the future doesn't just happen, it gets built by atlantablack  

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the future doesn't just happen, it gets built

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According to myth, Napoleon loved licorice and cheated at cards.
He had beautiful hands.
He brandished his empire like a sword and changed the maps.
The future doesn't just happen, it gets built.
See what you can get away with.

Field | Richard Siken

☀︎

The Valar tell them that they cannot return to Beleriand and Elwing accepts this easily, for she has no reason to return. Sirion is destroyed, naught but ash and rubble and dried blood. The Fëanorians had kidnapped her sons and, she is sure, slain them before she and Eärendil even reached Valinor. There is nothing left for her there.

It takes four years for rumors to reach her ears that her sons likely still live. Four years of growing more and more comfortable shedding her body and joining the other birds in the sky. Four years of learning to listen with all of herself, not just her ears. Four years until the chittering amongst the birds coalesces into something that also makes sense when she is once more on two feet. 

It is, of course, all rumors and hearsay from wind-borne animals that don't truly understand the affairs of those on land but, she meets Eärendil’s eyes and thinks, if there is even a chance, I have to at least try, do I not? She speaks none of this out loud, barely dares to whisper it even between their marriage bond, and Eärendil does not ask, but that night he says mildly, “The sky is clear tonight. Will you sail with me? I find I would like the company.”

“Of course,” she tells him, very careful to keep all the names of the Valar out of her head. “I am always pleased to spend time with you, love.”

He smiles at her, and if it's a shade too sad, if the lines around his eyes look more like anxiety than laughter, well, neither of them mentions it. The sky is clear when they set out, the stars so very bright, and Beleriand unfolds beneath them like a tapestry. She holds no particular love for the land. Anything that she had once held dear is long gone now. Burned and ransacked and slaughtered, she cannot imagine still loving such a place.

But she fears, thinking the thoughts very quietly, if this works, if she rescues her sons, they will not be welcome back in Valinor. So, she may have to once again try to carve out a place for them to live in Beleriand—she falters here. Does not know how she is meant to do that all on her own. Knows she will try regardless because she must.

Eärendil looks to her when they reach the highest point of their journey, his face very conflicted, and she knows that if he were also given the gift of flight, he would follow. Cannot help but wonder if he won't try anyway, but does not dare ask when the wind may take the words back to their lord and give the plan away too soon. Instead, she hugs her husband tight, hoping that she is not once again sundering herself from him forever.

“Fly safe and true,” he whispers against her ear. “Tell them all my love has gone with you.”

She kisses him hard and fast, and then flings herself over the side of the Vingilot. For a long few minutes she simply lets herself fall, points her body like an arrow, and lets gravity do its job. The goal, of course, is to reach the ground and shelter as quickly as possible, before the wind becomes her enemy. When the first burst of wind buffets around her in warning she spreads her arms wide and catches the wind against her wings. Tucks them tight against her body and continues her downward fall.

For another minute the wind remains a warning only. Manwë has not yet realized what exactly it is she means to do. But slowly, the closer she gets to the ground, the faster the wind becomes. Until finally, the treetops so close, it becomes a storm, furious and flinging her to and fro as she furiously keeps her course best she can. She gets thrown away from the tree she’d been aiming for but only straightens herself out and heads for a different one.

She does, in the end, reach Beleriand once more. Perches on a sturdy branch and tucks her wing over her face to wait out the storm. Even Manwë cannot rage forever, and what's done is done. She has already arrived. They will either have to send someone to drag her back or leave her be. She dares them to try the first.

The next morning dawns blearily. It is a dreary day, clouds blocking the sun and a heavy mist hanging across the land, as if to directly shame her for her actions. She cares not. Momentarily changes back to an elf and perches on the branch, swinging her legs back and forth as she listens. She can feel, now that she’s in Beleriand proper and apparently within range, the slightest tug on the parent-child bond she has with the twins. It is very faint, so she must still be a great distance from them, but it is there. They are alive.

She drops from the branch and flies in the direction the bond had tugged her. Is careful to not fly too high in case Manwë decides to ground her again. Hopes that Eärendil is not being punished for what she's done. The bond grows stronger and stronger the farther she flies, and on the third day, she finds herself flying in circles, trying to pinpoint the exact spot, when she spots a fortress. Knows she has found the correct place even before she spots that blood-soaked star plastered on the elves patrolling.

She perches high up in a tree just outside of the walls. Does not want to risk one of the guards deciding she needs to be shot down. The fortress is just that, a fortress, and she has no idea where the twins are being kept. Hopes that it is not the dungeons and yet would not put it past the Fëanorians. She focuses hard for a moment, using a trick she normally only practices in the privacy of her room, and shifts from an eye-catching white bird to a small, brown finch. Unremarkable and far less likely to draw attention. It is not, precisely, a trick anyone but Eärendil knows she is capable of. She had found that the trick of becoming a bird did not seem to be an ability Ulmo had given her, only one he had awoken within her.

She flies closer to the fortress, circling it carefully, and then nearly falls from the sky in shock when she rounds a corner and finds, on the east side, the kinslayers leaning against a tree, watching as the twins sit in a patch of flowers. She perches in the tree the kinslayers are resting against so that she can hear them and studies the twins. They look…well. She cocks her head, blinks several times. Ruthlessly beats down the urge to just shift forms, grab them, and run. As if she would have any chance of escaping the kinslayers a second time within their own fortress.

The twins are laughing, talking quietly to each other, and from what she can tell, simply stringing flowers together in a chain. She cannot, she realizes in dismay, tell which twin is which. She used to know them apart instinctively, just from the way they spoke or moved or laughed. And now she cannot say for sure which is which.

One of them scrambles to his feet suddenly and comes racing over to the kinslayers, a crown of flowers clutched tight in his hand. She puffs up in alarm, wanting to yell that he should be running away from the kinslayers, not toward them, but all that happens is her son plops the crown on Maglor Fëanorian’s head and says, “I’m bored! Tell us a story?” If birds were capable of gaping, she would have. 

“Do we not tell you enough stories at bedtime?” Maglor asks, sounding amused.

The twin scrunches his face up. “But we’re bored.”

Maedhros sighs and reaches for her child as she ruffles her feathers in agitation. She does not feel better when all that happens is he settles the child in his lap. "Do you also wish for a story, Elrond?" he calls, answering her question of which is which.

Elrond looks up from the flowers he’s still stringing together and seems to consider the idea. “Which story?”

“I want to hear about Fingon the Valiant!” Elros says promptly, either ignoring or not noticing the way Maedhros tenses.

Elrond nods and ties his flower chain off, creating a crown. “Can we also hear the one about Naneth and Adar?” He asks, walking over and offering the crown to Maedhros, who obligingly bends his neck so Elrond can set it on his head. Elwing is going to peck the kinslayers' eyes out when she learns what lies they've been telling her children. She moves to a different tree so that she can gain a better view of everyone's faces.

The story is, to her surprise, not lies at all. Not quite truth, as part of it is clearly fabricated, but it is closer to the truth than she'd expected considering they have no way of knowing what truly happened after she fell from the window. In the version of the story they've created, she flies to Valinor all on her own, and only there reunites with Eärendil. They do not petition the Valar for an army but for safety for themselves and permission to return to Beleriand for their children. The reason they are taking so long to return, according to Maglor Fëanorian, is because the Valar are difficult to convince. But, Maglor says, they trust your adar to sail a silmaril through the sky, and so soon, they'll trust your parents to return and rescue you.

The twins are quiet throughout the story, and Elwing does not know if this is better or worse. That Maglor has been telling her children this story for who knows how long since they were kidnapped, and Elwing has only now done as he's promised them she would. And then, as if  her heart is not already aching far too much for how small it currently is, Elros says, “You know we don’t believe that story anymore, right?”

Maglor closes his eyes, and Maedhros says, sounding very tired, "Yet you still ask us to tell it."

Elros shrugs. “We believe most of it. Naneth obviously made it to Valinor since they have the Silmaril. But we're not babies; we know there's no way of knowing if Adar made it too.”

Elrond looks miserable at the thought. Maglor doesn’t look much better. Maedhros smooths Elros’ hair down and says, “And you do not believe she’ll come for you?”

“Do you think the Valar will let her?” Elrond asks quietly. “We listen to all the stories you tell us. Why would they let Naneth return but no one else?”

Elwing is going to scream. Ruffles her feathers again and almost leaps from her perch to change forms but restrains herself at the last second. She does not yet have a good enough grasp of the situation.

“But you believe that she would return for you if she could?" Maglor asks them, despairing and guilty-looking.

“Of course,” the twins say at the same time, both of them wrinkling their noses. She is, she decides, simply never going to let the twins out of her sight again once they’re all safe.

She sits in her tree and listens quietly as Maedhros and Maglor both proceed to tell stories that must have occurred so long ago the sun and moon had not even yet risen. They seem to have an endless supply of such stories, but eventually the twins droop, dozing off, and it falls silent. Neither of the Fëanorians make any move to get up, only sit there, a twin in each lap, as they stare at the sky. Elwing is slowly accepting, the relief so strong she nearly collapses, that the twins have not been mistreated at all.

They look well, she thinks again, the words holding more weight. They're clothed well. There was not an ounce of fear in them as they approached the Fëanorians or as they spoke to them. And even now, as they sleep, Maglor is still running his fingers through Elrond's hair, humming as he does so, and Maedhros has his only hand curled protectively around Elros' skull.

She weighs the odds carefully. She does not have the silmaril on her anymore. It is safely in Valinor with Eärendil. So, should she reveal herself, it stands to reason that they will not immediately cut her down, for she has nothing they want. It also stands to reason, that if they are being truthful in their care of the twins, they would not cut her down in front of them when they've spent years telling them she would return. It goes against every instinct she has to believe they are being truthful. She’d rather peck their eyes from their skull than believe they are capable of anything other than violence and bloodshed.

But she is finding it hard to reconcile that belief with the overpowering relief that the twins are safe and unharmed. They cannot be both cruel, unfeeling monsters and also two tired elves who seem to have protected and raised her children. She debates with herself until Maedhros and Maglor begin speaking of dinner and start to shake the twins awake. And then, despite her common sense telling her she is a fool, she flies just far enough away that they will not be able to cut her down when startled, and drops down to the ground, shifting back into an elf as she goes.

Their swords do come out at an alarming speed, and she takes an instinctive step back, throat tight with half-remembered fear. They also, she notes, immediately shove the twins behind them. It only takes them a handful of seconds though to recognize her, and Maglor's sword drops immediately, his mouth dropping open. Maedhros only narrows his eyes, his gaze sweeping over her in clear search of the silmaril. He does not look angry when he doesn't find it, only relieved.

Elrond and Elros are peeking out from behind them, eyes wide with recognition and disbelief. “Well,” Maglor says after another moment of tense silence, “it seems we all should have had more faith in your mother.”

"Prove it," Maedhros says, right as the twins begin to move out from behind them. He looks very suspicious, and his sword has not lowered an inch. The twins go still when he speaks. "You have been listening to us all day; do not deny it. How do we know you are who you're presenting as?"

She meets his eyes evenly, bares her teeth slightly as she says, "You held that sword to my throat and told me if I gave you the silmaril I wouldn't have to listen to my sons die screaming." The twins both flinch, but neither of them looks particularly surprised. "Told me I was no more a martyr than my father. That I thought I was being brave but that I was nothing more than a foolish child."

"Stop," Maedhros says. He does not look guilty, but he has gone very pale. His sword finally drops. "Go on," he says, this directed at the twins who are still staring at her with badly hidden hope.

She crouches down and holds her arms open, throat tight and eyes stinging. "Elrond," she says, his name coming out choked. "Elros." They hesitate for another moment before grabbing each other's hands and running forward. Neither of them slam into her arms as she'd hoped. Instead, they stop in front of her, and Elros narrows his eyes just as Maedhros had.

He stares at her face for a long moment and then says, “You actually came back,” in a perplexed tone.

“Of course I came back for you,” she says helplessly. “I did not know you were still alive or I would have come sooner.”

That seems to be all Elrond needs to hear, for he slams into her chest with a sob. Elros searches her face for another moment before following. She holds them close, lets her tears fall into their hair. They are so much bigger in her arms than they had been last time she'd held them. She wants to pick them both up and run. Wants to not stop running until they are far, far away. Does not know where she'd go.

The where had not been as important when she’d thought she would have to sneak the twins out from under the Fëanorians noses. Then it would have simply been a matter of running as fast as they could. Now. Well now, she is faced with the decision of taking her small sons out into the wilds where Morgoth’s monsters are or swallowing her pride and fury long enough to ask for them to stay here a while longer while she comes up with an actual plan. Or at the very least, determines where Gil-Galad or Círdan have gone so that she can beseech them for shelter.

Maedhros is still watching her, eyes narrowed in thought. Maglor though, is watching the twins, eyes bright with worry. She has backed herself into a corner, she realizes. Has nowhere to go and is not sure they will even let her leave with the twins.

“The Valar allowed you to return?” Maedhros asks suddenly, eyes very sharp. He looks like he already knows the answer. Elwing is terribly resentful that she cannot prove him wrong.

“My return was not precisely sanctioned,” she says tightly.

“Oh lovely,” Maglor mutters, “we are all now doomed twice-over.”

She does not let on how terribly those words scare her. Does not know what to do. Has the choice taken away from her when Elros abruptly breaks free of her arms and runs back across the clearing before she can catch him. Elrond turns slightly to watch but does not seem surprised at the move.

Elros grabs the bottom of Maedhros’ tunic and says something quietly that she cannot hear. Maedhros stares down at him for a moment before crouching down and responding, though infuriatingly, she still cannot hear what it is that is being said.

“Are you mad at us?” Elrond asks her quietly, drawing her attention away from the whispered conversation still going on.

“Mad?” she asks blankly. “Why would I be mad? I am terribly relieved that you are safe and well, but I do not have a reason to be mad at you.”

Elrond is quiet for a moment, eyes straying to his brother before he looks to her once more. "We do not hate them," he says quietly, sounding miserable and too old. "We did at first, and we tried to stay mad, but we could not."

Across the clearing, Elros stomps his foot and crosses his arms at whatever it is Maedhros is saying to him. Maglor is looking back and forth between Elrond and Elros with pursed lips. Elwing presses her lips to Elrond's hair and tries to not start crying. They are so young, and she does not know what to do. "I am not mad at you, Elrond," she says quietly, because this at least she does know. "I am happy you are alive. I am happy you are safe and unharmed."

He nods, his arms tightening around her. He's quiet as she watches Elros, worry swirling in her chest. It is only when Maedhros sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose that she stands and carefully takes two steps forward, tensing when their eyes snap to her. "What exactly is wrong?" she demands, thankful that Elrond doesn't leave her side.

“I don’t want to leave,” Elros says mulishly, glaring at Maedhros as he says it.

She blinks. Breathes in slowly and does not stomp her foot in anger as her son had just a few moments ago. "I see," she says after a moment, straining to keep the helplessness out of her voice. She looks down at Elrond questioningly, but he does not look back, only continues staring at his brother.

“Elrond doesn’t want to leave either,” Elros asserts, ignoring the scowl that earns him, though notably, Elrond does not actually deny the words.

The worst part, worse even than her children wanting to stay with the kinslayers, is that neither Maglor nor Maedhros has denied that they wish for the children to stay. Which leaves the decision resting on her shoulders. It perhaps should be comforting that the decision is in her hands; so often has she had her choices ripped from her.

It is not.

It is only another weight upon her shoulders that she does not want. She would much prefer for the kinslayers to be the monsters she has always believed them to be. To throw her and the twins from their fortress, to let her safely blame them for all that is wrong. But no one says anything at all.

Elros continues glaring up at Maedhros, though surely he must know that Maedhros ordering her to stay would not go over well. Maedhros continues staring back at her son, exasperation clear in the lines of his face. Elrond is watching Elros, still scowling, though what exactly he is scowling about Elwing is not quite sure. It’s only Maglor who is watching her, face pained.

She stares back, jaw set mulishly in a way that had often gotten her scolded as a child.

“You do not have to stay,” Maglor says after another brittle moment of silence.

“And where would we go? Is Círdan near? Gil-Galad?”

Maedhros is shaking his head before she finishes speaking. “No. It would be days of hard travel to reach them. More than a week, maybe two, if you traveled at an easier pace.” A pace suited for small children, he does not say, but she hears the warning regardless.

Is that not the decision already made for her then? Must she be forced to say it aloud? To admit that she cannot protect her own children without the help of those who destroyed their safety to begin with.

“We cannot leave today,” she says instead, “the night is too close.”

Elros screws his face up like he may start crying, and she can see his fist clenched tight in the fabric of Maedhros's cloak. Is that not the decision already made for her then, she wonders despairingly. She did not come all this way only to tear them away from the illusion of safety they have found. She had come because she wanted them to be safe.

Just because they were not in mortal danger as she had thought they would be does not mean the goal has changed.

"We can speak on the matter further in the morning," Maedhros says, rising and turning toward the fortress, the decision clearly made already in his mind. Elros stays clinging to his cloak, and Maedhros does not shake him off.

Maglor continues watching her, eyes straying to Elrond briefly before returning to hers. “We will not make you stay,” he says after a moment. “We have no reason to hold you prisoner.”

“No,” she says bitterly, “I’ve already given away that which you tried to kill me for.”

Elrond flinches slightly against her legs and Maglor grimaces. "Indeed." He glances at Elrond again, and then, that same pained look on his face that she is fast growing familiar with, he says, "Only, please, if you leave, let us send a guard with you. We would not have Elrond or Elros come to harm because you wished to leave."

She does not really see the difference between a Fëanorian guard and a Fëanorian jailer; both are unwanted threats. But she sees the logic in the request, and for the twins' sake she does not see how she can rightfully refuse. She says none of this, only gives a jerky nod. Maglor sighs but says nothing else, only moves to follow Maedhros inside, gesturing for them to follow.

Elwing draws in a deep breath, and Elrond’s hand clutched tightly in her own, she walks further into the kinslayers' home.

She has the sinking feeling, it will be a very long time before she walks out of these walls.

☀︎

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Chapter End Notes

An indeterminate amount of time later (days, months, years - unknown): Cue a huge crash from behind the Amon Ereb and when everyone rushes outside, weapons drawn, they find that Eärendil has crashed the Vingilot in their backyard :D landing a ship when Manwë is mad at you is, as it turns out, slightly harder than being a bird and fighting your way to the branch of a sturdy tree. -- I'm also on Tumblr!