This is TigrisIgnis's little gift for spotting my lobelia clue in chapter 28 of 'Black Mambo'. If you haven't read 'Black Mambo' parts of this won't make too much sense; it's a little bit of an add on. This is half serious, half not. I hope you all enjoy it!
Elrohir touched two fingers to his chin and smiled softly. The changing wind brought with it the cool freshness of running water and the warmth of crushed autumn leaves. It was unmistakeably the scent of Imladris—they drew close. Half a year had passed since their departure, six long months spent ranging the wild north hunting down all manner of foul creatures. Theirs was an arduous, never-ending task for always there would be evil in the world, but each time some beast met its end upon their weapons, there was some measure of comfort.
"We could be home within the week," Elrohir said. "Three days, if we so chose."
"And do we so chose?" Elladan asked him.
Elrohir shrugged. He himself found little comfort in Imladris. Though peace was embedded within its construction as surely as rock, it was hard to find any comfort when the halls rang with the screams of his mother. The shallow fountains he had bathed in as an elfling reminded him of her tears. The cosy bed chambers called forth memories of Celebrían shrinking from them, delirious in her belief that any contact was meant to hurt. He tightened his fist about the hilt of his knife.
"I feel no need to return," he murmured. "The choice is yours."
Elladan straightened from where he had been arranging his pack. "I would speak with Adar," he said evenly. "We need not stay long."
"Very well; we will make our way there with all haste." He affirmed, heaving his pack over his shoulder.
"Not so hasty, brother," Elladan stopped him with a hand upon his arm. "That Dúnadan man told us of an orc band just south of here."
They shared an identical grin. "Of course, forgive me," Elrohir smiled. "Let us hunt!"
o0o
Orc camps were identical.
Perhaps their layout differed slightly—perhaps the fire would be larger or smaller, perhaps there would be captives in some and not in others; some might have warg lines or piles of armour.
These differences did not matter. They were brutally, thoughtlessly cleared, with no mind to what animals or plants may have occupied the campsite previously. A fire sat in the middle of most of them, smoking and spitting for orcs knew not how to select the wood that produced only ash and no smoke. They were filled with orcs. Loud and stinking, hideous of face and form, brash and brutal.
Soon, dead.
Even if they had not had the bond of twins, Elladan and Elrohir would have needed no words in their assaults upon orc camps. They had been hunting orc for hundreds of years, their strategies were refined and perfected. This raid would be simple; there were neither captives nor wargs to confuse the matter, and the creatures were distracted by their own raucous arguments.
Elrohir's muscles tightened and he lowered himself into a crouch at the edge of the clearing, hidden by shadow and the sheltering branches of an alder tree. He did not need to look up to know that Elladan mirrored his actions on the other side of the clearing. His blood thrummed with adrenalin, quickening his heartbeat beneath his rips. He drew three arrows from the quiver that hung at his belt and set each of them to the bow. Their dark fletching—tawny owl feathers, selected for their silence—brushed his fingertips.
He counted three breaths before he drew the string taught and loosed the arrows simultaneously. He heard the soft percussive of six arrows meeting their targets; three from his bow and three from his brother's. Elladan was a heartbeat quicker in gaining his feet, rushing into the clearing with his sword drawn. The orcs were still staring, slack-jawed and stupid, and their six fallen companions. Two were decapitated by Elladan's blade before they could stir.
Elrohir jumped forwards, wincing at the awful shrieks their quarry made when they realised what was upon them. The closes orc to him, a hideous creature whose skin bulged and blistered over raw flesh, raised its sword and gave a war cry. He sound rattled through Elrohir; he was always unsettled by their screams no matter how often he heard them. His long knives ended the noise with a quick movement. Black blood sprayed his hands, the scream made physical.
It was not an even fight—would never be an even fight, because the orcs wanted to wreak pain and brutality upon their victims. Elrohir and his brother wanted only to rid the world of as much evil as they could, as quickly and cleanly as they could. The fight was over in minutes and Elrohir was left, as he always was, with the feeling that it had been terribly anticlimactic.
o0o
Black blood drying upon his clothes, Elladan meticulously wiped his hands clean and removed a highly-polished length of wood from his pack. At first glance it could have been a short, decorated scabbard; at second glance it would provoke puzzlement. Just shy of three feet long it was covered in scratches and scores. The marks were regimented and exact, almost letters formed upon the wood. They certainly held a story.
Long scores for thousands. Short scores for hundreds. Dots for tens. Crosses for single units.
"How many?" Elladan wondered aloud, scanning what remained of the battlefield. Battlefield was kind, he mused. They had slaughtered the orcs, killing all but three before the creatures had even realised they had been set upon.
Elrohir rolled a slumped carcass with his toe. "Seventeen," he said, without intonation. His long-knife, hanging loosely from his hand, dripped a finger of coal black blood onto the ground. Elrohir watched the blood splatter upon the floor and let the worst of it drip away before wiping the knife upon the hem of his cloak and sheathing it.
Elladan drew a tiny dagger from his own belt and spun it in his fingers. A dot. Seven crosses.
Their Adar had despised the marker when he had first seen it, had condemned their practice—We do not keep trophies. We are better than that. They had explained it at length, made him see that the hundreds of marks depicting thousands of kills were not war spoils, not trophies, were hardly ever counted. They were absolution, perhaps. Certainly, they were cathartic.
Cheerfully, Elladan replaced the length of carved oak in his pack and his dagger in his belt. "Have we any other business before we return home?" he asked his brother.
Elrohir shook his head. "No, let us away. I would say two days lie between us and the valley."
"You are getting slow, then. A day and a half—if we dawdle." Elladan grinned.
Of course the challenge was accepted. "In that case: the first of us to cross the bridge over the Bruinen and enter the city will owe the other a flagon of wine."
"You sound like a sylvan elf of the Greenwood," Elladan sniffed. "Racing for wine indeed."
" . . . Two flagons." Elrohir said steadily.
Elladan sprang from the ground. His feet flew into a sprint, as lithe as a wolf and as swift as a horse. Elrohir scrambled up and was not far behind him, already shouting about cheating and unfairness. They laughed as they ran, overtaking each other over and over again until anyone watching the ellyn would have mistaken their identical faces for each other, unable to keep track of them.
o0o
Elladan pitched forwards onto his knees, laughing breathlessly. They had run for a day and half a night, stopping only to cross the Bruinen and slake their thirsts with its mountain-cool water. Much to his consternation, Elrohir had leapt agilely across the boundary of the city a few seconds before he had.
"Was it two flagons you own me, brother?" Elrohir asked, leaning forwards and resting his hands upon his thighs to catch his breath.
Elladan, lying upon the floor, rolled over and gazed up at the familiar stars. "Cheating, are you?"
"You were the one who set off early," returned his twin. "And I still won."
His chest heaving, Elladan sat up. His legs burned after the run but it was a welcome pain, the kind of pain he relished for it only proved his own endurance. "You'll have your wine," he promised. "It might slow you down next time."
"Racing again?"
The twins looked up at the same moment and smiles split their faces.
"Sister!" Elladan cried, springing to his feet.
They collided with their sister at the same moment and embraced her eagerly. "We have missed you—"
"—so much! I swear—"
"—you have grown—"
"—since we last saw you." Elladan finished.
Arwen blinked up at them. "You know how I hate it when you talk like that," she grumbled. "I can never tell where one of you finishes and the other begins."
"Neither can we," Elrohir said blithely. "How have you been?"
"Well enough. Have you heard tell of the news in Lórien?" Arwen asked them.
Elladan frowned. Their sister loved to share stories with them and loved to hear the tales of their travels, but there was no joy in her voice now as she prepared to tell them her news. "We have not; we have spoken to no other Eldar for nigh on three months."
Arwen frowned sadly. "The Marchwarden is in love," she said. "He brought her here."
"Why do you look so sad, sister? You did not fancy him yourself, did you?" Elrohir teased.
Her nose wrinkled. "He is far too serious. No, I am saddened for his love is a mortal; a human girl named Aubrey."
Elrohir's lips parted in shock. "A mortal?"
"Yes, it is true."
"But—how do you know that he loves her?" Elladan asked, bewildered. "Did he say as much?"
Arwen shook her head. "He and his brother accompanied her here to speak to Eruanna; it seems she too appeared in this world. It was easy to see just to look at them. Do you remember the way of Glorfindel and Eruanna when first they met?"
Elrohir rolled his eyes. "How could we forget?"
"Sickeningly infatuated," Elladan intoned.
Arwen slapped Elrohir on the arm. "Hold your tongue," she snapped. "This is not a laughing matter. To fall in love with a mortal woman—poor Haldir," she trailed off.
"Oh, sister, be calm," Elladan scoffed. "He will be well, I am sure of it. Haldir is far too sure of himself to fade over the death of a mortal. And are we not Peredhel? Great blessings can come from such unions."
"That's the first time anyone's ever called you a blessing," Elrohir grinned. Seeing that their sister was still upset, he settled his hands on her shoulders. "Arwen, do not fret for him. Haldir knows what he is about."
Her mouth settled into a hard line. "You did not see them," she said simply.
o0o
Elladan was happy to relax into a bath. The long run had left his legs aching and he was slightly chilled; winter was creeping slowly over Arda leaving not even Imladris untouched. He leaned back, setting his head against the rim of the stone bath, and thought over his sister's words.
Of all elves, he could not imagine Haldir falling in love with a mortal woman. The Marchwarden was severe and distant with those he did not know and overtly dismissive of humans, resenting their careless natures and disliking the cruelty he saw in them all too often. Elladan and Elrohir worked often with the Dunedain rangers, utilising their knowledge of the northern regions and their skills in their hunt for orcs. Elladan himself could call many of the Dunedain friends; he enjoyed their company and valued them greatly. He had admired many of their women and could perhaps have loved one, were he not so devoted to the cause he and his brother had chosen for themselves. Haldir, though - Elladan could simply not imagine him loving a mortal woman. It was hard enough to imagine him in love.
He felt a touch of Arwen's sadness for himself; it was a sad fate for any elf to find themself tied to such a transient creature, a fate that he would not wish upon any. He wondered with a grimace what Haldir's brothers would think of the relationship; Haldir had raised them almost as much as their parents had. He would have been worried sick if Elrohir had fallen so deeply in love with a human woman, Eru forbid the same of their sweet sister.
Elladan could only hope that Arwen was mistaken. He respected the Marchwarden greatly and would be saddened by his death. The world was not ready to lose so valiant an elf, he thought.
o0o
The next morning all thought of the Marchwarden's possible love had departed from the twins.
Elrohir saw Glorfindel first, catching the bright golden flame of the ellon's hair in the sun from afar. They met him - their mentor, their friend - in one of Imladris's many gardens.
"Welcome home, my friends," Glorfindel greeted them happily.
The three ellyn shared a warm embrace. "How are you, mellon?" Elladan asked.
The golden haired elf beamed. "I am very well, though I have missed your mischief as always."
"What mischief?" Elrohir asked, an innocently shocked expression settling easily onto his face. It would have been utterly convincing, save for the identical expression Elladan wore; together, the innocence they offered was just a little too genuine to be believable.
Glorfindel laughed loudly. "You know quite well. Why, the last time you were in the valley my horse found himself painted in gold leaf."
"We made him to match your hair, mellon," Elrohir said beatifically.
"I thank you for that, Elrohir," Glorfindel said wryly. "And the six hours I spent cleaning him."
The twins beamed and Elrohir decided that he was glad they had returned to Imladris after all.