Rating/Warnings: Teen. Rated teen for violence.
Time frame: 2013 of the Third Age
A/N: Hallo all, and welcome to day 9 of the headcanon challenge! *pant pant* I'm actually quite amazed that I've managed to make it this far! Huzzah! Thank you SO very much to everyone who has thus far reviewed and/or alerted and/or favorited! It truly is wonderful to know that you are enjoying the story. To all of my lovely readers: I hope you too are enjoying it, and I would love to hear from you sometime. Special thanks to Fan, Guest, and TheHouseWitch for your reviews on last chapter!
A little bit of info for you: a brotp is about a bromance, a friendship, platonic love, a brotherhood. Think of Aragorn with every single man in the books. That's a bromance. Now, to be perfectly honest with you all, Elrond/Gandalf is not my brotp. However, it is in my top three, and my Elrond/Glorfindel and Elrond/Gil-galad bromances I have already talked about. Plus I really wanted to talk about Gandalf here, and I think this is really the only time he'll be around. This was also my first time writing dear Mithrandir (well, more than just dinking around with plots I never finish), so I sincerely hope I did alright!
And now, without further ado, I present to you the newest prompt!
Day 9 – Something about your brOTP
Elrond/Gandalf
To most outside of Imladris, Elrond and Gandalf's relationship was distinctly unremarkable. They were acquaintances, or perhaps cordial friends, but few ever suspected a relationship deeper than that. There was the odd, unexpected quip, and the more observant of folk would note that, whenever Gandalf was in Imladris, he and Elrond would spend long hours in his study. However this was to be expected – Gandalf was well-known to be a guardian of Middle-earth – at least among the Elven-folk – as was Elrond, and it was expected that they speak and work together. Indeed, if any thought that Gandalf had a particularly strong bond with any of the Elven lords, it would be Galadriel. Even amongst other members of the White Council, this was thought to be the case. But it was not.
Elrond and Gandalf from the moment that they met had struck a friendship. It was inexplicable – although neither ever truly attempted to explain it, for both knew well that sometimes strange things happened for even stranger reasons – but undeniable. And as time progressed, those bonds of friendship deepened and grew, until they were as firm as the roots of the mountains.
It truly was difficult to explain their friendship. For one thing, they were not "brothers," as Elrond was with Glorfindel, but neither were they guardian or protector as Gandalf was to most others. They were equals. Indeed, for Elrond was one of the few that Gandalf truly considered to be his equal, despite the fact that both knew they were not.
But what was more, they trusted each other completely. They guarded each other's secrets and backs when times demanded such. And they could make each other laugh, even as the darkness closed in around them.
And truly, what more is there to a friendship than that?
(Hill country, some 40 leagues south of Rivendell – T.A. 2013)
The large fire crackled and popped, shedding light all throughout the small cleft in the hills. Rock walls rose up on either side, the two sloping jumbles of stone meeting at a point deep into the hill. Far above, the sky was strewn with a hundred thousand stars that lit the night sky like a thousand diamonds, and the moon was just beginning its descent.
The whickering and stamping of horses could be heard at the mouth of the cleft, and above, ringing the small ravine, stood the silhouettes of Elven guards armed with mighty bows, their glittering armor hidden from sight by dark cloaks. Other guards moved about in the shadows, restlessly pacing the perimeter, watching for the telltale glow of any eyes, and listening for the crackle of footfalls in bracken.
One of the guards broke away from the shadows, dropping down from a high stone and landing softly. He carried a bow in his right hand, and a quiver of swan feather-fletched arrows was strapped to his back. He paced toward the fire slowly, measuredly, as if almost afraid of what he would find there.
Two figures came into view on the far side of the fire, bathed in the red glow of the dancing flames. One was and Elf, lying prone and unmoving on the hard ground, and the other was what appeared to be an old man sitting by the first person's side, cloak pulled tight about his shoulders. The second figure also held a pipe between his lips, although it was unlit.
The Elf quickly knelt beside the two figures. His gaze went first to the Elf, taking in the long hair that had been tightly braided along his scalp in three places to hold the riven flesh and cracked bone of his skull together, the traces blood that they had not been able to wash away from his face, the myriad of bruises and cuts that dotted his pale skin, and lastly the edge of the white bandages wrapped around his chest from shoulder to hip that were just barely visible over the blankets they had piled on his unconscious body. The Elf bowed his head, and whispered a silent prayer.
"How does he fare, Mithrandir?" the Elf asked the other, who had glanced over as he had approached.
"Not well, I fear," the wizard replied, taking the unlit pipe stem from his mouth. He shook his head, his gaze falling to the unmoving Elf lord's face, and taking in the uncommonly pale skin and the closed eyes. "He treads dangerously close to the path to the Halls of Mandos. Tell me, is there any sign of the party from Imladris?"
"Nay," the guard replied, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Nay, but they will come," he said resolutely, and then stood. Let us only pray that they come soon enough. With that, the guard turned and disappeared, returning to his post atop the hill.
Gandalf remained sitting, and returned the cold pipe stem to his mouth. He puffed out of habit, and his teeth worried around the wood, just as he always did when he was concerned about something. And concerned he most certainly was.
"Hold fast for but a few more hours, Elrond," Gandalf murmured, although whether he said the words aloud, or in his mind, he would never be sure. "Stay with us, my old friend."
Gandalf reached out and gently touched Elrond's forehead, his fingertips just barely brushing the bruised flesh. He then closed his eyes, and began to search for his friend's fëa. He found it after a long moment, weak and growing dim, but still clinging to life.
Hold fast, my friend, Gandalf whispered. Help comes.
Gandalf's eyes opened, and his hand fell away from Elrond's forehead. He had done the same four times since the sun had set, and each time he reached out for Elrond, he found the Elf's hold on life weaker, his light dimmer. Gandalf sighed, and puffed at his pipe some more.
He had seen many things throughout his life, first as Olórin through the darkness before time, and the light of the two Trees, and finally of the sun and the moon; and then secondly as Gandalf, the Istari, and servant of the Valar come to Middle-earth in the Third Age. Yes, he had seen many things, but Gandalf knew that the events of the day before would plague his mind for the rest of time.
The sun was just rising above the horizon, setting the sky aglow in a beautiful display of violets and crimsons and gold. The trees whispered softly to one another as the dawn breeze tickled between their boughs, and the croak of frogs and the chirp of crickets began to dwindle, even as the birds began to sing raucously.
Gandalf smiled and began to hum to himself as he urged his faithful mare onward down the path. He was in high spirits, for he was only just returning from a visit to the Shire, and if all went according to plan, he should be in Rivendell by dusk. Yes, he was in high spirits indeed.
A flash of panic and fury; a scrambled, indecipherable thought; an explosion of pain in the back of his head.
Gandalf fell silent, his senses immediately opening up to the world around and within, and his mind and body alike tensed, prepared for an assault. His hold on his staff tightened fractionally. And then he frowned, for as sheer instinct began to withdraw, he began to analyze what had just occurred. And he realized that he knew the feel of the mind that had touched his for that brief instant. Narya's hum, which was always present in the root of thought, quickened.
Mithrandir. Galadriel's normally calm and sedate thought-voice was taught and strained.
Yes, I felt that as well, Gandalf replied. You think it was Vilya…
Yes. Elrond is in dire trouble. Gandalf seemed to sense a layer of bitter amusement with that thought. This is not the first time I have spoken such words, she told him, answering his unspoken confusion.
And the last time?
He nearly died, Galadriel replied, and a war nearly lost. We must find him.
I am barely a day's ride from Imladris, Gandalf informed her.
Very good. I will send word, she added, and then her presence, surrounded by the gentle rush of water, faded away.
A sharp cry shook Gandalf from his thoughts. He looked down just in time to watch as Elrond's entire body went rigid. Then he began to thrash, throwing the blanket off of his body, revealing blood-soaked bandages from sternum to hips, reaching out with arms also bandaged to fend off imaginary blows. He cried out again, a sickening, heart-wrenching scream, and twisted violently.
"Peace, Elrond," Mithrandir said as soothingly as he could, even as he quickly reached down and seized Elrond's wrists. Bone grated as his broken wrist moved, but Gandalf did not release his hold on Elrond's arms. Leaning over, using his own weight to still the thrashing Elf, Gandalf spoke again, only this time he spoke with more than just words. "Peace, Elrond," he urged. "You are safe now. You are amongst friends."
Elrond fell still, and for an instant his eyes slid open, but only to reveal a glassy, fevered gaze. He twisted one final time, and then fell still once more, his eyes closing, and his breathing growing shallower.
Gandalf carefully released Elrond's hands, and then placed them down by his sides. Shaking out the blanket, he laid it back over the still peredhel's body. Above, many of the Elves had turned, tensed and prepared to go down and aid the Istar.
"Stubborn peredhel," Gandalf muttered, puffing once more on his unlit pipe. But the truth of the matter was that he was not entirely certain that Elrond's hallucinations were a sign of good or a sign of bad.
The horses were upon him without warning, circling ever tighter and tighter as they charged about him, their riders' weapons gleaming in the noonday sun. Gandalf did not react, but merely sat on his horse, staff still firmly planted against his stirrup, a small smile on his lips.
"Mae govannen," he called as the horses slowed to a trot, and then to a walk.
A horse pulled away from the rest, who halted shortly thereafter. The rider was a dark-haired Elf dressed in full armor, with a bow upon his back and a sword at his belt. In his right hand he carried a spear.
"Mithrandir!" the Elf exclaimed, drawing his mount up short and bowing his head. "Well met indeed. Your presence is most welcome, especially on this day."
"I seek Lord Elrond," Gandalf said, cutting straight to the point. He hoped that the Elf would say that the Elf lord was currently enjoying lunch with his family. But somehow, he did not believe that would be the case.
The Elf shook his head and grimaced ever so slightly. "As do we, Mithrandir. I fear that we have found you at a most inopportune time." The Elf's pale blue eyes shone with worry. "A large Orc pack has been seen roaming these lands of late, and it is not safe to travel unaccompanied for any. I would gladly provide you with an escort, however…"
"Where is Lord Elrond?" Gandalf questioned. "I believe you at least have some inkling, do you not?"
Another Elf urged his steed forward, until he was sitting beside the first. "Lord Elrond led the party out to dispose of this Orc pack three days past. We were hunting the beasts, when their tracks diverged. Lord Elrond took one half, and Aradvir," here he nodded to his companion, "the other."
"And where is Lord Elrond now?" Gandalf pressed.
"That we do not know," Aradvir replied tersely. "Avasath came to us not two hours ago, riderless, and her saddle stained with blood."
Gandalf's eyes hardened. Something terrible indeed had befallen his friend if his mare had left his side. "Come then, we have no time to waste," Gandalf announced.
Aradvir smiled grimly. "Our thanks, Mithrandir."
"Do not thank me yet," Gandalf retorted gruffly. "Wait until Elrond is safely with us once more."
A sudden stillness crept through the clearing, filling Gandalf with an odd sense of dread. Looking down to his friend once more, Gandalf was struck with just how silent and still he looked. His chest was not even moving…
"Elrond," Gandalf barked. The Elf lord did not stir, nor did his chest move even a fraction. "Codspoons Elrond," Gandalf cursed, "not yet." He reached out and put his hand to Elrond's forehead once more.
The thread of his fëa was so weak that for a long moment, Mithrandir could find nothing. But there! A tiny, nearly invisible thread of light that just barely clung to life. Gandalf snatched at it, putting all caution and thought of gentleness aside.
Narya hummed, filling Gandalf's thoughts with the song of flame, as she awoke to her brother. She could sense his presence, his close proximity, and she longed to call to him, to sing with him.
Of course, Gandalf realized. He reached further.
Vilya, he called, and he felt Narya's song swell within his own mind. Vilya, awaken. Your Keeper needs you.
A rush of air that stirred not a blade of grass, a fey laugh, and then a blaze of blue light. You called sister? The voice was Elrond's, and yet not Elrond's, somehow wild and fey, yet ancient and filled with the song of the wind all the same. The voice came from Elrond, from some part of him, yet it was something more than him as well.
Your Keeper needs you, Mithrandir repeated. But now he was not only Mithrandir, but also Narya, a wild, dancing, cavorting flame that twisted in the shadows and laughed with glee as they ran.
The fire rose behind them, and a soundless wind blasted through the small ravine. For an instant, any who had been watching Mithrandir and Lord Elrond would have seen a flare a light, both blue and fire red that mingled until they became one. But then as soon as they had come, the light, the wind, and the fire died, until it was only the fire burning among the logs, and the breeze whistling through the stones.
Gandalf's eyes opened, and he watched as Elrond drew in a deep, shuddering breath.
The Orcs had taken their prisoner to a cave in the hills. The cave itself was not overly deep, nor was it connected to any network of passages or other caves, and for that the rescuers were thankful – that would mean no nasty warrens or burrows that the Orcs could sneak through and come out from behind. But it also meant that being able to surprise the Orcs would be difficult, and that they could see all that the Orcs were doing to Elrond.
They were not questioning him, and for that Gandalf was thankful. It seemed that they had targeted him simply as the leader, and not as Elrond Star-child, Foe, and Elf lord. They were merely enjoying carving him to pieces, reveling in vengeance against their fallen kin. Of course, in some ways this was all the worse, for it meant that they cared little for keeping their prisoner alive but to inflict more pain upon them.
By the time they had reached the base of the rocky hillside into which the cave mouth was set, hidden by the thick undergrowth and the low trees, Elrond was screaming. Not often, and not the piercing shrieks of pure agony that the Orcs so loved to hear, but screaming he was.
The Elves held back for just long enough to signal up and down the line their intent to charge, and then they were moving, springing up the rocky hillside, blades and spears refracting the late afternoon sun hungrily. The fearsome war cries of the Elves rang through the hills that eve, and the stones sang with their righteous fury.
The Orcs rushed out to meet the Elves, the hillside cast partially into shadow by the sinking of the sun. Black arrows rained down from above as the beasts leapt from boulders and from behind stones, clawing and slashing at the Elves.
But the Elves would not be halted, no matter the cost. Even as the Orcs streamed forth, they scythed their way through the ranks, hacking flesh and rending limbs, vengeance of their own lending them strength.
And Gandalf came as well, wielding staff and sword alike. As he neared the cave entrance, he sent out his thoughts to Elrond, trying to sense where his friend was being held within the large, spacious cave. He sensed only confusion and pain, all of Elrond's normally lucid thoughts addled.
Gandalf fought to the cave mouth, and entered. Light blazed from the end of his staff, illuminating even the furthest corners of the cavern, and the Orcs hiding within squealed with pain and fear.
Mithrandir! Fear, and more pain. A final scream echoed through cave.
Gandalf struck forward, cutting down any Orc who came between him and where he now knew his friend was. Many of the Elves had joined him, and they cut clear a path, keeping the way from the back of the cave to the mouth free.
And there, at the utmost back of the cave, Gandalf at last found Elrond with two crossbow bolts through his wrists, pinning him to the wall, and an Orc standing over him with a bloodied scimitar raised, ready to deliver the final blow that would completely cleave the collarbone in two, and give a direct yet painful path to the heart. Already the blade had attempted to take that path once, if the broken splinters of bone protruding from his shoulder and the blood coursing down his body were any indication. Of course, there was blood nearly coating his entire body, so much so that he could not even truly be called naked.
With a bellow, Gandalf struck, knocking the scimitar from the Orc's hands with a blow from his staff, and decapitating the loathsome monster with a slash with his sword an instant after. The Orc stared in shock, and then fell boneless to the floor.
The neigh of horses, and then the clear ringing of an Elven horn shattered the pre-dawn stillness. Gandalf stood, turning toward the entrance to the cleft, and there he saw a company of riders approaching fast, their silver armor glinting in the light of the dying stars and the first streaks of dawn. And there, riding at their forefront, came a golden-haired warrior on a mighty, white stallion.
"Hold on Elrond," Gandalf muttered, crouching down once more and grasping his friend's fingers gently. "Help has come."
