing shot back at her, fierce and flaming higher.

The echo of Elwing's crutch on the cracked marble floor followed her out of the room, leaving Elros there at the foot of the throne.