Chapter One

Elrohir

Elrohir bit his lip hard as the whip came down again, this time across his shoulders. The only sound that escaped him was a tiny moan, lost in the taunts of the Orcs.

Snap!

He fell sideways, landing hard in the dirt. Rough hands snatched at his hair, pulling him back onto his knees.

He did not make a sound.

Then a fist slammed into his face, sending him reeling. A weak cry jerked from his lips as he curled instinctively, covering his head with both arms. He was yanked up again, and the blow repeated. This time he made no effort to hide his pain, his anguished cries echoing through the lofty trees, losing themselves in the empty glades.

He could not take anymore such blows. His head rang, the pain overpowering. The Orcs stood over him menacingly, laughing at his weakness, their lips drawn back in hideous sneers.

Then clear, Elven voices rang through the air, and there was a noise like thunder. Lights flashed before his eyes, and the last thing he saw was a face close to his. Grey eyes, darkened in rage and grief – a face so familiar and loved that he could not have forgotten it in a thousand years.

Elladan.

He was safe.

He could not breathe. He was drowning in a sea of pain, and there was nothing between him and the void of death drawing closer and closer. The faces of his family flickered before his eyes, all slipping by despite his desperate attempts at restraining them. And now his one greatest fear was fulfilled: he was completely and utterly alone.

"Elrohir... Elrohir..."

Distant voices cried his name over and over, but they faded as did everything else. His back was burning with a horrible pain; his rasping breaths grew steadily weaker. Blood rose in his mouth, and tendrils of black swirled through his vision. He choked and writhed as the blood trailed down his cheek, leaving a frightful metallic taste behind. He coughed, his throat flaming at the harsh escape of air, and more blood flooded his mouth. Struggling to draw breath, he began to panic as he inhaled nothing.

He sent out a last desperate call to his twin, though he could no longer feel their bond. Elladan, where are you?

No answer.

Elladan had gone – Elladan, who had sworn they would be together always. His twin had left him. He was alone. And with one last gasp, he stopped breathing.

Then a voice came clearly to his ears as his eyes darkened. It ripped through the blackness as a knife slashes through silk.

"Elrohir!"

His eyes flew open, only to be met with a blinding light. He coughed and gasped, struggling through the wave of renewed pain, drowning under its might.

It was all over.

"Elrohir, please!"

I'm so sorry...

He writhed away from the pain, crying out in agony. His back hurt so much, it verged on unbearable. It was of no use to fight.

Let me go...

"Elrohir, I cannot, please stay!"

So easy to give in...

The darkness closed in again, and Elrohir jerked convulsively in an effort to escape it. He did not want to die thus – shaken by terror and pain, alone and unloved...

You do not have to die, títhen muindor.

His head flew up, and he lay trembling in the dark. Elladan?

You are not alone.

A sensation he had not felt in what seemed like an age; a connection long closed... Was it a dream?

You are not unloved.

He shook in the grip of bitter agony, tears streaming down his face as he pitted the last of his strength against the blackness.

Elladan, he pleaded, I beg of you, let me go.

There was a pause, but their bond was filled with Elladan's love.

And I will not let you go.

He opened his eyes.

At first he could see nothing, so blurred were his eyes. But as they cleared, he saw the light, and the dark figures that stood grouped about his bed. So many... but he saw only the one closest to him.

Elladan. Who had not left him. Who was, and had been, and who always would be, there.

He gazed desperately at his twin, memorising again every beloved feature – the storm-coloured eyes torn with nameless emotions, the determined chin: all tokens of the stubborn personality that had pulled him from the darkness. All of a sudden his throat was so tight he choked on the breath he had tentatively taken, and his tears fell again.

Arms, more gentle than the wind on a summer's night, slipped beneath him and cradled his battered body close. Elrohir let his head fall back onto Elladan's shoulder, and, his spirit protected by his twin's fëa, he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

"Oh, Elrohir..."

The heartbreaking moan tore everybody's eyes from Elrohir's face. Elladan rocked back and forth, unabashedly crying, holding his twin as though he never wanted to let go.

Elrond was the first to react, tugging his son into his embrace and shielding Elladan's quivering form with both arms. Elladan leaned heavily against his father, soaking him with his tears, his strength completely exhausted.

Elrond murmured soothingly into Elladan's ear, hoping Elrohir would not wake. But thinking of his younger son reminded him of what the Orcs had done to Elrohir, and he seethed with rage.

In the years after Sauron's defeat, the roaming Orc bands had significantly decreased, but a few could still be found in the mountains, or concealed deep in the woods. On a solitary ride over a week before, Elrohir had been taken captive by one such company, and tortured cruelly.

Driven by rage at their lord's defeat, the Orcs had tried to kill Elrohir – literally. They had struck him and whipped him with all the brute force of their combined strength, crushing his once-vibrant spirit. If Elladan's patrol had not chanced upon the band, hearing the cries, Elrohir would have died.

Elrond cringed merely to think of the anguish of those first few days. Fortunately for Elrohir, he had been unconscious for the most part, else the pain might have proved too much right at the beginning. But for the rest of them it had been a nightmare, one from which it seemed they still had not awoken. Oh Eru, he prayed, let our waking come soon.

The sudden silence startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked down. The expression on his face morphed to a nostalgic smile: Elladan had fallen asleep leaning against him, managing to calm his twin's restless mind while accepting his father's comfort at the same time. Elrond knew his son must be exhausted. Elladan had probably not slept since Elrohir had gone missing, and certainly not since his twin's rescue.

Elrond leaned over to lower his son to the pillows, loosening Elladan's arms about his twin so he could lift Elrohir onto his own lap. Elrohir sagged against him, half-wakening as Elrond's hand smoothed over his back. A tiny whimper of pain escaped his lips, and he buried his face against his father's tunic.

Elrond began to sing softly, his voice a soothing balm to Elrohir's ears, and he gradually relaxed into his father's embrace. Elrond continued his song, slowly pulling aside Elrohir's tunic to check the bandages.

Elrohir's back was jaggedly torn, yet despite the urgings of Aragorn and Galadriel, Elrond had not attempted to stitch the wounds closed. The ferocious nightmares that haunted Elrohir, even while awake, made it nearly impossible for him to lie still for very long at all, and Elrond knew that the ripped stitches would only cause more pain for his precious child.

Even though the chances of Elrohir recovering if the gashes were closed were larger than if they were left open, Elrond harboured a creeping suspicion that something was keeping him from healing, and that closing the wounds would not help in any way. As yet there were no signs of infection, but he would hate to have to undo all the painstaking work required in stitching if he would have to lance it again to release the trapped pus.

Aragorn's sudden hiss of concern pulled Elrond from his morbid cogitation, and his eyes quickly focused. He let his hand hover over the marks, sensing the scorching pain they caused, but then his eyes fell on something else, and he let out a horrified cry.

On Elrohir's back, covering it entirely, the angry red welts slashed across the otherwise pale skin – and, spreading in all directions, were black lines, stretching like claws from the multitude of bruises. Poison.

In his arms Elrohir jerked upright. Elrond turned to the child he held; an unspoken communication passed between them, and Elrohir sank back. With his one free hand, Elrond tenderly stroked the sweat-streaked hair from Elrohir's face, and the younger Elf sighed, leaning into the touch.

Once he had calmed Elrohir, Elrond gazed at the small group about the bed with a mixture of helplessness and pleading in his expression.

"Fresh bandages," Glorfindel said with an encouraging smile, and strode out the door.

There was a slight rustle, and Galadriel knelt by her grandson, holding one of his burning hands in her cool fingers. Then Celeborn came and stood behind his wife, resting his hands on her shoulders, and both of them poured their love and strength upon the injured Elf.

Elrond felt a graceful presence beside him and he looked up to see Arwen, her worry transcending to love as she bent over her brother.

"Aragorn?"

The King stepped forward beside his wife. "Is there something you would have me do?"

"Search all the books on poison from my library. This one thins the blood and keeps the wound open, but I do not remember having encountered it before." Elrond did not glance up, his concerned eyes tracing the insidious black lines.

As Aragorn left the room, Glorfindel returned with the bandages and a pitcher of warm water. Elrond murmured a brief "Hannon le" as he took them from the warrior, setting the bandages by his side as he carefully lowered Elrohir back onto the bed.

Glorfindel bent over his old pupil with a worried smile, brushing his knuckles lightly across Elrohir's cheek. "Listen to your adar, elfling, and remember all I taught you!"

Elrohir's eyes fluttered open and he caught Glorfindel's hand in his, squeezing it weakly. Galadriel moved aside a little to make room for the warrior, and Glorfindel knelt by the bed, wrapping Elrohir's limp hand in both his own.

Elrohir flinched away as Elrond lifted the bandages from his back, biting his lip hard to stifle his involuntary gasp. Galadriel stroked his forehead gently, whispering tenderly into his ear as she used the contact to strengthen her grandson.

Elrond heard the skin tear as he pulled the bandages away as gently as he could. The welts bled freely, staining the sheets a fearful red, but he could see how the poison had thinned it. Reaching for a cloth, he wet it in the water and gently washed away the congealed blood. Then, unfolding the fresh bandages, he sat back and waited for Aragorn's return.

At the same time, Glorfindel let out a cry.

"Elrond, he has stopped breathing!"

Elrond sprang forward at the same time as Celeborn, twisting Elrohir over to lie on his back. He lay terrifyingly still, his face pale and motionless, and his strangling gasps had ceased entirely. But as Elrond desperately searched for some sign of life, he felt a small measure of relief. A weak pulse stammered in the hollow of Elrohir's throat – erratically, he conceded, but it was better than nothing.

Elladan's eyes flew open, his bond with Elrohir suddenly empty. He saw his twin lying unmoving beneath his father, and the tense faces of his Daerada and Daernaneth, and then he felt his sister's hands on his shoulders, shaking him fiercely.

"Do something, Elladan, for Valar's sake! Bring Elrohir back!"

Elrohir was dying.

"Elladan!"

He could see the tears streaming down Arwen's face, and her lips moving as though she spoke, but he heard not a word. His eyes flickered to Elrohir.

He was white. He was dead.