Silmarillion fic -- A New Star
A short sketch of Elrond and Elros when they are boys being raised by Maedhros and Maglor in Amon Ereb.
The rain is beating against the walls of the fortress of Amon Ereb, and Elrond looks up from his paints as the wind shifts, throwing rain against the half-open shutters and splattering across the stone floor. It’s across the room from where he works, so he bends his head over his brushes again. He’s drawing devices, limning each carefully from his box of hoarded paints. Here are the water lilies of Doriath done in pale green and white, darker green around the outside. Here is the flame of the House of Hador, the harp and brand of Nargothrond. Here, in blue and gold and scarlet, is the encircled spiral of Fingon, High King of the Noldor that was. He traces the center carefully with its thin, fine lines.
His brother, Elros, leans over his shoulder, pushing his dark hair back so it doesn’t drip on the parchment. “None of those are likely to do us much good,” he says. “They’re all dead and gone.”
Kingdoms that are lost, men who are dead - all the more reason to trace their devices on parchment. “True enough,” Elrond says.
His brother slides onto the bench beside him, restless energy trapped indoors by the rain. He has less patience than Elrond, but he knows all the stories too. He just sees no reason to draw the devices of the dead. “I don’t see the Star of Feanor.”
“I don’t need to draw it,” Elrond says. “We see it all the time.” That banner flies above Amon Ereb, the twelve-pointed star silver on sable, the most dread banner in Middle Earth. After all, Morgoth needs no banners.
Elros leans a moment against his back, and Elrond puts the brush aside so that he will not inadvertently touch the paper in the wrong place. “When we go to war,” Elros says thoughtfully, “What banner will we fight under?”
Not the Star of Feanor. It may be the device of their foster-fathers, Maedhros and Maglor, but it is also the device that laid low Doriath, that destroyed the Havens. It is the banner of their enemies.
“I’ve been considering that,” Elrond says. He glances sideways at his brother. “I’ve been drawing the alternatives.”
“Of course you have!” Elros sits up abruptly, turning so he can see the paper more clearly. “That’s what this is. Every device we have claim to.”
Doriath, the banner of their grandfather Dior. The Flame of the House of Hador, their other grandfather Tuor.
“I don’t think we can do this one,” Elrond says, pointing to Turgon’s. “That’s the device of Gondolin, and while we might be fairly called heirs to Gondolin, since it doesn’t exist anymore that seems inappropriate.”
“The same is true of Doriath,” Elros says, pointing at the water lilies. “Mother never used it. I like Hador. That one is pretty.”
“Are we Men then?” Elrond’s eyebrows rise. “Or are we Elves? That’s a mortal banner. And nobody’s carried it since the Battle of Unnumbered Tears eighty years ago.”
“We certainly can’t claim Nargothrond,” Elros says sensibly. “What, our great-great uncle? Besides, isn’t there an heir to that device? Ereinion or something?”
“There might be, if he’s alive.” Elrond shrugs. There is almost no one in their generation, a fact not lost on them.
“I think we need our own banner,” Elros says. “You could draw it and we could use it.”
“Just make one up?”
“Why not?” Elros leans on him in a companionable fashion. “We’re our own House. The two of us. We’re not any of these things. We can decide who we’ll be.”
The idea has a certain appeal. Instead of honoring the dead endlessly and unceasingly, they could make their own. “What would it look like?” Elrond asks, but as he does the world tilts, that familiar off-center feeling of his foresight. This is important.
“I don’t know,” Elros says. “Not the flame of Hador, but something hopeful. Something to set a course by.”
“A star,” Elrond says.
“But not the Star of Feanor. A mariner’s star, like our father.”
He can see it in silver then, a rayed brooch on blue velvet. “Eight points, not twelve.”
“On blue instead of black.” They’re in agreement as they usually are, working from the same mental picture.
“Yes,” Elrond says. He picks up the charcoal and begins sketching on another sheet, drafting out the lines, bold and sure. An eight pointed star, silver on blue.
“A star to guide ships,” Elros says. “A star to lead you out and bring you home.”
“To be hope in the night,” Elrond says. “Because we are a House of two.”
Elros smiles. “Not for long,” he says.
The rain is beating against the walls of the fortress of Amon Ereb, and Elrond looks up from his paints as the wind shifts, throwing rain against the half-open shutters and splattering across the stone floor. It’s across the room from where he works, so he bends his head over his brushes again. He’s drawing devices, limning each carefully from his box of hoarded paints. Here are the water lilies of Doriath done in pale green and white, darker green around the outside. Here is the flame of the House of Hador, the harp and brand of Nargothrond. Here, in blue and gold and scarlet, is the encircled spiral of Fingon, High King of the Noldor that was. He traces the center carefully with its thin, fine lines.
His brother, Elros, leans over his shoulder, pushing his dark hair back so it doesn’t drip on the parchment. “None of those are likely to do us much good,” he says. “They’re all dead and gone.”
Kingdoms that are lost, men who are dead - all the more reason to trace their devices on parchment. “True enough,” Elrond says.
His brother slides onto the bench beside him, restless energy trapped indoors by the rain. He has less patience than Elrond, but he knows all the stories too. He just sees no reason to draw the devices of the dead. “I don’t see the Star of Feanor.”
“I don’t need to draw it,” Elrond says. “We see it all the time.” That banner flies above Amon Ereb, the twelve-pointed star silver on sable, the most dread banner in Middle Earth. After all, Morgoth needs no banners.
Elros leans a moment against his back, and Elrond puts the brush aside so that he will not inadvertently touch the paper in the wrong place. “When we go to war,” Elros says thoughtfully, “What banner will we fight under?”
Not the Star of Feanor. It may be the device of their foster-fathers, Maedhros and Maglor, but it is also the device that laid low Doriath, that destroyed the Havens. It is the banner of their enemies.
“I’ve been considering that,” Elrond says. He glances sideways at his brother. “I’ve been drawing the alternatives.”
“Of course you have!” Elros sits up abruptly, turning so he can see the paper more clearly. “That’s what this is. Every device we have claim to.”
Doriath, the banner of their grandfather Dior. The Flame of the House of Hador, their other grandfather Tuor.
“I don’t think we can do this one,” Elrond says, pointing to Turgon’s. “That’s the device of Gondolin, and while we might be fairly called heirs to Gondolin, since it doesn’t exist anymore that seems inappropriate.”
“The same is true of Doriath,” Elros says, pointing at the water lilies. “Mother never used it. I like Hador. That one is pretty.”
“Are we Men then?” Elrond’s eyebrows rise. “Or are we Elves? That’s a mortal banner. And nobody’s carried it since the Battle of Unnumbered Tears eighty years ago.”
“We certainly can’t claim Nargothrond,” Elros says sensibly. “What, our great-great uncle? Besides, isn’t there an heir to that device? Ereinion or something?”
“There might be, if he’s alive.” Elrond shrugs. There is almost no one in their generation, a fact not lost on them.
“I think we need our own banner,” Elros says. “You could draw it and we could use it.”
“Just make one up?”
“Why not?” Elros leans on him in a companionable fashion. “We’re our own House. The two of us. We’re not any of these things. We can decide who we’ll be.”
The idea has a certain appeal. Instead of honoring the dead endlessly and unceasingly, they could make their own. “What would it look like?” Elrond asks, but as he does the world tilts, that familiar off-center feeling of his foresight. This is important.
“I don’t know,” Elros says. “Not the flame of Hador, but something hopeful. Something to set a course by.”
“A star,” Elrond says.
“But not the Star of Feanor. A mariner’s star, like our father.”
He can see it in silver then, a rayed brooch on blue velvet. “Eight points, not twelve.”
“On blue instead of black.” They’re in agreement as they usually are, working from the same mental picture.
“Yes,” Elrond says. He picks up the charcoal and begins sketching on another sheet, drafting out the lines, bold and sure. An eight pointed star, silver on blue.
“A star to guide ships,” Elros says. “A star to lead you out and bring you home.”
“To be hope in the night,” Elrond says. “Because we are a House of two.”
Elros smiles. “Not for long,” he says.