Elrond at the Fourth Kinslaying
Elrond is listening to Gil Galadâs lungs following the discovery of noxious gases gathering in the lower pits of Angband when a sudden shout catches his attention.
âHealer! Need a healer! Healer!â
Elrond is out of the High Kingâs tent in an instant, boots abandoned in his haste as he sprints towards the call for his services.
Elrond finds the screaming elf outside the Maiar Eonweâs tent, situated far from the hastily erected field hospital where most healer spend both their days and their nights. âHealer,â he reassures, one hand gesturing to himself, the other pulling a pair of supple leather gloves from his pocket. His eyes dart around the scene, cataloguing.
Five guards are now five patients.
He kneels in the too-large pool of blood besides the guard closest to him, placing two fingers on the guardâs neck.
Gil Galad appears at his side, panting slightly. âWhat do you need?â
âââââââââââââââââââââââ
Thirty minutes later, Elrondâs gloved hands drop to his sides, surrendering to the fact that five guards are now five corpses.
âThat one put up a good fight,â Gil Galad says, gesturing towards a body with his chin. The guard had tried to press down on his own wounds in the time that it had taken for Elrond to arrive, but alas, he too had died from blood loss with one hand gripping the fabric of Elrondâs trousers.
âHe did,â Elrond agrees, but Gil Galadâs thoughts are already far away. Morgoth is defeated and his servants have largely been killed or captured, so whoâ
Sudden shouts of âKinslayers!â and, âBastards!â erupt in the distance.
Elrond sprints barefoot though the filthy mud of the war camp towards the commotion, the High King close behind him. âNot them,â he prays, âdo not let it be them.â In his heart he suspects the truth, however, that the remaining sons of Feanor, his adoptive fathers, the men who raised him and his brother as their own, have just taken five innocent lives in service of their doomed quest.
He pushes his way through the crowd that has formed around the base of a jagged spire of stone that had recently been thrust up from the unsettled ground. Trapped by the drawn swords of angry elves on three sides, with a sheer wall of stone to their backs, are Maedhros and Maglor. Each holds a sword, swinging wildly any elf that dares to approach, and Maglor clutches a small, lead-lined box to his chest.
âAtya!â screams Elrond, shoving aside the well meaning hands that try to hold him back. âAtto!â
Gil Galadâs arms wrap around his waist and Elrond elbows him to get away. He breaks through the half circle of armed elves, running towards his fathers, only to be stopped short by Maedhrosâ blade against his throat. âAtto?â he asks, love and fear and rage drawing tears from his eyes. âWill you kill me like you killed those Vanyarin boys, Atto?â
Gil Galad tries to step into the no-manâs land between the crowd and the sons of Feanor, but is quickly warned away by Maglorâs sword. âCome here, Elrond,â the High King mutters. âJust come here.â
Maedhrosâ bright eyes flick to Gil Galad. âGo to him, Elrond,â he says softly.
âWill you kill me like you killed my mother?â Elrond lets his voice sound younger, lilting, the voice of a little boy asking for more desert. It is satisfying to watch Maglor flinch.
âElrond,â Maglorâs once-perfect voice is hoarse with emotion, âyou must go from here.â
âAnd let you kill as many of them as you can before they inevitably kill you?â Elrond hears the crowd shifting behind him to let someone through. âI think Iâll stay.â
âElrond, come here. It is your kingâs command,â Gil Galad tries. He is ignored.
âPut down your swords,â Elrond commands his fathers.
âAnd let them tear us apart defenseless?â Maedhros asks. Still, he moves his sword away from his sonâs neck.
Elrond turns to face the crowd and notes that Finarfin and Eonwe has appear beside Gil Galad. Every eye is trained on him. âHave you not seen enough bloodshed?â he asks them, somber voice carrying through the crowd. âWould you become kinslayers yourselves?â
âJustice,â says a young Telerin elf that Elrond recognizes as Finarfinâs secretary. âThey should be brought to justice.â
Elrond locks eyes with him. âWould you sacrifice more innocent lives for justice?â The secretary is silent. âLet them surrender their swords. Let this end.â
Behind him, Maedhros laughs, a cruel, broken sound. Elrond turns, mud squishing between his toes, pulls off his bloodied gloves, and throws them in his fatherâs face. âLet this end,â he says.
âAnd the Silmarils?â Maglorâs voice is desperate.
Elrond hesitates. âThey are yours,â declares a voice behind him. âLet this end.â The speaker is Eonwe himself, Elrond realizes, with no little amount of wonder.
Maedhros and Maglor share a glance, then slowly, hesitantly, they set their swords on the ground and kick them aside. Both of Maglorâs hands clutch the box with the Silmarils to his chest. âMay you always be loved,â Maedhros whispers to his son with a finality that Elrond will not realize until much later. At a command from Eonwe, the crowd parts, elves lowering their swords in relief.
âMay you always know light,â Maglor says, his fingers brushing his sonâs shoulder before he and Maedhros are gone, sprinting into the wasteland beyond the war camp.
