Title: Candle in the Mist

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Post-ROTK. The sons of Elrond come to Edoras to join forces with Rohan's king in defeating a mysterious enemy that has attacked his kingdom. Tormented in body and soul by his sister's choice, Elladan finds hope in the Lady he meets at the Golden Hall. No slash. Involves Eomer/Lothiriel as well as Elladan/Lothiriel (often one-sided or friendship).

Disclaimer: I am not, and do not claim to be, at all associated with Tolkien, the author of the brilliant Lord of the Rings, whose characters I am borrowing temporarily.

Big thanks to my awesome beta reader Tracie! You were such a great help!

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         The trees trembled and the forest rang with the sickening echoes of battle. Swords clashed, bows twanged and agony-filled screams of death pierced the hearts of friend and foe alike.

         The ambush had taken the small éored by surprise. They had been summoned to the southern borders of the Eastfold on reports of a mischievous band of orcs harassing the outskirting villages, hardly expecting the goblins to put up any real fight. After destroying a small group of orcs found near the site of the latest incident, the Rohirrim had assumed their job to be done. Relaxed and celebratory, they had been shocked to be awoken by the dying scream of a guard they had half- heartedly set out on the edge of their camp. Minutes later every man was up, frantically grabbing for his weapon and defending himself against an unexpected and horrific onslaught.

          Across the field, men of Rohan sparred against grunting orcs and snarling barbarians, desperately calling upon all their hard-won battle skills to overcome somehow the advantage their enemies had gained in the surprise attack.

          Earlier Elladan had easily dispatched with the multitude of enemies who had launched themselves into his area of camp. At the moment, however, he was locked in fierce combat with a startlingly and savagely strong orc who had now occupied him for a good while. Under normal conditions, the experienced warrior likely would have defeated the monster in half that time, but the hours of battle had begun to take their toll. Still, his quick arm and biting dagger continued to thrust from side to side with an uncanny accuracy that both baffled and enraged his weakening opponent. At last, with a flash of silver and a bloody gasp, the creature slid to the ground at Elladan's feet.

          "Augh!" Tearing his short stabbing knife from the dying creature, Elladan stumbled backwards, still reeling after the hard-fought victory. But he could only pause for a moment. He may have defeated one of the monsters, but there was still a steady stream of dark-skinned orcs pouring down from the eastern hills. Mingled with the harsh cries of the goblins were the barbaric war-chants of a tribe of southern men who had evidently agreed to join forces with the orcs in the attack.

          Quickly taking account of the battle as it continued around him, Elladan felt his heart drop at the rapidly increasing number of foes and the relatively few Rohirrim he could see left standing.

        "Elrohir! Elrohir!" He shouted desperately, seeking in vain for the sight of his brother amidst their scattered allies.

          Dawn was breaking by the time Elladan had a moment to breathe and assess the situation. It was all too clear that their only option was to escape with as many of the men as they could. Nearly thirty men had already fallen, though they had taken down scores of orcs with them. Yet while there were hordes of enemies arriving to replace those that had fallen, the men had not had the opportunity to call for help, and their numbers were decreasing alarmingly.

          Finally Elrohir's voice called from somewhere in the battle, "Elladan…We must retreat!"

          Darting through the battle with elven speed, he raced to the sound of the voice, killing any orc that stood in his way, and bringing with him any man he found still fighting. By the time he reached a battle-weary Elrohir, he had gathered a good number of those that were left of the éored.

          Elrohir too was leading a group of exhausted, blood-covered Rohirrim. In the distance, they could see similar groups heading in their direction. When all had arrived, they drew back from the foray, heading southwest to the mountains where they hoped to use the familiar terrain to elude or overpower any orcs who may pursue them.

          They had barely entered the out-thrusting beginnings of the mountain forest when they heard screams of rage erupt behind them. Suddenly realizing that their enemy had fled, the dull-witted orcs spread out across the expanse of the plain, angry and confused at the disappearance. By the time they caught onto the scent, however, the men were deep into the shelter of the trees. The twin sons of Elrond brought up the rear and did all they could to mask their trail.




          Gazing out over the plain below her, she sighed contentedly. A breeze blew over the long grasses of Rohan. Waving and rolling, they glistened in the newly risen sun. Hundreds of miles away from her homeland, she smiled. 'The same sun rises here as it does by the Sea. I wonder if Father is awake?'

          Suddenly she gasped. Startled, her smile slowly grew broader as she recognized the bare arms that enveloped her from behind.

          "Hmm," he whispered, nuzzling her neck gently. "I wondered where you had gone. A man doesn't like waking up to an empty bed, you know."

          She laughed softly, lifting her hand back to caress his cheek, her fingers running across his morning stubble. "Isn't it beautiful?"

         He lifted his head to follow her gaze, quietly surveying his kingdom. Taking a step forward, he turned so that they were standing side by side. He took her hand and kissed it softly. "You are far more courageous than I, beloved." He sighed. "I could never leave this. I do not think I could survive for long if I had to dwell elsewhere. Yet you chose to give up the land of your birth to come to me. It is truly one of the greatest gifts a person can give."

         "I love you, Éomer," she replied, her voice clear and her eyes earnestly probing his own, "If you asked me to move to the Far North or to go over the Sea or to dwell in Mordor itself, I would do it, if you were with me."

         Overwhelmed with love, and unable to respond for fear of losing himself to tears, he simply bent down and captured her mouth in a sweet kiss, effectively conveying to her all that was in his heart.

         Abandoning the world around them, they drew closer to each other, and their embrace deepened.

         Footsteps echoed through the hall leading to the balcony. The young man coughed awkwardly, "Excuse me, my lord Éomer."

         He sighed and reluctantly drew away from his wife. A soft blush graced her cheeks and she lowered her eyes as she realized what the messenger had witnessed.

         Embarrassed, the boy continued hurriedly, "I'm very sorry, Queen Lothiriel, but there is urgent news for the King."

         "That is quite all right, Master Formeld, tell my lord I will be waiting for him." And with one last longing glance at her husband, she exited the balcony and turned towards her room.

         Raking his hand through his unkempt hair, Eomer groaned inwardly. 'This had better be good,' he thought grimly.

         "Yes, Formeld?"

         "A small group of the men from Dernwine's eored have arrived at Edoras. They are anxious to speak with you."

         "Dernwine's? I expected him back days ago. How many are here?"

         "Only twelve, my lord."

         Éomer felt his heart sink. "Twelve? I'm sure no less that one hundred and fifty riders set out with him. Is Dernwine here himself?"

         "No. One of his captains has led them back."

         "Bring them to me."


         By the time Éomer reached the throne room, the men had already assembled in front of the raised platform his chair sat on.

         Scanning the group, his brows furrowed. "I count five before me, yet I was informed that you returned with no less than a dozen men."

         One man stepped forward, largely-built and a good deal older than Éomer. "My king, I am Breca, second to Dernwine, who was leader of my eored. Indeed, there were twelve men with me when we entered your halls, but seven are presently in the care of healers, for they are badly wounded."

         "How is it that only twelve return from battle? Have the rest of your men been detained elsewhere?"

         "It was an ambush, my lord! When we destroyed a small pocket of orcs that were traveling north on the Road from the Firien, we set up camp and were preparing to return to Edoras. But in the middle of the night, hundreds of orcs and wild-men attacked us from the hills. We were taken utterly by surprise."

         Éomer's hands gripped the sides of his throne, angry and frustrated. Every time he began to think that Rohan was safe once and for all, something inevitably occurred to prove him wrong. "How is that possible? Did you not have guards? Were you not prepared?"

         "They killed our guards, my lord, before we could be warned. That night, we, well, we indulged in our ale rations rather generously. Perhaps we were not as alert to the signs we should have picked up on. The horses were rather skittish when we put them out for the night..." His voice trailed off guiltily, clearly ashamed at their behavior and its consequences.

         "And you are the only survivors of this skirmish?"

         "No, my lord! No, I pray not. Dernwine sent me off with several of the injured men who could no longer fight so that we would get back to the city as soon as possible. Our men were still engaged in battle when we left five days ago, but I am sure it is well over by now. I can only hope the rest are on their way back as well."

         Éomer paused his questioning for the moment, considering what he had heard. Then he asked, "There were no other men besides your riders, then? No help from neighboring villages?"

         "No, no, there was no time to send for any. It was only us-" He hesitated, then began again.

         "Actually, King Éomer, there were two other riders with us, though they were not Rohirrim. This might sound strange, my lord, but I believe they were, well, I believe they were elves, or at least the appeared as such."

         Éomer cocked his eyebrow, his lips quirked in an almost-smile. "Surely not, Master Breca. For those fair folk have left this land and forsaken these shores, all save Gondor's Queen, of course, and Legolas and the others of Ithilien. Perhaps you were mistaken? Could they have been from Gondor?"

         "No, no, my king. I give you my word, they moved like shadows and the tips of their ears were in points. If those aren't elves, I don't know what are. They joined us on our trip southward, just appeared out of the trees, like magic. None of the men with me knew anything of them or their origins, but when they approached Dernwine and spoke with him, he allowed them to continue on with us. We were instructed not to ask any questions or to disturb them. They kept to themselves generally. Perhaps we would have learned more had we been given the time. The last time I saw those two, they were fighting bravely, fatally striking any orc who dared approach them."

         Éomer shook his head in disbelief. If Breca was lying to him...But then, why would he? And if he spoke the truth, then the two mysterious figures he spoke of must have been elves. But how?

         Puzzled, he leant forward and searched his mind for answers, his head resting in his hands. He knew the elves of Lorien had departed, as well as the elves from the realm of Mirkwood. And hadn't Aragorn told him that those of Elrond's House had left as well?

         Elrond's house. Realization struck Éomer like a flash of lightning across the plain. Elladan and Elrohir. The two sons of Elrond had indeed remained to keep their father's residence in place for a little while longer. Arwen had shared as much with him on his latest visit to Minas Tirith.

         Surely these must be the two Breca had seen. "These figures you speak of, were they tall? Tall and dark-haired, with grey cloaks clasped about them? And were they similar in face?"

         Breca looked confused, and gazed up at his king in wonder. "Yes, Éomer-king. Yes, they indeed were as you have only just described them. I do not believe any of our riders could have told them apart, but we assumed that all elves resembled each other in such a way. Do you know them?"

         "Aye, indeed, I am indeed familiar with the sons of Elrond Peredhil." He noticed Breca start at the name, but continued. "For they fought beside me nobly on Pelennor and before the Black Gate. Though I have not spoken to them at any great length, I know they are renowned for their prowess and skill on the battlefield. According to King Elessar, they fought with my ancestors, helping to defend our people before Eorl himself had ridden, for they are of elven kin. The King is well beloved by them, since he grew up in their House, and, as you know, has married their sister, the Queen Undomiel."

         Breca and his men stood stunned, shocked that they had ridden with such noble company without realizing it.

         Éomer spoke again. "Glad I am that they have come to the Mark and honored shall I be if they return to these halls. May the Valar protect them and the rest of the eored, and bring them safely back to Edoras."

         He then summoned his attendants to show Breca and his men to their quarters, and promptly sent another man to check on their comrades in the House of Healing. One of the men had had to have a portion of his leg removed after it was sliced open by an orc blade laced with a cruel poison. While he remained in dangerous condition, the others had been tended to faithfully and were on their way to recovery, some progressing more slowly than others. Éomer only prayed that the rest of his riders would not fare worse when they returned.




         Slashing fiercely at the treacherous overgrowth that blocked the mountain path, Elladan plunged forward once again. For four days they had been traveling, and each man yearned for sight of the Golden Hall, praying that they would catch a glimpse of its towering hill every time they peered through openings in the dense forest.

         After leaving the battle, they had followed the Firien Wood south to the base of the Ered Nimrais. From there, the men continued along a course that wound gradually northwest through the foothills of the mountains. The going was much slower than it would have been along the West Road, but they knew the danger of traveling across the open plain after such an attack. As it was, they had barely escaped the enemies that had attempted to pursue them in their flight. Thanks to the skills of the two brothers, they managed to elude the trackers, but only by a margin too close for much comfort. Exhausted from the battle and their escape, the Rohirrim had collapsed wearily at the first available clearing, being sure to leave men awake who would keep watch in shifts. So tired had they been, that they had not even inquired as to the identities of the two riders who had helped to ensure their safety.

         When they started again the next day, Elrohir had remained at the rear. The men had managed to recover several of the horses before their retreat, and he helped them to guide the creatures through the narrow mountain pass. He would stroke their manes and whisper soothing words into their ears, always having had a way with the animals. As much as Elladan enjoyed riding, he could never claim that particular skill of Elrohir's. Therefore he had continued ahead on foot, and was now near the front of the group, curious to see which way they were heading and how far they were from their destination.

         Jerking back violently after a vine scraped across his shoulder, he released a stream of elvish curses and continued to mutter beneath his breath over the next several minutes, reaching back to treat his arm awkwardly with a make-shift bandage.

         The young man to his left turned curiously. Elladan had caught the boy staring at him throughout their escape, but up til now he had apparently been too intimidated to address him directly.

         He now began haltingly. "Sir, are you-are you of elf kind? I don't mean to be rude. It's just that, well, we saw your ears and all, and we've been wondering. We thought all the elves were gone from these parts." Suddenly shy again, he ducked his head, suddenly fascinated by the plants along the forest floor.

         Despite his temporary bitter temperament, Elladan smiled at the boy, who couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen years of age. He replied gently, speaking in the Common tongue:

         "Yes, my lad, I am indeed "elf kind". You and your friends were correct in that assumption. My mother was an elf and my father is half-elven, from the line of Tuor and Idril."

         Seeing that he had confused his young friend further, he began again. "Do you know Imladris? Rivendell, as it as known to men?"

         The boy's face brightened. "Aye, my lord, I have heard of it. Well north it is of the Mark, my father told me, near to the land of the Halflings. He says Queen Arwen lived there, and King Elessar as well." Gazing at the older warrior in awe, he asked, "Have you met the Queen?"

         Laughing quietly to himself, Elladan answered, "Yes, my boy, I have indeed. For Rivendell is my dwelling place also. My father and my mother have departed from it, as have most of its folk, to go over the Sea. My brother and I, and another, are its sole inhabitants at the present."

         "Is she as beautiful as the men say?"

         "Arwen?" He smiled slightly at the boy's fixation. "Aye, she is." Elladan felt a familiar pain course through him as he spoke, clutching at his heart and threatening to overpower him. He breathed deeply of the clean forest air, and felt calmer when he continued. "Gondor is indeed fortunate to have such a Lady, as is its king. She will help to restore the war-torn land and renew the spirits of its people." Anxious to change the subject, he asked, "What is your name, son?"

         "Aldor, my lord, son of Lengor."

         Before Elladan could reply, shouts came from the front of the line.

         "Meduseld! Meduseld! Edoras lies ahead!"

         The message quickly spread down to all the men, and with renewed vigor they stepped over the path at a much faster pace. Within the hour, they had reached the open fields that stretched out before the city.

         Elladan sighed inwardly. He and his brother usually looked to avoid long visits to such halls, disliking to be away from Imladris for long, more content to swoop in at the moment of a battle, fight hard, and then disappear again. But fate had led them here for now, and he wasn't entirely averse to a stay, providing that it wasn't too prolonged. The Hall was quite lovely, and he was indeed eager to see the king, whom he had bonded with in a way only explainable to men who had battled together as fiercely and desperately as they had.

         Politically, he also had a responsibility to speak to Éomer about the unusual nature of their attackers. He knew full well that orcs and men would not unite their forces without a higher purpose, and that surely this would not be their final effort against Rohan.

         A few of the riders leapt onto the horses they had led and set off to alert the king of their homecoming. The rest continued on foot, setting their eyes ahead to the royal city that seemed to beckon to them in their fatigue.




         Éomer was in his stables when he heard the horns announce the return of the eored. Visitors of Rohan often found it odd that he cared for his horse himself, rather than leaving the job to one of his servants or stablehands. Though it was understood that everyone shared the same respect for the horses, most men were still uneasy allowing anyone but themselves tend to their own beast. The animals, too, were often reluctant to be treated by someone other than their master, whom they were naturally the most comfortable around.

         In the midst of combing Firefoot's mane, the joyful sound echoed throughout the city, and Éomer let out a breath he hadn't realized that he had been holding ever since Breca had brought him the disturbing news. Praying that the men were safe, he carefully set away the brush he had been using and brought the horse back into its pen.

         Through the courtyard he dashed, into the building, and onto the front balcony. He could see a large group of townspeople already gathering at the gates to welcome the men. Craning his neck, he was immensely relieved to see a good number of riders approaching the city, though he was concerned that many of them were on foot. Where were all the horses? Éomer quickly pushed the thought aside, however; he was just glad that more than twelve of his men had survived.

         He thought he caught sight of two dark heads amidst the sea of golden braids, but they were soon lost in the crowd. As much as he longed to rush to the front and greet everyone, he remembered his duty as king, and turned away. Returning inside, he began to prepare the hall for what was sure to become a great assembly of men, all anxious to be heard, and all anxious to be fed.

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Author's note: Thanks so much for reading so far. I hope to have the next chapter out soon. Please review!