This chapter rather got away from me and that certainly impacted on the happiness of Elladan and Elrohir. And on how much you have to read. For those who lost interest in the overly descriptive/lack of dialogue chapters…this is not one of those.

Chapter 9

The twins waited until that summer before they left, which was a month less than Arwen and Galadriel stayed on in the Valley.

He understood Galadriel needed to return to Lórien. Nenya could not be gone long from its golden woods, just as Vilya could not from Rivendell. And it did not astonish Elrond that Arwen wished to leave. For her, now, her home was a place where her mother was not and never would be again. He had seen the light die from her eyes when they had returned from the Havens. Elrond could understand, even if he wished she would stay.

He had never considered the twins. They often rode out to join the men in the north on their patrols, or to the Greenwood for months or even several years at a time to assist Thranduil's folk with the ever growing darkness in their fair woods. They even dwelt sometimes with their grandparents in the Goldenwood, training with the warriors there. This was different; Elrond could see it in their eyes. They were filled with rage he had not witnessed since the First Age, in memories almost too distant to recall. Rage like this would consume them. They were bent on revenge, as only the Noldor could be. Elrond felt only sorrow and pain, and no thoughts of revenge on the yrch or Sauron stirred in his heart. There was no point in it. He had fought an entire age against these creatures and the evil in the lands of Middle-earth and in the end his wife had still paid with all but her life. Revenge would do no good.

The twins would not be persuaded, and in the late summer they rode out to the north, to route out the yrch packs of the northern range of the Hithaeglir. Elrond stood with Arwen and Galadriel in the pre-dawn light, watching them ascend the narrow Valley path up to the hills above. Arwen was sobbing again, a common state for her since they had returned.

'What do you see?' the Lady of Lórien asked him.

'I see nothing,' he said, turning away from the sight. It was not entirely true, but the end he saw was veiled in shadows and he could not decipher it. Galadriel let him be.

Elrond broke his fast in the quiet of his study, as he always did these days. No longer would Celebrían rise with him in the mornings and break her fast at his side. He had thrown himself into his work in recent months since their return from the coast. Erestor was becoming adept at finding work that was time consuming and tedious and Elrond was beginning to suspect that none of it truly needed doing. However, it kept his mind and his hands occupied, otherwise he would stand staring into the distance, mourning both his loss and his staying.

There had been no word of the twins by the time Galadriel, Arwen and their large escort departed south. This time, Glorfindel swore to his king he would see the party safe to the shelter of the mallorn trees and not a step less. Elrond knew there would be no further attack, however, no matter Glorfindel's caution. The yrch had made their attempt, using Celebrían in a bid to draw the elven king and his power out of the shelter of the unassailable Valley and it had not worked. Their leaders would not see the point in attempting the same again. They would find other ways, or other victims. Right now, many of the yrch would be occupied in the north.

The Valley was silent after the departure of the Lady of Lórien and the new Lady of Rivendell. It felt to Elrond as if the entire place was holding its breath, waiting. For what, he had no notion. Autumn passed with no whisper from the outside. There was a veiled sadness about all the inhabitants of the court that seemed unbreakable. The half-elf wondered if his home would ever be a place of laughter and light again, as long as his reign held.

A party of the northern border rangers arrived in the dead of winter, bringing word that the Princes of the Noldor still lived, at least last they had been seen, and that many yrch did not. They had routed out a cave troll threatening one of the northern-most villages. Elrond was gladden to hear his sons still lived, though he was aware he would know in his heart if they did not. The Dúnedain told stories about the ever growing presence of the enemy on the borders of old Arthedain. Whatever controlled the northern wastes was growing again, the watchful peace now long over. Elrond wondered if it would come to war again, one day, or whether this perpetual state of skirmishes and small battles would continue.

The men left as soon as the next winter storm in the mountains above blew through. Winter passed onwards and spring came, a year since the Valley had fallen into its grief. And still its princes did not return.

Ten years after their mother had sailed, one blustery evening with rain hanging in the hills above, Elrond's sons returned to him. Elrohir was unconscious from a poisoned arrow wound and Elladan was favouring still healing ribs.

In the two days Elrond sat by Elrohir's side, driving the poison from his body so that his natural healing power could work, his only thought was that he was grateful. He would rather have them under his care, injured or even near-death, then to wonder if he would ever see them again on this side of the sea.

'Father,' was the first thing Elrohir said when he opened his eyes after his fever finally broke.

'I am here, my son.'

'When will I recover?' was the second thing he said.

Elrond sighed. 'A week, or perhaps longer, before the wound has healed itself.'

Elrohir nodded tiredly, his eyes closing already. 'That is good. We are expected at the east outpost in a fortnight.'

Elrond looked across at Elladan where he stood in the doorway. 'They still roam the mountains in greater numbers. Yrch and trolls and other fell things. We will not rest until they are dead. Until the mountains are safe again. Until the Dúnedain mothers do not fear for their children in the dark. We will not rest,' he swore.

'Then you will never rest,' the king said, bowing his head over his sleeping son.

'So be it,' Elladan whispered. 'So be it.'

The night before they are due to ride out, Elrond calls his sons to his study. Elrohir has recovered well, though ideally he should not be going anywhere quite yet. His strength was sorely taxed from his battle with the poison.

Elrond has never had need to have this conversation with his sons before. They have always taken their duties as his heirs seriously and acted in a manner according to their station. But this destructive behavior they have started is a mark on Elrond's heart as much as it is the laws of his land. Its princes cannot put themselves in danger for acts of revenge, not any longer.

Erestor has agreed with him. Glorfindel has not, but in one thing the Vanyar will not gainsay his king, and that is on the matter of his family.

When the twins enter the study, Elrond turns from his place on the balcony. Erestor has taken up a silent post in the corner and Glorfindel is attempting not to pace.

'Lord Elladan, Lord Elrohir,' the king greets them. He can see the surprise in their eyes as much as he can see the understanding of what is about to happen. 'You have chosen to gainsay my wishes and risk your own lives in pursuit of revenge. Such is not the act of princes of this realm. You have made it clear that your father's views in this matter account for nothing. Therefore, as your king, I am ordering you to end this. You will remain in this Valley. You will rejoin Lord Glorfindel's patrols as and when he sees fit.' He paused to take a breath, which is apparently a mistake.

'If that is your desire, my king,' Elladan began, stepping forward, 'then as is our right we renounce our positions as princes of the Noldor.'

Elrond's attempt to breathe comes to naught. For a moment he cannot draw in air. He never expected they were this far gone in their anger.

'This is our right, sire,' Elrohir repeats.

It is their right. It has always been the right of any to renounce any claim they might have to the throne. Elrond himself would have done it once, had Galadriel allowed him. Not for this reason, however; never for such a petty reason. He feels anger course in his veins, because he knows that with this choice his sons are lost to him. They will die in a distant forest or in the dark reaches of the northern mountains and he will have nothing except the hole in his heart to tell him. Celebrían would not have wanted this.

'Your mother would have no desire for you to spend your own lives in this pursuit,' he says, because it is the last argument he has left.

For the briefest of moments he can see the hesitation in Elrohir's eyes, who had always loved his mother above all others. But there is no hesitation in Elladan's. 'This is our choice, not mother's. We renounce our claim. We are princes no longer and as such are not bound to keep ourselves safe for the future of our people. Furthermore,' the elder continues, and Elrond can tell in a vivid heartbeat of foresight what is coming. 'We choose, freely, to pursue this course we have chosen until the end, though that means exile from this realm and from all allies of the Noldor.'

He has spoken the words that Elrond cannot take back. Glorfindel says something in Kazdul so low that Elrond cannot make it out, but the intention is clear. He follows this by striding out through the open terrace and disappearing into the darkness. A moment later the silence outside is broken by the sound of a branch breaking.

Elrohir cringes.

'This is your chosen course?' Elrond asks, begging them to change their minds.

'It is, your majesty,' Elladan says, and their father knows he has lost them. They have never once uttered that title.

'Very well. Lord Erestor?' Elrond asks, drawing himself up with strength he can feel flowing from his body. Celebrían's loss is still a knife in his heart, but this is worse. He feels like he will faint.

'Yes, your majesty,' Erestor says, rising from his seat.

'Stand witness. Today, the Lords Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond Half-elven, High King of the Noldor, do renounce their place as princes and heirs to the realm. Let the record show they have chosen exile from all elven realms from this day forth, until death release them from their oath.'

The words are like ashes on his tongue. How has it come to this?

'Elladan, Elrohir,' Elrond says to them, and his voice is no longer that of a king, but a father. 'I cannot exile you from my heart, my sons, for so you will always remain.' He goes to their side and cups each identical cheek in his hands. 'I will worry for you every day you are gone and pray that one day, in these lands or across the Sundered Sea, we will be reunited.'

'Thank you, father,' they echo together. 'Fare you well, and our love to our sister,' Elladan continues.

They bow together, low and solemn and take their leave.

Erestor manages to get a chair behind his king's knees before Elrond collapses to the floor, at least, but he is not aware of the simple gesture. He cannot breathe, cannot think; cannot even see. There is only darkness and despair now. His wife is parted from him for perhaps many years or longer, and all he has is hope that Valinor can heal what he could not. Now his sons are lost to him forevermore, doomed to roam the wilderness without succor or kindness from any elf in Middle-earth. The only light in the darkness is that the kindness of men will blanket them, even if formally the Chieftain will no longer be able to treat with them as he once did. They are not princely allies any longer, but exiled elves. Arahad will have to decide his own course in his future dealings with them, and Elrond will have to send word to the north. To Lórien and the Greenwood. To the Havens. This will break Arwen's heart.

Glorfindel returns at dawn to announce in a hallow voice that 'the exiles have departed your realm, sire'. There is anger in his eyes and Elrond knows that some of it at least is directed at his king.

'So be it,' Elrond whispers. What is done could not now be undone and they both know it.

In the years that follow the twins' departure, there is a shadow over Imladris worse than even after its queen had sailed. He knows that Galadriel and Celeborn share his grief, knows too than even Thranduil has expressed overly kind words at the loss of both wife and sons. Círdan has called them fools, loudly and long in Elrond's presence and Mithrandir has said a few more words besides. The wizard, at least, thinks the whole situation an unjustified debacle and cannot be made to understand either Elrond's actions or the twins'. After a few decades, Elrond tires of debating the issue and makes it clear to all that, as it should be, the exiles will not be mentioned or discussed any further.

Times passes even for the Eldar, though sometimes it passes quite slowly. Elrond can now count the departure of his sons and wife in yéni, not years and his heart is daily pained.

But one dark night, in the dead of winter, nearly three hundred years after he last laid eyes on them, a messenger from the north border rides in. He is drenched from the rain and begs leave to speak to the king in private.

'Sire, I come with news. I beg that you might hear me out before you pronounce judgment,' is the first thing the warrior says to him when he is alone with Elrond in the study.

'I will pronounce no judgment on you, Melinir, no matter your news,' Elrond says, more than worried now. He is not a king to be feared, especially by his own warriors. Whatever has happened is grave indeed.

'Earlier this evening, a horse arrived at the north outpost, carrying two riders. One is…he is dying, sire,' Melinir says, bowing his head.

'Then why did you not bring him here?' Elrond asks, though in his heart he knows already.

'We could not, sire. Please, sire, please, I beg of you, you must…' Melinir draws in a deep breath. 'You cannot let your son die, my lord!' the elf all but shouts, eyes wide in determination and freight in equal measure.

The world is spinning again, Elrond thinks. He feared this moment would come, all those years ago. Feared he would have to choose between upholding the law and being a father. It is not a choice.

'Erestor!' he calls, his voice carrying through the house as it once did across Dagorlad.

The seneschal appears almost immediately. 'Sire?'

'Have my horse readied. I need you to fetch what healing supplies you can. The surgical instruments as well, and bandages. You have until the horse is saddled, Erestor and no longer, go quickly.'

After four thousand years he is thankful more for Erestor's response in that moment than in anything else the elf has ever done for him. He simply nods and runs out of the room.

'Melinir, get a new horse, we must hurry.'

'Yes, sire. Thank you sire!' he cries, nearly overcome with emotion. He too races out of the room. Elrond goes directly across the garden from his study to his rooms, tearing off his robes as he does, uncaring that they fall on the wet ground. Inside his bedroom he grabs a tunic and surcoat more befitting a mad dash through the forest, dressing so hurriedly he finds his hands shaking too much to do the ties. He leaves them open, grabbing the nearest cloak from his wardrobe and pulling it around him as he races to the stables. Three horses stand ready and Erestor is tying saddlebags to one. Melinir stands beside one and Glorfindel the other.

'You will not come,' Elrond commands.

'I will,' Glorfindel returns. 'It is time to end this idiocy.'

That much Elrond cannot argue with. He pulls himself easily into the saddle, despite years without having ridden. 'Erestor?'

'Do not concern yourself; the Valley is in good hands. Now go, sire, and bring your sons home!'

Elrond does not need to be told twice. Together, the three of them race from the house, following the river downstream and then turning north into a new dell, making for the northern stairs. It is not a quick ride, for the horses can only walk up the steep defile, and Elrond chaffs against the pace. Still, with the rain still coming down in torrents they reach the top of the rise and with their horses' hooves on flatter ground they make better time. It is three hours hard ride to the northern border, and they do it in scarcely less with the weather. Each moment Elrond wonders if they will be too late.

The rain has almost stopped by the time they reach the outpost, a small two-roomed building buried in the trees at the edge of the forest. Beyond is the northern wilds. Inside a fire is burning and several lanterns and two elves stand on either side of a dining table. One of them is Elladan, unchanged even after so long.

'Your majesty,' he says, bowing low. 'I beg of you, in your kindness, to please help my brother. I would not have risked our presence here except out of greatest need. We will be gone from these lands as soon as we –'

That is all he manages to get out before Elrond reaches his side, enclosing his eldest in the fiercest embrace he can manage. 'Elladan, my son,' he says. 'I have missed you.'

He holds on for two more heartbeats before stepping back, turning his attention to his youngest son who lies on the table. The lantern burning above illuminates in too stark contrast the bright blood covering nearly Elrohir's entire torso.

Elrond's heart contracts and falters at the sight.

'Tell me,' he orders. Glorfindel lays out the saddlebags at the edge of the table and stands beside him.

Elladan takes a deep breath. 'The injury happened yesterday afternoon. We were set upon by yrch, wargs and a troll to the west of here. We had only two rangers with us, not enough. Alas, they are dead, and Elrohir might have escaped as well, if he had not been attempting to save the wounded Hadon. He took an arrow in the back, upper left, first and went down.' Another deep breath and Elrond knows what this is costing Elladan, to remain calm and deliver the facts. 'I tried to get to him, but there were too many. By the time I got near, there was a warg over him. Elrohir only had his dagger, but he was trying to stab the beast in the eye, but the warg was pinning him down on his good side. I couldn't get there in time, father, I am sorry. The warg got his teeth in and…' Elladan choked. 'I couldn't get there in time.'

That explained the significant blood loss. It was almost inconceivable that Elrohir still lived.

'I staunched the wounds I could and brought him here, as it was the closest and I needed supplies. I tried to do what I could but I was never the healer of the two of us. Each time I think the wounds have stopped bleeding, they start again. At least two are infected and he burns with a fever I cannot abate.'

Elrond heard all of this with the most detached mind he could muster, assessing the damage visually by Elladan's descriptions. The arrow wound on its own would have been minor, though debilitating for several days, more if poisoned. But the warg had ripped open the elf's torso with its teeth, or perhaps the claws too, and there were gagged tears of flesh all down Elrohir's right side. Elladan had bound the wounds, but the bandages were soaked in blood.

'Will he…?' Elladan started to ask and had to stop.

'I know not, Elladan. Truly. But I will do all I can do heal your brother. You must rest now. Glorfindel, I will need your assistance,' Elrond told his captain. Glorfindel had seen enough battle wounds in his day; that alone would be a help. And Elladan was in no fit emotional state to do any good.

'Boil water, and I need more light,' Elrond ordered the outpost guards. They rushed to obey their king, eyes wide in concern. They had once been the twins' fellow warriors and companions. To witness such an injury in one they had called friend had to be difficult.

But there was no time to consider any of that. Elrohir had, perhaps, but a few hours left before he would succumb.

Elrond lost track of the hours as they passed, missing even the coming of dawn when the sun rose to clear skies. And yet, Elrohir still lived. By some blessing of the Valar Elrond could not understand, Elrohir lived. He burned with a fever still from the infected wounds, and his life still hung by a thread, but he had survived the night that Elrond had been certain he would not. Elrond himself was exhausted. Each wound had had to be cleaned, and several layers of muscle and flesh repaired in each case. The warg had caught three ribs and all but shattered them, and Elrond had had to dig out pieces of bone before he closed the wounds. It had been long since he had worked over such serious wounds.

Still, the sun's rising was at least a hopeful sign, as clearly Elladan took it to be. 'He will live now, I know it,' Elrond's eldest promised. And perhaps Elladan knew more than Elrond, for the ties between the fëa of twins was more than Elrond understood, bereft of his own for six thousand years.

It was hope enough in the light of a new day for Elrond to cling to. The thought of having his sons returned to him after so long, only to lose them did not bear thinking on for too long.

'Father?' Elladan whispered from near his side.

'Yes?' Elrond answered, turning. To hear that endearment spoken again filled his heart with joy.

Elladan held out a mug of steaming liquid. Tea, Elrond's mind told him. He took the proffered drink and wrapped his hands about it, seeking warmth he should not have needed.

'I know not what to say,' Elladan continued, sighing heavily.

Elrond took one of his son's hands in his own. 'You need not say anything. It is passed now, 'Dan, that is all that matters. What has happened is behind us and we will not speak of it. Not at least until your brother is well enough to join in.'

'As you wish,' the eldest twin nodded. 'But we must speak of it at some point. What was done cannot be so easily undone as your forgiveness, father.'

Elrond knew that well. Still, in these later days of his reign, perhaps the laws of their people might be stretched, if not entirely undone. The Noldor would be glad to have its princes returned. Was three hundred years not exile enough?

'Yes, we must. But not now, Elladan. For now, I have my sons returned to me, in mostly one piece. Let me enjoy that first moment, before I must worry about matters of state.'

'Of course,' Elladan said, leaving it at that.