notes: I am The Worst, and I realize this. I am so sorry guys, though I know apologies are paltry and weak. Just...I'm sorry. I hope you enjoy the chapter though!

Chapter 21

The twenty-third day of the fifth month, year 1050, Third Age

Elladan dreamed.

He stood in a healing tent, the soft, white canvas overhead and to every side casting softer shadows throughout the large expanse. Cots covered in white blankets lined the tent in four rows; about half of them were filled, the Elves lying there groaning and whimpering in pain, or lying unnaturally still in their unconsciousness. Linen bandages swathed the injured, and small stands beside each bed held tinctures and potions, draughts and rolls of more bandages.

The Elf in the cot beside which Elladan was standing was sitting up. His left arm was in a splint, his right shoulder was bound in tight bandages, and more bandages were wrapped around his chest. His legs were hidden beneath the blanket, so Elladan had no way of knowing if they were injured as well.

He was dark-haired and silver-eyed, stormy and grey and alight with life. His brow was arched, his lips full, and his cheekbones high in beauty and grace. His hair, cut short to his shoulders, was gathered back into a small knot at the base of his neck, keeping it out of his face as he read the book sprawled across his lap.

His was a face Elladan knew well—too well.

"Ro?" he asked, taking a questioning, confused step forward. "Elrohir?"

The figure on the bed did not move—did not look up, or even respond to Elladan's voice. He simply continued to read, his eyes flickering back and forth over the page before turning it.

"Elrohir, what happened?" Elladan tried again. "Why are you here? Where are you? What is this camp? Are you well? How did you injure yourself?"

"Ro!" another voice snapped, and Elladan whirled.

He found himself faced with another look-alike. This Elf—or he looked like an Elf as much as Elladan looked like one—had hair shorn close to his head, and his silver eyes were slate grey with anger and barely constrained fear. It was a look Elladan knew well; it was a look he himself had worn before.

The newcomer was striding forward between the cots, hands in fists by his sides, mouth settled into a firm, hard line. He came to a halt beside Elladan at the edge of the cot in which the first Elf sat, and crossed his arms.

"Well?" the newcomer demanded. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

The first Elf—"Ro"—looked up from his book and said calmly, "There's really no point in talking to you when you're like this, Ros."

Ros scowled. "The healer said you had fifteen broken bones, as well as multiple lacerations and contusions, and internal bleeding."

Ro shrugged. "That is what happens when you single-handedly take on a troll."

Ros turned apoplectic. "Yes!" he all but shouted. "Yes it is! What were you thinking, Elrond?"

Shock sprinted through Elladan. Elrond? Then this was his father? His father and who?

"I was thinking that the troll was about to kill and eat a bunch of civilians," Elladan's father said, still with infuriatingly calm.

"And so what?" Ros demanded. "You thought "Oh yes, I'm going to one on one a troll?""

"Yes?" Elrond said. He hesitated, and suddenly there was raw vulnerability in his face, his eyes, the draw of his brows and the slump of his shoulders. "Please don't be angry with me, Ros."

Ros deflated, and a look of love and gentleness slid across his face. "I'm not angry, Ro," he said soflty. "Just...scared."

Realization struck Elladan like lightning on a clear day: Elros. This was his father and his father's own twin, Elros Tar-Minyatur. When was this, though? Before Elros sailed for Numenor, most likely; they both looked young—far younger than Elladan was—and as far as Elladan knew, Elros did not set foot on Middle-earth again once he had sailed. And he would have known if his father was wounded on Numenor, would he not? He had studied Numenor's history, and there had never been a large-scale assault on its lands, or anything that would require a healing tent such as they were in.

Could this therefore be during the War of Wrath? Elladan wondered.

"I am sorry," Elrond said quietly. "I did not mean to frighten you."

Elros huffed, and his own shoulders slumped. "I know," he said, just as quietly. He sank to the edge of the cot, then reached out to take Elrond's unhurt hand in his. "I just wish that…"

"That what?" Elrond asked. "That I had allowed the troll to kill those people?"

"No," Elros said quickly. "Only that you could have done so without getting hurt."

Elrond laughed weakly. "Unfortunately, brother, that is an impossibility in this war. You know that just as well as I do."

"I know," Elros said, and shook his head. "Just...be more careful in the future, Ro. Yes?"

"I will try," Elrond promised.

They lapsed into companionable silence then, giving Elladan, who was still standing over them, a chance to think.

Was this even a true event? Or was it simply a figment of his imagination? It would make far more sense if this was merely a dream conjured by his feverish mind—yet something in him rebelled at that thought and idea. It felt real, somehow—felt real in the smells of blood and vomit and urine, in the tastes of sickness and iron and death, in the feel of the heaviness in the air.

Elros standing shook Elladan out of his thoughts. "I must away," he told Elrond. "I have a meeting with the Edain chieftains, and I cannot be late. But I needed to see you, to—" He stopped suddenly and turned, his eyes meeting Elladan's. He blinked, surprise flashing across his face—and then it was gone, and he turned back to Elrond to finish saying, "I needed to ensure with my own two eyes that you were well and alive."

Elrond looked confused in the same direction as Elros had, but his eyes passed through Elladan as if he was a ghost. He looked back at Elros then, and nodded.

"Thank you for coming to see me," he said. "I—"

Elladan awoke.

He opened his eyes to trees swaying overhead. He blinked, frowned, then tried to sit up—only to fall back to the soft blanket on which he lay with a groan. His entire torso ached horribly, sharp and acrid and strong, like bitter smoke and ash and fire burning through his skin. He shivered from the pain, from the pounding in his temples, from the heat crackling along his bones.

Taking in a deep breath, he winced as his wounds were tugged. The air tasted frigid in his lungs, on his tongue, in his mouth. He shivered again.

What was wrong with him? Where was he? What was happening?

A flash of memory: the clangor of metal against metal, the shouts of Orcs, pain, pain, pain in his stomach, side, back as he stood over...over...over who? What?

Elrohir.

Elrohir.

Elbereth, Elladan thought, suddenly frantic, is Elrohir all right?

Struggling, Elladan sat up. The blanket on which he lay swung haphazardly, and he glanced to his left and to his right just in time to see two riders jerk their mounts up to a halt. The horses, from whose saddles the blanket on which he lay was tied, stopped quickly, snorting and tossing their heads. The Elves on their backs looked down at him with shock and concern.

"Peace, Lord Elladan," the one on the left said quickly. "You are safe. You are well."

Elladan groaned again, and collapsed back on the blanket. "What happened?" he croaked. His voice was cracked and broken, with pain and with heat.

"Your group was attacked by Orcs," said the Elf on the right. Both Elves bearing him were Eryn Galen Elves, and Elladan did not know their names. "You and your brother escaped to bear news of the attack to us, and we now carry you to King Thranduil's halls for healing."

"Elrohir?"

"Your brother is well—or was, when we left him and the rest of the company," the Elf on his left said. "That was eight days ago."

Shock course through Elladan's veins. "Eight days?" he asked faintly. "I've been unconscious for eight days?"

"Your wounds are most grievous."

Hoofbeats came, and then Colael, an Imladris elleth, appeared ahead of the two stretcher-bearers. "Why have we stopped?" she asked. "I wanted to make it at least another two miles before we make camp."

"Lord Elladan awoke," the Elf on the right said, indicating Elladan.

Colael looked down, and a riot of emotions crossed her face. Then she smiled. "It is good to see your eyes, my lord," she said.

Elladan smiled in return. "It is good to be awake," he said hoarsely.

Colael nodded. "If you would please lie still? Perhaps try to sleep some more? We will wake you when we set up camp, if you like."

Elladan nodded against the blanket. "Thank you," he croaked.

"Of course," Colael said, then looked at the two bearers and nodded again. They bowed their heads in return, and nudged their horses into a walk.

Elladan sank back against the blanket and closed his eyes to block out the nauseating sight of the trees swaying overhead.

Just why had he dreamed the dream about his father and his uncle? What could it mean? Had it just been a dream? Or had it been something more?

And if it was something more, what could it portend?

Lost in thought, and without realizing it, he fell asleep.

end notes: And with that we've caught up to where I left off in my writing. You can probably expect weekly updates now, rather than the every 3 days I was doing. Sorry! I just have more than one project I'm working on right now, and while this fic is much easier to write than my other one, it still takes time to do so. We shall see though - I may spend today working on DitF, and if that's the case, I'll probably be able to post in the 3 day increments again for a bit. Not that you all needed to know my entire thought process... Anyhoodle, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! I'd love to hear feedback from you all - and honestly, the more feedback I get, the more excited I am to write. *nudge nudge*