Title: 'Bridges'

Author:freeflow

Rating: T

Disclaimer, A/N, Summary See Chapter 1

For my new reviewers, and those who have been with Bridges from the start. Thank you all!

Chapter 8

Even as he dispatched two of his hooded opponents and whirled to deflect a wild swipe from a third, Glorfindel felt all breath leave his body. The sheer pain and desperate confusion in the cry behind him ripped through the surreal battleground the clearing had become, and in an instant, his eyes cleared of the glazed warrior film that had descended upon the start of the fight.

'Elladan!?'

No longer was he Glorfindel, slayer of balrogs, tactical genius and leader of Imladris' elite guard; no longer was he immersed in the destruction of each figure that rushed towards him; no longer could he maintain the calm efficiency that dealing death induced in him. For suddenly, each enemy was trying to hurt the little ones, each shadowed face was smiling at the elflings fear, each vicious hand was the one that had fired the arrow…

The arrow that you were too slow to catch, too caught up in your bloodlust to stop. And now the little one lies bleeding in to the dust as his twin screams in terror, and still they are in danger. Think, Glorfindel, think! This cannot be allowed to continue!

Yet the figures still streamed from the trees, and only his quick feet and quicker hands were keeping his remaining charges safe. The situation was swiftly moving from dangerous to untenable, and the golden haired warrior had had enough. Instead of striking his next opponent dead, he used his forward momentum to spring up and over the figures right shoulder, trailing his sword behind him. Landing securely on both feet, the elf did not even turn to see the condition of his vaulting aid, as his blade had dragged a gouge deep in to the side of his opponent's neck. Only the sound of a gagging form hitting the forest floor marked Glorfindel's passage, and not a single tapered ear in the clearing paid it any heed.

Now with a clear path to Erestor and the elflings, Glorfindel took advantage of the awed lull in attackers as each hooded figure seemed to stop and take in the last thrashing seconds of their associate.

Racing to the huddled group of elfling and elf, the already pale faced being slid to a shocked halt, any remaining colour draining from his cheeks.

'Erestor?'

The almost undetectable whisper was still enough to garner the attention of the other elf, and teary eyes snapped to this new threat. Yet instead of recognizing Glorfindel and showing relief at the others presence, Lord Elrond's advisor rose to his feet with fury on his face.

'You see what your plan has wrought? I told you the trees were our only option, they could at least have sheltered the elflings somewhat. But no, it was your way or nothing, the word of the mighty Lord Glorfindel overrules all others. And look, look at the outcome!'

As he spat the last words, he took a staggered step towards the warrior, thrusting a small form in to the sight of the golden haired elf. Yet before he could finish his abrupt movement, two pairs of small hands grabbed on to the back of his tunic, and Erestor had either to stop, or wrench himself away from the terrified elflings that cowered behind him. With a sigh of utter anguish, Glorfindel walked towards the group and raised his hands to take the small figure lying limp within Erestor's protective grasp. As expected, the arms tightened and Erestor turned his body away from the seneschal's as if to shield the elfling he carried from any more of Glorfindel's poor decisions.

Taking a moment to check on the whereabouts of their attackers, Glorfindel was slightly pleased to realize that the opposing group had drawn back in to the trees. Yet he was not fooled. The violent and rather over dramatic death of his last adversary may have given the others pause for thought, but this was a purposeful withdrawal. In moments, they would reorganise their positions, and the attack would begin anew.

They had no time to argue or place blame, this was a time for action.

'Lord Erestor, we have moments until they return. Now give Elladan to me and take the little ones up in to this tree while we still have any choice. Later, we can debate my actions until the sky turns purple should you so wish, but at this time, our priority is the elflings. Now, my Lord, it must be now!'

Suitably chastised but nowhere near mollified, Erestor turned to his companion and with the most gentle of hands passed the wilted body to Glorfindel's solid grasp. Without making eye contact with the other elf, Erestor then spun to the other elflings, and without a word, scooped them up in either arm. Leaning his head against the bark of the solid oak tree for a moment, dark hair hiding the look of desperation on his face, Erestor beseeched the tree to help him and the little ones in their time of need. So it was, when he leapt to the lowest branch, the boughs were there to steady him, and swept lower to enable his ascent.

Breathing a sigh of frustration mixed with relief at Erestor's wordless compliance and the now relative safety of the elflings, Glorfindel turned his attention to Elladan. Kneeling on one leg, the other used to support the flaccid form, the golden haired warrior could have wept with torment.

Half of the tiny face was streaked with red, which still dripped freely from a gash in his hair line. The beginnings of a bruise were forming over the too pale face, and the dark braids, once unraveling from too much play and boisterous mischief were hanging tangled, matted with dirt and dried blood. Quickly ripping the base of his tunic with one hand, Glorfindel folded the material in to a soft pad and pressed firmly on the cut. A whimper from deep in the elflings throat reached Glorfindel's sharp ears, and he ducked his head to place a kiss on the tender forehead.

'I am sorry, little one, but the bleeding needs to stop. I know it hurts, but we will be going home soon, and your Ada will fix everything. Alright, my little warrior? Just hold on, Elladan.' A vision of Elrohir and Legolas' wide eyes as Erestor leapt in to the tree above played over again in Glorfindel's mind. Ai, I tried to ignore the looks on their faces. I am becoming too emotional, too involved to think straight. One of the first rules of warfare is…

Shaking his head in outright anger, Glorfindel rose to his feet once more.

This is not war! This is an attack on my Lord's family in his own lands, it is an affront to all that we held as sacred and secure. This is the injuring of babes for the profit of others. And by Manwë himself, I have a right to be angry! Hoisting the small body higher on his shoulder, Glorfindel saw the first of the regrouped attackers slip in to the clearing, obviously hoping to avoid being seen. But with Glorfindel's rage pounding through his ears also came the experience of a warrior who had fought countless enemies over millennia. The crackling of snapping grass, the slide of a boot over discarded picnic basket, the swipe of a hand reaching under a cape for the blade concealed within. Glorfindel could see his battleground and the position of each of the combatants without even opening his eyes.

First things first, however.

Leaping in to the tree with the sure footed nature of his kind, Glorfindel raced to the side of Erestor, and finally allowed himself to see the faces of their young charges.

Immediately upon stopping, Glorfindel was bombarded by a blond steak, which attached itself to his side, winding fingers in to the torn material there. Reaching down and lifting Legolas in to his free arm, he felt those same fingers wind in to his hair, and the little face bury sniffled sobs in to the side of his neck.

Unable to offer further comfort to the elfling, Glorfindel simply walked to Elrohir and Erestor and crouched beside them, softly rubbing the small back as he went. I suppose my hair is closest in shade to his father's. And although he will not admit it, this little elfling simply wants his Ada A wave of sadness washed over the golden haired warrior as he wished that he could grant the little one's unspoken need.

Offering Elladan back to Erestor's careful arms, Glorfindel reached for Elrohir. Falling almost bonelessly in to the seneschal's grip, the youngest twin buried his face in Glorfindel's tunic and began to wail.

'Glorfy, they're bad people, bad, and they hurt Dan, and his head hurts inside mine, and he won't wake up and talk to me! And, and, Las wants his Ada, and I want my Ada and Amme too, but they aren't here, and the trees keep screaming and won't leave Legolas alone. I want to go home, Glorfy, I want to go home! Can we go home now?'

Leaning back from the distraught elfling and seeing the pinched look in his eyes even as they flowed with tears, Glorfindel recalled the pertinent parts of Elrohir's diatribe.

'You can feel Elladan's hurt, little one? Oh, I know it is sore, but just think, if you are feeling it, then you know that Elladan is too, and just have to wait for him to wake up now. And yes, little one, we are going home. But first, Lord Erestor and I have to clear the way. Can you wait for us up here?'

Turning his attention to include both of the elflings in his arms, Glorfindel nudged the top of the blond head still buried in his neck until both sets of perfect eyes were regarding him intently.

'Now, Lord Erestor and I need you both to be very brave and to take care of Elladan for us, until we come back, alright? We will not be gone long, but you must not come down from this tree until one of us comes for you, do you understand? Little warriors?'

Waiting for a solemn nod from each elfling, Glorfindel kissed each smooth forehead and placed the two back on their feet. Leading them to the centre of the tree, he pulled them in to sit either side of Elladan, whom Erestor had tucked as securely as possible between the base of three branches and the main trunk.

Taking a moment to reach out to the helpless elfling, Glorfindel removed his makeshift bandage and was distressed to see the gash still weeping slightly. Ripping a new piece of material from his shrinking tunic, he threw the bloodied rag to the forest floor below in disgust, and gently applied the new pad. Then, turning to Legolas, took the Prince's hand and placed it firmly over the wound.

Immediately, Elrohir whimpered and pressed a hand to his forehead, but did not make any further complaints. Instead, he turned and snuggled in to his brother's side, holding his hand and whispering to him in twinnish, a language that no one else could ever hope to understand.

Stroking the back of both little heads, and placing a kiss on Elladan's warm brow, Glorfindel bowed his own and prayed to the Valar for guidance and protection. Then, feeling a hand on his shoulder, he turned to Erestor, and finally making eye contact with the other elf, they each nodded.

As one, they rose, and looking one last time at the three elflings sitting huddled together, they moved away, back down the tree. Before they had reached the bottom, however, Glorfindel heard a whisper from his dark haired counterpart that drifted back up to where they had left their hearts.

'Look after each other, little ones.'

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Violent whispers sliced between low hanging boughs, succinct hand movements splitting the gathered forms in to purposeful, targeted groups.

Four hanging back on horses, waiting, just waiting for their cargo to be delivered.

The signal came, sharp and precise, answered only by a lowering of heads and a murmur of prayers.

Pushing aside straining leaves and grasping branches, they advanced.

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Their horses were gasping and heaving, sides billowing and necks straining as they thundered down the dusty path. The trees swayed and moaned as the party passed by, and the wind carried the despair of the woodland creatures to the ears of each elf.

Yet none paid any heed as their destination loomed ever closer.

'Elrond, what do you now feel? The little ones, how do they fare?'

Thranduil's forced question was bellowed over the hoof beats of his exhausted mount, and each of the company leaned in to hear the response.

But the answer never arrived, as in pausing to formulate a reply which he knew could only serve to exacerbate an already explosive situation, Elrond was spared by a sudden scent on the breeze.

The wailing grew louder in the minds of those gathered, and as one they realized what they had caught wind of.

'By the Valar, it is burning, the trees are burning!'

The growling whisper spilled from Nerometh's frozen lips, and the horses, stretching further than any had thought possible, sprang forward once more.

The scene that they encountered in the clearing - chosen specially by Erestor for its safe foliage and colourful flora - would not be soon forgotten by any who travelled with the Lord and Lady of Imladris that day.

Spread in slumped clusters bloodied corpses were strewn, the scattered limbs and tattered clothing creating a grotesque pattern of desperate swordplay. The trunks of surrounding trees were stained with red, and every lower branch had slash marks, weeping clear liquid in to the sullied earth below. The stench of exposed and charred flesh mingled with the sour, back of the throat taste of bowels released in death, overwhelming the elven senses and causing many a hardened warrior to turn their heads and breathe through gritted teeth.

The crackling of a now smoldering stump sputtered its sorrow and guilt at the new arrivals, before fading in to oblivion. Where a solid oak had stood for a thousand years, now a charred stain and dead roots were all that remained.

But the eyes of the elves did not linger on those dead or dismembered. As instinctively as any of the Firstborn race would seek out the stars in the night sky, or a patch of green in the desert, the members of Elrond's impromptu rescue party spread out in to the clearing, silent and efficient, skipping over cleaved off hands and hewn torsos as though they were nothing more than debris.

Desperation played a large part in the search, and was certainly visible in the faces of each parent in the clearing. Striding from one side to the other with fury and agony palpable in his expression, Thranduil began to bellow to his youngest child.

'Legolas! Legolas, where are you? Come out now, your Ada is here! Legolas! Please my son, answer me! If you are hiding in the trees, you can come back to the clearing, it is safe little one!' His cries lost none of the volume, yet as he continued, the timbre grew more and more shaky, the words less cohesive and the message all the more plaintive. Each elf within hearing range felt their throats constrict at the sounds, the fear and longing striking deep in to their immortal souls.

'Legolas? Please son, I beg of you, answer me! We are here, Ada is here… Legolas? Legolas!'

Unable to take anymore of his leader's outpouring of pain, Nerometh pressed a firm hand to the King's shoulder, and spoke in sober tones.

'Sire, he is not here. None of the children are. But the enemy may still be close by, and we need…'

Batting the hand aside, Thranduil spun in rage to face his captain. With the magic and power of every tree in the forests of Greenwood at his command, and simmering just below his visage, the blond elf transformed from frightened father to terrifying ruler in the blink of an eye.

'Need?! My child is missing and you speak to me of the need to hold my tongue?! The enemy may well be near, Captain, but the chance of my elfling being anywhere near this Valar-forsaken place, lying hurt or injured within my reach is a risk I am not willing to take!' Heaving in three sharp breaths, Thranduil closed his eyes for a moment. Then, raising his head and once more meeting his friend's pained gaze, he hissed out;

'If the enemy is near, then let them hear my calls. Let them ride to me, an army one thousand strong. And we shall see who is victorious. We shall see the worth of my Greenleaf to me. We shall see how many I would kill to have him safe with me once more.'

Striding past Nerometh and back towards his waiting horse, Nero heard his final utterance, and felt a chill overcome his whole being.

'When we find who has done this, yes, then we shall see. They shall see.'

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For Elrond of Rivendell, the sum of painful experiences in his long life was not meager. Privileged among elves he may well have become, but for an elf who had lost both parents before even leaving his childhood behind, then a twin to mortality and a father-figure to war against the dark lord, his catalogue of pain was well founded to say the least.

But the sight of the disaster he encountered in the clearing – the clearing where my children were playing, laughing and eating just a short while ago – cut all previous experiences from his memory. Nothing in all of his years could have prepared him for the axe blow to the chest that accompanied this tragedy.

And tragedy it was.

The blood he could smell was a mixture of elf and human, and both races he held dear to his heart. The carnage that lay around them did nothing to encourage him, although it was clearly a bloodbath for the opposing side - Glorfindel's swordwork and Erestor's knife skills evident to anyone who could stomach looking closely at one of the fallen – they had been mortal, living creatures, and now they lay in pieces in a nameless clearing far from home.

And then immediately, he felt a surge of guilt. His children had been here, Glorfindel and Erestor had been fighting to protect his sons, Thranduil's son. He should not think of these, these things as human, for they had wished his sons harm. And they may well have delivered it too, you sentimental fool. And then how would you feel, Elrond HalfElven? Would you still see men lying in this camp? Still see husbands and brothers here? Or would you do as Thranduil is doing, as Glorfindel did, as Celeborn would should he learn of his grandsons danger. Would you cut down the rest of the perpetrators? Hunt them and slay them until each one lay in pieces such as these? Or would your healer's heart quail at the sight of real people when the time for the final stroke came.

Tormented and growing in desperation, Elrond whirled about in the centre of the clearing, the ends of his robes stained with red, and reached out desperately with his senses.

Ignoring the ebbing of the tree that had burned that day, and skimming past the crying of the forest, the terror of the animals and the fear of the elves surrounding him, Elrond poured every bit of his power in to reaching, searching, stretching…

Eyes snapping open, and coming to rest on Celebrian, who was on her knees before the blackened stump which she knew had sheltered her children until the end of its life, Elrond took a step towards her, then straightened, turning to face away from the horses, the clearing and the majority of elves still hunting fruitlessly for any trails.

Drawn to her husband's side by his sudden change of stance, Celebrian clutched his tunic in frustration.

'What is it Elrond? What do you see?'

Eyes focusing once more on the white face of his wife, Elrond took a deep breath and spoke so all could hear.

'I have found someone. But their life force dwindles. And no,' he foresaw the question and shook his head sadly at Celebrian, 'I do not know who it is. But, I do know that he is elf kind.'

Gasping in impatience, relief and terror, the daughter of Galadriel reacted just as Elrond knew she would. Grabbing her robes around her and lifting them from obstructing her path, she leapt, full speed in the direction her husband had directed.

Yet, lingering for a brief instant and putting a hand to his brow, Elrond felt a single tear escape down his cheek.

Startled by a presence beside him suddenly, he forced himself to meet the bright eyes of Nerometh of Mirkwood. And he clearly saw the question lurking there. Without prompting, Elrond felt the need to confide in this elf, this confidante of Kings. So, wiping the wetness from his face and taking the route his wife had already followed, he whispered the truth to the dark haired captain.

'An elf there is, lying injured along this route. And I know that I can save him, heal him and carry him back to our home.' Elrond shuddered as he felt his heart torn in two directions, and bowed his head as he knew which duty he had to follow. 'Yet I know, Nerometh, that my little ones are not out here. They never came in this direction, and for every second I take healing this elf, whoever it may be, they are being taken further from me.'

Nodding in pained understanding, and his own heart crying out with grief for this noble elf, Nerometh met Elrond's gaze and held it, imbuing his next words with all the strength he could muster.

'Then, Lord Elrond, you know that your elflings are still out there. And they are waiting for their Adar to find them and bring them home again. But in the meantime, one of your people needs you, your Lordship, and you would not be the father that those elflings love if you ignored him in his time of need. Heal your subject, give the horses time to rest. And when we are prepared, and our path is clear, we shall find your sons, find my Prince, and all the realms of men will suffer our wrath should we not recover them in the state in which they were taken from us.'

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Far distant, in lands green and luscious, a silver reflection rippled where no breeze had blown.

Piercing eyes regarded the image conjoured in the depths of the water, and the resounding cry that followed carried with it the power of centuries of accumulated wisdom and innate magic.

Footsteps raced to the source of the outburst, and taking in the dismay on his wife's usually placid visage, Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien was immediately alert.

'My love, what troubles have you seen that would alarm you so?'

Reaching for her husband's cheek with a gentle hand, Lady Galadriel let her husband see what she herself had witnessed. Gasping, his silver hair shimmering with rage at the images running through his mind, Celeborn strode to the doorway without further thought.

Turning back only to gain strength from his wife's steady gaze, and to send her his love in his own, Celeborn bowed his head as he said,

'We ride at once.'

Sitting herself back in front of her liquid mirror, the Lady of Light ran her fingers through the water as a single tear fell from her glistening eyes.

And as it hit the surface, Galadriel was gladdened to see the multiple images of a bloodied elfling, a dead stallion, a tree in flames and a hooded being carrying a tiny body off in to the night shatter in to a thousand silver droplets.

Yet her relief was only to last for a moment, as the image which played in the depths of both the water and her mind was that which caused her the most pain.

Her daughter, on her knees, crying in to a tiny, blood stained tunic.