One of the Good Ones by sh3rry95  

One of the Good Ones 

Fingon, blinked and jolted, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. He remained still for a moment, trying to catch his breath and gather his scattered thoughts. His mind felt clouded, as though he had emerged with difficulty from an overly deep sleep.

Around him stretched a dense forest. The air was thick with the scent of moss and damp earth, and above his head the wind gently rustled the leaves in the branches.

With an effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Only then did he look down at himself.

A shiver of astonishment ran through him.

He wore a finely embroidered silver tunic, traced with delicate patterns that evoked bright stars in the night sky. The soft fabric brushed his skin gently, while a light cloak of deep blue fell over his shoulders.

It was surreal: he had not worn such garments in years.

The last time he remembered being dressed like this was during a banquet at his grandfather Finwë’s court, before the divisions within his family and the wars that followed.

He tried to summon his last clear memory, but for a moment his mind remained blank.

Then an image flashed into his thoughts with brutal clarity: the twisted grin of Gothmog3, Lord of the Balrogs, and the flaming whip lashing through the air as a searing pain in his right side forced him to double over.

He slowly brought his hands to his face and remained like that for a few moments, breathing quietly.

He was certain he was dead.

He heard them before he saw them: low voices, hurried footsteps.

He tensed instinctively, ready for danger, but the tension eased when two figures emerged from among the trees.

They were two elven children, identical to one another—and far too young to be wandering alone in that forest. Their faces and hands were caked with dirt, their cheeks hollow, their eyes sunken with hunger. Their silver hair was matted with sweat.

Fingon did not dare imagine what they might have endured.

They stopped abruptly when they saw him, frightened and weary.

One of them—the one on the left—began to tremble as his eyes filled with despair.

“Please don’t hurt us!”

he said in a broken voice, and then began to cry silently.

The other stepped in front of his brother and raised a stick toward the adult elf.

Fingon took a cautious step forward so as not to frighten them, opening his hands in a peaceful gesture.

“Do not fear, little ones. I am unarmed and would do you no harm. What are your names?”

The first one started to approach, still weeping, but the second held him back by the wrist.

“I am Eluréd,”, he said firmly. “This is my brother Elurín… , Do not… do not come any closer!”

His voice cracked on the last words.

Fingon nodded slowly.

“I will not, if that reassures you. My name is Fingon.”

Then he sat down a short distance away, on a rock protruding from the ground in the clearing.

Later, Fingon went to search for food and, when he returned with what the forest provided—wild berries, edible roots, and a few mushrooms he had carefully examined—he placed them in front of the children.

Eluréd approached cautiously and gathered the food with trembling hands, sharing it with his brother.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, Eluréd.”

Eluréd chewed the berries slowly, the tart juice stinging his tongue. They were sweet, but not like the ones his mother used to pick by the river, before everything turned dark and full of screams.

He glanced sideways at the elf—Fingon, he had said his name was—sitting not far away, his gaze fixed on the trees as though expecting something terrible to emerge from them at any moment.

His dark hair caught the filtered light through the leaves, and for a moment Eluréd thought of the elf who had dragged them into the forest, his voice sharp as a blade.

This elf, however, looked weary, as if he had seen too many things broken. And he seemed in no hurry to seize them or carry them away.

Elurín shifted quietly against him, resting his head on his brother’s shoulder.

“He has eyes like the stars Daddy used to tell us about,” the little one whispered, his voice still shaky but less frightened. “Maybe… maybe he’s one of the good ones…”

Eluréd did not answer right away. He gripped the stick tightly, his knuckles white. Good or not, he still did not trust him.

“Children, we should go,” said the elf, rising abruptly.

“Leaving this forest is the best thing we can do...” .

He stopped and added in a tone that reminded Eluréd of his mother when she spoke to them.

"How do you feel?"

His brother lifted his head from his shoulder.

“Better, sir. We are grateful to you.”

Eluréd nodded as well, and the gesture brought tears to his eyes. It had been days since anyone had shown them such kindness.

Seeing this, his brother squeezed his hand tightly, trying to give him strength.

“No trouble at all—let’s get moving.”

They walked in silence for a while. Eluréd held Elurín’s hand, keeping him close, occasionally glancing at Fingon. The elf was truly very tall and seemed to have stepped out of one of Grandmother’s stories—an elf of Valinor, one of those who sang to the stars before the world grew dark.

Then he heard it: a branch snapping, too loud to be an animal. Then another. And voices—low, guttural, in a language that scraped the ears.

Eluréd froze. His heart leapt into his throat as he tightened his grip on Elurín’s hand.

Fingon spun around. He said nothing: he simply seized a broken branch from the ground, snapped it sharply, and wielded it like an improvised spear.

The figures emerged: three, perhaps four orcs.

Eluréd backed away, pulling Elurín with him with a frightened cry. Then he covered his eyes.

He heard the whistle of air, a choked grunt, the thud of a body falling.

When he dared to look, Fingon stood among them: a fresh wound on his arm, blood dripping onto the silver tunic, but the pursuers lay on the ground, motionless.

Silence returned, broken only by Fingon’s labored breathing.

He turned toward them, his face pale but his eyes steady.

“Are you all right?”

Eluréd nodded slowly, tears streaking his dirty face without him realizing it. For the first time since they had fled Menegroth, he did not feel alone against the darkness.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Fingon smiled—a small, broken smile.

“Come on. It isn’t over yet.”

Eluréd watched the elf walk ahead of them—tall, silent, his dark hair stirring faintly in the wind.

Perhaps Elurín was right.

He really was one of the good ones.

For the first time in days, Eluréd thought that things might turn out well.

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