Title: Wild Justice 15/?
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.
Feedback: Please!
Warnings: BDSM.
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.
* * *
"You have to tell him."
Glorfindel glanced sideways at Erestor, who was looking innocent as usual, flicking a speck of dust from his already immaculate sleeve. He was too overwrought to bother pretending that he didn't know what his friend was talking about, although he did glance around to make certain no one was within hearing range. The nearest rider was Lord Celeborn at the head of the column, and he appeared lost in his own thoughts. "It's too soon. We decided . . . "
"Yes, but that was before all this . . . upheaval . . . with Thranduil. I am surprised the king hasn't discerned the truth already. He certainly will if they talk, and eventually--you know Elrohir--he WILL confront him. I barely managed to distract him last night."
"Last night?"
"He saw you with the king, I am not entirely certain how, but he was on his way to break things off with you when I intercepted him." Glorfindel grimaced; he should have known. He was a fool for ever going anywhere near the king's rooms, much less for believing Elrohir would not learn of it; Caras Galadhon had one of the best developed gossip vines he had encountered anywhere. As the average elf's favourite past time was keeping up with what their nobility were doing--and the more scandalous the news the better--he had probably just provided the taverns of the city fodder for at least a decade of speculation. Throw in that scene with Orophin, and his fame would doubtless last most of the rest of the century. Well, at least Erestor's news explained Elrohir's frosty attitude this morning. "You are just fortunate I happened to be returning to the talan at the same time that he was making his way towards the king's chambers--a few minutes more or less, and we would REALLY have a mess."
Glorfindel regarded him sardonically. "What do you call this?"
"A crisis, but a manageable one. It will cease to be so soon, however."
"I thought you had a plan."
Erestor shrugged. "I do, my dear Glorfindel, but these things take time to arrange. Besides, I said I could manage the king; I never said anything about patching things up between the two of you. I've already done my best--I persuaded Elrohir to come along with us because I didn't dare to leave him behind with Thranduil, but . . ."
"You did that? Are you mad?" Glorfindel regarded his friend with genuine anger. Erestor was far too prone to take things on himself, even if they were absolutely none of his concern.
Erestor looked a bit put out. "Well, what else could I do? Besides, it isn't as if he can't take care of himself."
"You don't know what we may be facing . . . "
"Neither do you. But whatever it is, his having a showdown with the king could be infinitely worse."
"Thranduil is not so foolish as to say anything . . . "
Erestor chuckled. "You like him too well, I think."
"I don't like him at all!"
"And you overestimate him." Erestor held up a hand, "I do not mean to malign his intelligence, Glorfindel. Really, for someone who dislikes him so much, you do quickly leap to his defense, don't you? But rather to point out that it must be driving Thranduil wild, trying to understand how you could possibly choose a slip of an elfling over him. Seen from his perspective, your actions are not even remotely comprehensible. He has pursued you for a very long time--he will not easily abandon the chase, and certainly not without proof that he stands no real chance. If he discovers the truth for himself, he will certainly be thrown off guard and is VERY apt to say something to alert Elrohir."
Glorfindel shifted uncomfortably and wished Erestor would make less sense. "Elrohir might well not understand what the king meant, even if he did say something."
Erestor rolled his eyes expressively. "My dear Glorfindel, please! You really must stop living in denial over all this." Erestor adjusted one of his plum suede riding gloves, a habit quite familiar to Glorfindel; his friend tended to fidget when about to say something likely to offend. "We agree that Elrohir is not the same person you remember. Or rather, he is, of course, but he is a much younger version. He doesn't have access to the memories and the wealth of experience they bring as you do. But that does not mean that he has lost any of his native intelligence or quickness. You have fallen into the habit of underestimating him, and fortunately he has been so preoccupied with the usual coming-of-age angst that he has not fully put his mind to the issue at hand. But with or without the king's commentary, he WILL figure it out, and sooner I think, by far, than his father's timetable will permit. So again I say--you HAVE to tell him."
"You know what the consequences could be."
Erestor shrugged. "I also know what they certainly will be if you continue to ignore the problem. It will not simply fade away."
Glorfindel sighed again and rubbed the back of his neck. He had a headache coming on, thanks in a large part to this conversation. He would much prefer a nice, straight forward battle to these types of mind games; cleaving a few orc heads would seem like a holiday compared to the task that faced him. He had hoped to put it off because of the mission, but now that Elrohir had decided to come along, there was no longer any valid excuse. "I would have preferred it had you mentioned this before we left. If I am to do anything so drastic, I would like to at least have Lord Elrond's permission, if not his actual presence."
"Elrond is not in any shape to make a decision of this type at the moment, nor should he be burdened by it."
Glorfindel regarded Erestor carefully. There was a tense quality in his friend's voice that he did not like. Of course, they were both worried about Elrond. Glorfindel had looked in on him before they departed and had been relieved to see him sleeping at last, curled up in the large bed beside Gil-Galad, but he had looked exhausted. Indeed, with the dark circles under his eyes and the unhealthy pallor of his complexion, Glorfindel had thought that he did not look much better than the High King himself. Nonetheless, there was something in Erestor's manner that seemed odd . . . as if there was more troubling him than just anxiety on Elrond's behalf. Glorfindel almost didn't say anything, as he had enough to worry about at the moment and Erestor in a mood was not a pretty sight, but his fellow counselor was a good friend--most of the time--and he owed him his aid if he wanted it. "Is there something troubling you, Erestor?"
Black eyes swung to him, fairly sparking with irritation. "Something bothering me? Why, no, Glorfindel, nothing at all! What could possibly be upsetting me? Except perhaps the High King suddenly back from the grave, us going to confront a few thousand orcs in their own lair, Elrohir about to be tipped into insanity, Thranduil running loose plotting the Valar alone know what, and Elrond on the verge of a nervous breakdown . . . No, I can't think why I should be feeling any unusual stress, can you?"
Glorfindel hid a smile, and decided to let the matter drop. Erestor would tell him in his own way, when he chose to do so, or he would not. Cajoling Elrond's chief counselor into doing something he did not like was never an easy task, and Glorfindel rarely attempted it. He certainly was in no mood to do so today. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Elrohir and Gildor riding together, chatting amicably. The sight reassured him--certainly Elrohir had enough protection on this journey--and he vowed to talk to him whenever Lord Celeborn called a halt to the day's ride. Erestor was right; this could not be allowed to continue.
* * *
Elrond awoke to a crick in his back and a cramp in his leg, neither of which were surprising considering the awkward position in which he'd finally managed to get to sleep. He lifted himself slowly up on his arms to check on the king's condition, and was so surprised to find those bright blue eyes open and aware that he almost fell off the bed. They regarded each other for a very long time without speaking. It was still painful to see the familiar features so wasted, but there was a spark of recognition in the eyes that had not been there before, giving Elrond real hope for the first time.
Yet the king at first made no effort to speak, and Elrond had absolutely no idea what to say or do; his throat had seemingly closed over, making it impossible to speak. The king eventually solved the problem as he so often had in the past, by a simple, elegant gesture. Raising a trembling hand, he gently stroked the side of Elrond's head, twining a curl of dark hair about a finger, while his gaze ran over his herald's face searchingly. Then suddenly he smiled. It was his old, sweet expression, and with it all the years fell away. "Elrond."
Elrond gathered his king into his arms and wept, so relieved that he still could not speak. He allowed himself the luxury of holding him for a time, trying not to concentrate on how insubstantial he felt in his arms, and being very careful not to injure him further. Finally he pulled away slightly to ring the bell pull for a servant, and food and fresh towels soon arrived. Elrond managed to persuade the king to drink some tea with honey and to eat a small amount of fruit and bread. It was almost the first thing he had consumed since his return, and it encouraged Elrond greatly to see it. The king was painfully thin and extremely weak, but his eyes were lucid and he seemed quietly happy to be in Elrond's care.
Carrying him as easily as if he had been a child, Elrond took the high king to the great bathing chamber down the hall. His rooms had their own bath attached, but it was small, and he needed room for both of them. He ran the large, circular tank full to the brim with hot, steamy water, to which he added a large amount of healing herbs, their pleasing fragrance soon permeating the room. He undressed them both and lowered them into the water, keeping the king safely within the circle of his arms as he bathed him. He was somewhat surprised at the blissful expression that passed over the king's features as the hot liquid closed about him. But then, Elrond thought sorrowfully, it had probably been centuries since a true bath had been available to him, at least while he was conscious enough to be aware of it.
Elrond enjoyed himself pampering the king's skin with soothing balms and fragrant oils, simultaneously pouring as much strength as he dared into the wasted body. It seemed to help, for a little colour returned to the pale cheeks and the king managed another weak smile. Elrond allowed hope to wash over him and continued to hold him until the water grew tepid, vowing that he would save this life if there were any arts capable of doing it. After wrapping him in soft towels, Elrond carried his king carefully back to his rooms. He was so intent on his burden that he was almost to the door before he noticed Thranduil loitering in front of it. "Ah, Elrond, good. I was hoping to see the both of you today."
Elrond doubted that a conversation with him had been at the top of Thranduil's list, but he did not contradict him, nor did he protest when the Mirkwood ruler opened the door and then followed him into his chambers. Elrond settled the High King back in bed, dressing him hurriedly and hoping Thranduil would decide to go away. When the quiet presence behind him showed no sign of taking the hint, he became a bit more obvious. "Thranduil, the king is still unwell. He needs to rest, and hopefully to eat a good deal in order to regain his strength. Perhaps your visit can wait?"
"I do not think so. I am concerned for Gil-Galad's condition, of course . . . " Elrond tried to suppress his instinctive flinch at Thranduil's easy use of the king's name. To address him or speak about him so familiarly was a privilege few had had in the days of his power. Elrond did not even feel himself worthy to utter the name, after the way in which he had failed his sovereign, and it seemed disrespectful to the point of profanity to hear those syllables from Thranduil's lips. Had his father not ignored Gil-Galad's orders at Barad-dur, and attacked without the support of the rest of the elvish host, the battle might have gone far differently. Elrond had spent centuries telling himself that the father's folly was not the son's fault, and that Oropher had paid for his poor judgment with his life, but he could not stop his breath catching now. Thranduil paused at the sound, but did not comment. "However, I do think it important that we discover if there is any information he can give us. Have you tried to question him?"
Elrond kept his temper with difficulty. "He is hardly in any condition for that."
Thranduil seated himself on the chair beside the bed as if he had not heard. Gil-Galad regarded him placidly, and the Mirkwood king stared back with the same composure, giving no sign of any shock at the High King's condition. Yet his voice was somewhat softer when next he spoke. "Many elves are about to walk into the unknown, Elrond, your son and father-in-law at their head. I would think you would at least want to try."
"My son?" Elrond felt a sudden sinking in his stomach. Why had no one told him of this?
"Elrohir," Thranduil confirmed. "I saw him leave with them this morning. Obviously, it was not my place to interfere, but I did wonder if he had your permission." Thranduil saw Elrond's expression and smiled reassuringly. "Do not worry for his safety--five hundred of my best warriors, including my son Legolas, are meeting them on the way. Yet I would feel better knowing what dangers await them, would you not? Celeborn made it clear that he did not require my company on this quest, so I am helping in the only way I can." Thranduil held out a hand. "Will you accept my aid?"
Elrond knew what the king wanted, and although he would have much preferred to postpone this, Thranduil's words were logical. The blond Elda reached out a hand, which looked unbelievably tanned and healthy next to the pale ones on the blanket, and grasped one of the high king's. Elrond took Thranduil's proffered hand, and also clasped the remaining one of the king's. The triangle complete, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, turning inward in an effort to focus his energies and stamp down his panic. When he had tried this before, just a tentative touch on first seeing the king again, the result had been extreme pain and unconsciousness, and he had learned practically nothing. Of course, he had Thranduil's support now, but the first experience had made him wary. This sort of merging of minds was always difficult, for few had Galadriel's innate skill, and many times Elrond had known it to fail completely. With the high king still so weak, it was unlikely that they would be able to extract anything useful . . .
Without warning the world fell away and Elrond found himself plunged into a maelstrom of sights and sounds and colours, all swirling together far too quickly for him to follow. He vaguely sensed Thranduil's presence, but could not discern the high king at all, nor could he even feel the hand that he hoped he still grasped. A vortex was rushing towards him at a terrific speed, and Elrond was powerless to do anything but let it come.
* * *
Gildor felt his usual delight in the beauty of Arda, glistening under a blanket of Ithil's light, steal over him. The evening breeze was cool and perfumed with flowers, underneath the more disturbing scents, and somewhere nearby he heard a lonely loon call out mournfully for its mate. He felt a little like that, too, hoping Haldir was all right and not too upset with him over his little deception. Absentmindedly, Gildor hacked an orc's head from its shoulders and dodged the fountain of blood that followed the arc of his knife.
Slipping into a fighting trance, which focused his concentration to the point that time itself seemed to slow down, Gildor surveyed the field before him. He sidestepped a delicate flower that shone silvery white in the starlight, reflecting that this was really the sort of evening he would have liked to share with his lover. Ithil was almost full and he could see himself and Haldir walking hand in hand over the fields, perhaps pausing to rest beside the small stream their party had passed a while back, and reveling in the lush sensation of the green glory all around them. He felt an arrow hiss by his ear, but did not bother to dodge it; it had been ill shot, and missed him by almost an inch. He somersaulted over a group of three orcs, slicing through the throats of two of them as he did so, then pausing to bury a knife in the back of the third before wrenching it free.
Dodging, leaping and weaving through the seemingly endless sea of goblins surrounding him, Gildor used the protruding root of a large oak as a springboard to propel himself into trees, the limbs of which criss-crossed their campsite like a canopy. It was a beautiful area, and Gildor briefly admired the patterns the moonlight cast through the branches as he aimed an arrow. A large orc fell lifeless below him and a second later another, which had been trying to copy Gildor's run up the oak's trunk, followed it into whatever afterlife awaited these creatures. Gildor then loosed almost his whole quiver in quick succession, each arrow finding a mark in the squirming mass below, only pausing occasionally to run along the tree tops from branch to branch, whenever the orcs' fire began to concentrate on his previous location.
Elrohir's bashful query came back to him as he caught sight of the young Peredhil doing quite well against two huge orcs, whom he was battling up on the ridge over the camp. Gildor smiled at him--the young one would be quite a warrior some day if he kept this up--and sent an arrow into the throat of the larger of Elrohir's opponents. Unlike the young one seemed to believe, the problem with his relationship with Haldir was not competition from other elves, but rather the pressure of their combined responsibilities. Of course, these past few weeks had been unusually busy, but even knowing that Gildor could not keep from sighing slightly in frustration. They had, after all, just begun their relationship, yet had had almost no time to spend together. He reflected that he really would like to arrange a few weeks of free time with Haldir as soon as possible. He envisioned them enjoying the delights of Caras Galadhon--the shops, the restaurants, the concerts--without constant interruptions. It did not seem likely, though, with events as they were.
Almost out of arrows, Gildor decided to conserve a couple for an emergency and dropped back down to join the hand-to-hand combat below. Lord Celeborn was just to his right, looking especially gleeful as he ran two orcs through with a single thrust of his sword. He then spun off to the side, hacking at his attackers left and right, a satisfied gleam in his silver eyes. Deep in his fighting trance, Gildor saw the approach of an attempted trap---two orcs sneaking up on his left while another tried to distract him from in front--almost as if it was happening in slow motion. Instead of running at him as was probably the case, they seemed to be casually loping in his direction, giving him plenty of time to decide how to deal with the threat. Gildor noticed with displeasure that scuffling boots had eradicated his campfire, and the pot of stew he had been cooking when the attack came was overturned in the dirt. As he started forward, he noticed another problem. He had drawn off his boots after they stopped for the night and now a sharp rock pierced his foot, causing him to glance down in annoyance.
It was that glance that was his mistake. As Gildor bent over to remove the rock, he felt a heavy blow to his back. Falling to the ground, he lost his concentration and dropped out of the trance. Events immediately sped up and he just barely managed to roll out of the way of the huge club that smashed down where his head had been a second before. The pain in his back was an arrow, for it broke off as he rolled over, causing agony to rip its way up his spine and along his nerve endings, spreading numbness throughout his body. He almost dropped his knives in the shock, but retained hold on them at the last second, even managing to sink one to the hilt in the belly of the nearest attacking orc.
Unfortunately its death cry alerted others, and seeing an elf on the ground, two more of the creatures joined the hunt, making a total of four now concentrating on him. Gildor looked about, but there was no help nearby and he could not summon enough concentration to fall back into his trance. At the last second, an arrow pierced the helmet of the orc nearest him, which had raised its sword to finish him off, while another almost severed the neck of the beast right behind him. Gildor saw Elrohir, wearing a fierce expression, firing again from the ridge, and he assumed that at least one of the arrows had been his. The other had come from a different direction, but it also bore the black fletching of Imladris, so either Lord Erestor or Lord Glorfindel had noticed his distress. Gildor rolled again, avoiding the third orc's attack, then another of Elrohir's arrows whizzed by, barely missing the creature, and Gildor took advantage of its distraction to bury a knife in its throat. Taking up the fallen orc's sword, Gildor hacked at the legs of his final opponent, taking one off completely and slicing halfway through the other. The creature fell, screaming, and impaled itself on one of Gildor's knives.
The immediate threat was gone, but the body of the last orc landed heavily on top of him, pressing the broken shaft of the arrow even further into his back and causing excruciating pain. Gildor managed with difficulty to throw the creature off, as he was virtually helpless pinned under it, but when he tried to stand he found that his legs did not work properly. He managed to drag himself over to the trunk of a nearby tree, where at least he was shielded on one side from attack, and notched his last arrow. The pain, although extreme, he could handle, but not being able to aid in the battle was true torment. Fortunately, one of the Galadrim noticed his predicament and tossed him an additional supply of arrows, enabling Gildor to bring down a few more orcs before the rest of them decided to flee the battlefield.
An elf staggered to his knees nearby and Gildor caught him as he fell. Two orc arrows stuck out of his back, and his eyes were vacant. Gildor laid him as carefully as he could on the ground, but knew this one was beyond his help. The arrows themselves had done damage, but the poison that tipped them was enough to finish anyone who did not receive prompt treatment. Gildor was not certain if the arrow he carried had been poisoned or not, but he suspected that it had. Of course, he had not received a double dose like the unfortunate elf at his side, but still . . . he watched the camp, noting the mounds of orc corpses with detached satisfaction, but felt the world going dim. He thought of Haldir again, and hoped he would not grieve for him too badly. It was unfortunate that they had to be separated so soon after finding each other, when they had waited so long to come together. And even more regrettable was the fact that he had never really told his lover how much he meant to him. It was always difficult to find words to express that level of adoration, but now he wished that he had tried more often anyway.
The tree behind him sent soothing energy along its trunk, and Gildor thanked it nicely even as the scene before him began to grey out. He assured it that the elves would not leave the smelly ones behind to pollute the pretty glade, and was trying to explain that it was invariably their custom to burn all the corpses to prevent disease, when he felt a jolt in the earth as someone landed heavily before him. "Gildor!" He was vaguely aware of hands shaking him, and of some liquid being poured down his throat, but he could not tell who spoke to him. He swallowed the bitter tasting brew automatically, shuddering slightly at the taste, and felt himself being lifted from the ground. Then he knew no more.
* * *
Thranduil strode through the corridors of the royal talan, his long cape billowing out behind him. Elrond called to him and knew the king must have heard, but he did not so much as pause. Elrond hurried down the steps after him, slipping slightly in his haste and in dizziness from their recent experience. "Thranduil! What do you think you're doing?" When the king still ignored him, Elrond grasped his arm and spun him around forcibly. The look in Thranduil's eyes caused him to relax his grip quickly, however.
"Go back to your patient, Elrond. He must be your top priority at the moment." Thranduil drew on heavy leather riding gloves and turned away again, lightly running down the steps in front of the talan. Elrond followed him.
"You cannot do this! Thranduil, be sensible, if you and Celeborn were both caught . . . "
"I have sons to rule for me if I fall, Elrond, and Celeborn has the Lady Galadriel. Our realms will hardly falter should we not return." The king vaulted onto the back of the great black stallion he rode, and regarded Elrond from down his aristocratic nose. "You forget what is at stake."
"But . . . "
Thranduil leaned down to whisper fiercely into Elrond's ear, ignoring the curious stares of passing elves, who rarely saw one of their lords dressed in full mithril armor. "My father, Peredhil," he hissed, "do you remember? He fell at Barad-dur, too, or so I have always believed. Perhaps it is true, perhaps not; after what we just saw, I no longer know what happened that day. But be assured, I intend to find out!"
With a shout, Thranduil and the small party of outriders who followed him left the centre of Caras Galadhon at a full gallop, scattering elves to either side of them, their horses' hooves sparking fire off the smooth white paving stones. Elrond watched them go with a sinking feeling in his breast. But he murmured a prayer for their safety before turning to mount the stairs to the palace.
TBC
Author: Rune Dancer, runedancer@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline and my precious, evil mind.
Feedback: Please!
Warnings: BDSM.
A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc. Read them in order--Unspoken/Revelations/Changes/One Last Time/Quid Pro Quo--or prepare to be confused.
* * *
"You have to tell him."
Glorfindel glanced sideways at Erestor, who was looking innocent as usual, flicking a speck of dust from his already immaculate sleeve. He was too overwrought to bother pretending that he didn't know what his friend was talking about, although he did glance around to make certain no one was within hearing range. The nearest rider was Lord Celeborn at the head of the column, and he appeared lost in his own thoughts. "It's too soon. We decided . . . "
"Yes, but that was before all this . . . upheaval . . . with Thranduil. I am surprised the king hasn't discerned the truth already. He certainly will if they talk, and eventually--you know Elrohir--he WILL confront him. I barely managed to distract him last night."
"Last night?"
"He saw you with the king, I am not entirely certain how, but he was on his way to break things off with you when I intercepted him." Glorfindel grimaced; he should have known. He was a fool for ever going anywhere near the king's rooms, much less for believing Elrohir would not learn of it; Caras Galadhon had one of the best developed gossip vines he had encountered anywhere. As the average elf's favourite past time was keeping up with what their nobility were doing--and the more scandalous the news the better--he had probably just provided the taverns of the city fodder for at least a decade of speculation. Throw in that scene with Orophin, and his fame would doubtless last most of the rest of the century. Well, at least Erestor's news explained Elrohir's frosty attitude this morning. "You are just fortunate I happened to be returning to the talan at the same time that he was making his way towards the king's chambers--a few minutes more or less, and we would REALLY have a mess."
Glorfindel regarded him sardonically. "What do you call this?"
"A crisis, but a manageable one. It will cease to be so soon, however."
"I thought you had a plan."
Erestor shrugged. "I do, my dear Glorfindel, but these things take time to arrange. Besides, I said I could manage the king; I never said anything about patching things up between the two of you. I've already done my best--I persuaded Elrohir to come along with us because I didn't dare to leave him behind with Thranduil, but . . ."
"You did that? Are you mad?" Glorfindel regarded his friend with genuine anger. Erestor was far too prone to take things on himself, even if they were absolutely none of his concern.
Erestor looked a bit put out. "Well, what else could I do? Besides, it isn't as if he can't take care of himself."
"You don't know what we may be facing . . . "
"Neither do you. But whatever it is, his having a showdown with the king could be infinitely worse."
"Thranduil is not so foolish as to say anything . . . "
Erestor chuckled. "You like him too well, I think."
"I don't like him at all!"
"And you overestimate him." Erestor held up a hand, "I do not mean to malign his intelligence, Glorfindel. Really, for someone who dislikes him so much, you do quickly leap to his defense, don't you? But rather to point out that it must be driving Thranduil wild, trying to understand how you could possibly choose a slip of an elfling over him. Seen from his perspective, your actions are not even remotely comprehensible. He has pursued you for a very long time--he will not easily abandon the chase, and certainly not without proof that he stands no real chance. If he discovers the truth for himself, he will certainly be thrown off guard and is VERY apt to say something to alert Elrohir."
Glorfindel shifted uncomfortably and wished Erestor would make less sense. "Elrohir might well not understand what the king meant, even if he did say something."
Erestor rolled his eyes expressively. "My dear Glorfindel, please! You really must stop living in denial over all this." Erestor adjusted one of his plum suede riding gloves, a habit quite familiar to Glorfindel; his friend tended to fidget when about to say something likely to offend. "We agree that Elrohir is not the same person you remember. Or rather, he is, of course, but he is a much younger version. He doesn't have access to the memories and the wealth of experience they bring as you do. But that does not mean that he has lost any of his native intelligence or quickness. You have fallen into the habit of underestimating him, and fortunately he has been so preoccupied with the usual coming-of-age angst that he has not fully put his mind to the issue at hand. But with or without the king's commentary, he WILL figure it out, and sooner I think, by far, than his father's timetable will permit. So again I say--you HAVE to tell him."
"You know what the consequences could be."
Erestor shrugged. "I also know what they certainly will be if you continue to ignore the problem. It will not simply fade away."
Glorfindel sighed again and rubbed the back of his neck. He had a headache coming on, thanks in a large part to this conversation. He would much prefer a nice, straight forward battle to these types of mind games; cleaving a few orc heads would seem like a holiday compared to the task that faced him. He had hoped to put it off because of the mission, but now that Elrohir had decided to come along, there was no longer any valid excuse. "I would have preferred it had you mentioned this before we left. If I am to do anything so drastic, I would like to at least have Lord Elrond's permission, if not his actual presence."
"Elrond is not in any shape to make a decision of this type at the moment, nor should he be burdened by it."
Glorfindel regarded Erestor carefully. There was a tense quality in his friend's voice that he did not like. Of course, they were both worried about Elrond. Glorfindel had looked in on him before they departed and had been relieved to see him sleeping at last, curled up in the large bed beside Gil-Galad, but he had looked exhausted. Indeed, with the dark circles under his eyes and the unhealthy pallor of his complexion, Glorfindel had thought that he did not look much better than the High King himself. Nonetheless, there was something in Erestor's manner that seemed odd . . . as if there was more troubling him than just anxiety on Elrond's behalf. Glorfindel almost didn't say anything, as he had enough to worry about at the moment and Erestor in a mood was not a pretty sight, but his fellow counselor was a good friend--most of the time--and he owed him his aid if he wanted it. "Is there something troubling you, Erestor?"
Black eyes swung to him, fairly sparking with irritation. "Something bothering me? Why, no, Glorfindel, nothing at all! What could possibly be upsetting me? Except perhaps the High King suddenly back from the grave, us going to confront a few thousand orcs in their own lair, Elrohir about to be tipped into insanity, Thranduil running loose plotting the Valar alone know what, and Elrond on the verge of a nervous breakdown . . . No, I can't think why I should be feeling any unusual stress, can you?"
Glorfindel hid a smile, and decided to let the matter drop. Erestor would tell him in his own way, when he chose to do so, or he would not. Cajoling Elrond's chief counselor into doing something he did not like was never an easy task, and Glorfindel rarely attempted it. He certainly was in no mood to do so today. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Elrohir and Gildor riding together, chatting amicably. The sight reassured him--certainly Elrohir had enough protection on this journey--and he vowed to talk to him whenever Lord Celeborn called a halt to the day's ride. Erestor was right; this could not be allowed to continue.
* * *
Elrond awoke to a crick in his back and a cramp in his leg, neither of which were surprising considering the awkward position in which he'd finally managed to get to sleep. He lifted himself slowly up on his arms to check on the king's condition, and was so surprised to find those bright blue eyes open and aware that he almost fell off the bed. They regarded each other for a very long time without speaking. It was still painful to see the familiar features so wasted, but there was a spark of recognition in the eyes that had not been there before, giving Elrond real hope for the first time.
Yet the king at first made no effort to speak, and Elrond had absolutely no idea what to say or do; his throat had seemingly closed over, making it impossible to speak. The king eventually solved the problem as he so often had in the past, by a simple, elegant gesture. Raising a trembling hand, he gently stroked the side of Elrond's head, twining a curl of dark hair about a finger, while his gaze ran over his herald's face searchingly. Then suddenly he smiled. It was his old, sweet expression, and with it all the years fell away. "Elrond."
Elrond gathered his king into his arms and wept, so relieved that he still could not speak. He allowed himself the luxury of holding him for a time, trying not to concentrate on how insubstantial he felt in his arms, and being very careful not to injure him further. Finally he pulled away slightly to ring the bell pull for a servant, and food and fresh towels soon arrived. Elrond managed to persuade the king to drink some tea with honey and to eat a small amount of fruit and bread. It was almost the first thing he had consumed since his return, and it encouraged Elrond greatly to see it. The king was painfully thin and extremely weak, but his eyes were lucid and he seemed quietly happy to be in Elrond's care.
Carrying him as easily as if he had been a child, Elrond took the high king to the great bathing chamber down the hall. His rooms had their own bath attached, but it was small, and he needed room for both of them. He ran the large, circular tank full to the brim with hot, steamy water, to which he added a large amount of healing herbs, their pleasing fragrance soon permeating the room. He undressed them both and lowered them into the water, keeping the king safely within the circle of his arms as he bathed him. He was somewhat surprised at the blissful expression that passed over the king's features as the hot liquid closed about him. But then, Elrond thought sorrowfully, it had probably been centuries since a true bath had been available to him, at least while he was conscious enough to be aware of it.
Elrond enjoyed himself pampering the king's skin with soothing balms and fragrant oils, simultaneously pouring as much strength as he dared into the wasted body. It seemed to help, for a little colour returned to the pale cheeks and the king managed another weak smile. Elrond allowed hope to wash over him and continued to hold him until the water grew tepid, vowing that he would save this life if there were any arts capable of doing it. After wrapping him in soft towels, Elrond carried his king carefully back to his rooms. He was so intent on his burden that he was almost to the door before he noticed Thranduil loitering in front of it. "Ah, Elrond, good. I was hoping to see the both of you today."
Elrond doubted that a conversation with him had been at the top of Thranduil's list, but he did not contradict him, nor did he protest when the Mirkwood ruler opened the door and then followed him into his chambers. Elrond settled the High King back in bed, dressing him hurriedly and hoping Thranduil would decide to go away. When the quiet presence behind him showed no sign of taking the hint, he became a bit more obvious. "Thranduil, the king is still unwell. He needs to rest, and hopefully to eat a good deal in order to regain his strength. Perhaps your visit can wait?"
"I do not think so. I am concerned for Gil-Galad's condition, of course . . . " Elrond tried to suppress his instinctive flinch at Thranduil's easy use of the king's name. To address him or speak about him so familiarly was a privilege few had had in the days of his power. Elrond did not even feel himself worthy to utter the name, after the way in which he had failed his sovereign, and it seemed disrespectful to the point of profanity to hear those syllables from Thranduil's lips. Had his father not ignored Gil-Galad's orders at Barad-dur, and attacked without the support of the rest of the elvish host, the battle might have gone far differently. Elrond had spent centuries telling himself that the father's folly was not the son's fault, and that Oropher had paid for his poor judgment with his life, but he could not stop his breath catching now. Thranduil paused at the sound, but did not comment. "However, I do think it important that we discover if there is any information he can give us. Have you tried to question him?"
Elrond kept his temper with difficulty. "He is hardly in any condition for that."
Thranduil seated himself on the chair beside the bed as if he had not heard. Gil-Galad regarded him placidly, and the Mirkwood king stared back with the same composure, giving no sign of any shock at the High King's condition. Yet his voice was somewhat softer when next he spoke. "Many elves are about to walk into the unknown, Elrond, your son and father-in-law at their head. I would think you would at least want to try."
"My son?" Elrond felt a sudden sinking in his stomach. Why had no one told him of this?
"Elrohir," Thranduil confirmed. "I saw him leave with them this morning. Obviously, it was not my place to interfere, but I did wonder if he had your permission." Thranduil saw Elrond's expression and smiled reassuringly. "Do not worry for his safety--five hundred of my best warriors, including my son Legolas, are meeting them on the way. Yet I would feel better knowing what dangers await them, would you not? Celeborn made it clear that he did not require my company on this quest, so I am helping in the only way I can." Thranduil held out a hand. "Will you accept my aid?"
Elrond knew what the king wanted, and although he would have much preferred to postpone this, Thranduil's words were logical. The blond Elda reached out a hand, which looked unbelievably tanned and healthy next to the pale ones on the blanket, and grasped one of the high king's. Elrond took Thranduil's proffered hand, and also clasped the remaining one of the king's. The triangle complete, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, turning inward in an effort to focus his energies and stamp down his panic. When he had tried this before, just a tentative touch on first seeing the king again, the result had been extreme pain and unconsciousness, and he had learned practically nothing. Of course, he had Thranduil's support now, but the first experience had made him wary. This sort of merging of minds was always difficult, for few had Galadriel's innate skill, and many times Elrond had known it to fail completely. With the high king still so weak, it was unlikely that they would be able to extract anything useful . . .
Without warning the world fell away and Elrond found himself plunged into a maelstrom of sights and sounds and colours, all swirling together far too quickly for him to follow. He vaguely sensed Thranduil's presence, but could not discern the high king at all, nor could he even feel the hand that he hoped he still grasped. A vortex was rushing towards him at a terrific speed, and Elrond was powerless to do anything but let it come.
* * *
Gildor felt his usual delight in the beauty of Arda, glistening under a blanket of Ithil's light, steal over him. The evening breeze was cool and perfumed with flowers, underneath the more disturbing scents, and somewhere nearby he heard a lonely loon call out mournfully for its mate. He felt a little like that, too, hoping Haldir was all right and not too upset with him over his little deception. Absentmindedly, Gildor hacked an orc's head from its shoulders and dodged the fountain of blood that followed the arc of his knife.
Slipping into a fighting trance, which focused his concentration to the point that time itself seemed to slow down, Gildor surveyed the field before him. He sidestepped a delicate flower that shone silvery white in the starlight, reflecting that this was really the sort of evening he would have liked to share with his lover. Ithil was almost full and he could see himself and Haldir walking hand in hand over the fields, perhaps pausing to rest beside the small stream their party had passed a while back, and reveling in the lush sensation of the green glory all around them. He felt an arrow hiss by his ear, but did not bother to dodge it; it had been ill shot, and missed him by almost an inch. He somersaulted over a group of three orcs, slicing through the throats of two of them as he did so, then pausing to bury a knife in the back of the third before wrenching it free.
Dodging, leaping and weaving through the seemingly endless sea of goblins surrounding him, Gildor used the protruding root of a large oak as a springboard to propel himself into trees, the limbs of which criss-crossed their campsite like a canopy. It was a beautiful area, and Gildor briefly admired the patterns the moonlight cast through the branches as he aimed an arrow. A large orc fell lifeless below him and a second later another, which had been trying to copy Gildor's run up the oak's trunk, followed it into whatever afterlife awaited these creatures. Gildor then loosed almost his whole quiver in quick succession, each arrow finding a mark in the squirming mass below, only pausing occasionally to run along the tree tops from branch to branch, whenever the orcs' fire began to concentrate on his previous location.
Elrohir's bashful query came back to him as he caught sight of the young Peredhil doing quite well against two huge orcs, whom he was battling up on the ridge over the camp. Gildor smiled at him--the young one would be quite a warrior some day if he kept this up--and sent an arrow into the throat of the larger of Elrohir's opponents. Unlike the young one seemed to believe, the problem with his relationship with Haldir was not competition from other elves, but rather the pressure of their combined responsibilities. Of course, these past few weeks had been unusually busy, but even knowing that Gildor could not keep from sighing slightly in frustration. They had, after all, just begun their relationship, yet had had almost no time to spend together. He reflected that he really would like to arrange a few weeks of free time with Haldir as soon as possible. He envisioned them enjoying the delights of Caras Galadhon--the shops, the restaurants, the concerts--without constant interruptions. It did not seem likely, though, with events as they were.
Almost out of arrows, Gildor decided to conserve a couple for an emergency and dropped back down to join the hand-to-hand combat below. Lord Celeborn was just to his right, looking especially gleeful as he ran two orcs through with a single thrust of his sword. He then spun off to the side, hacking at his attackers left and right, a satisfied gleam in his silver eyes. Deep in his fighting trance, Gildor saw the approach of an attempted trap---two orcs sneaking up on his left while another tried to distract him from in front--almost as if it was happening in slow motion. Instead of running at him as was probably the case, they seemed to be casually loping in his direction, giving him plenty of time to decide how to deal with the threat. Gildor noticed with displeasure that scuffling boots had eradicated his campfire, and the pot of stew he had been cooking when the attack came was overturned in the dirt. As he started forward, he noticed another problem. He had drawn off his boots after they stopped for the night and now a sharp rock pierced his foot, causing him to glance down in annoyance.
It was that glance that was his mistake. As Gildor bent over to remove the rock, he felt a heavy blow to his back. Falling to the ground, he lost his concentration and dropped out of the trance. Events immediately sped up and he just barely managed to roll out of the way of the huge club that smashed down where his head had been a second before. The pain in his back was an arrow, for it broke off as he rolled over, causing agony to rip its way up his spine and along his nerve endings, spreading numbness throughout his body. He almost dropped his knives in the shock, but retained hold on them at the last second, even managing to sink one to the hilt in the belly of the nearest attacking orc.
Unfortunately its death cry alerted others, and seeing an elf on the ground, two more of the creatures joined the hunt, making a total of four now concentrating on him. Gildor looked about, but there was no help nearby and he could not summon enough concentration to fall back into his trance. At the last second, an arrow pierced the helmet of the orc nearest him, which had raised its sword to finish him off, while another almost severed the neck of the beast right behind him. Gildor saw Elrohir, wearing a fierce expression, firing again from the ridge, and he assumed that at least one of the arrows had been his. The other had come from a different direction, but it also bore the black fletching of Imladris, so either Lord Erestor or Lord Glorfindel had noticed his distress. Gildor rolled again, avoiding the third orc's attack, then another of Elrohir's arrows whizzed by, barely missing the creature, and Gildor took advantage of its distraction to bury a knife in its throat. Taking up the fallen orc's sword, Gildor hacked at the legs of his final opponent, taking one off completely and slicing halfway through the other. The creature fell, screaming, and impaled itself on one of Gildor's knives.
The immediate threat was gone, but the body of the last orc landed heavily on top of him, pressing the broken shaft of the arrow even further into his back and causing excruciating pain. Gildor managed with difficulty to throw the creature off, as he was virtually helpless pinned under it, but when he tried to stand he found that his legs did not work properly. He managed to drag himself over to the trunk of a nearby tree, where at least he was shielded on one side from attack, and notched his last arrow. The pain, although extreme, he could handle, but not being able to aid in the battle was true torment. Fortunately, one of the Galadrim noticed his predicament and tossed him an additional supply of arrows, enabling Gildor to bring down a few more orcs before the rest of them decided to flee the battlefield.
An elf staggered to his knees nearby and Gildor caught him as he fell. Two orc arrows stuck out of his back, and his eyes were vacant. Gildor laid him as carefully as he could on the ground, but knew this one was beyond his help. The arrows themselves had done damage, but the poison that tipped them was enough to finish anyone who did not receive prompt treatment. Gildor was not certain if the arrow he carried had been poisoned or not, but he suspected that it had. Of course, he had not received a double dose like the unfortunate elf at his side, but still . . . he watched the camp, noting the mounds of orc corpses with detached satisfaction, but felt the world going dim. He thought of Haldir again, and hoped he would not grieve for him too badly. It was unfortunate that they had to be separated so soon after finding each other, when they had waited so long to come together. And even more regrettable was the fact that he had never really told his lover how much he meant to him. It was always difficult to find words to express that level of adoration, but now he wished that he had tried more often anyway.
The tree behind him sent soothing energy along its trunk, and Gildor thanked it nicely even as the scene before him began to grey out. He assured it that the elves would not leave the smelly ones behind to pollute the pretty glade, and was trying to explain that it was invariably their custom to burn all the corpses to prevent disease, when he felt a jolt in the earth as someone landed heavily before him. "Gildor!" He was vaguely aware of hands shaking him, and of some liquid being poured down his throat, but he could not tell who spoke to him. He swallowed the bitter tasting brew automatically, shuddering slightly at the taste, and felt himself being lifted from the ground. Then he knew no more.
* * *
Thranduil strode through the corridors of the royal talan, his long cape billowing out behind him. Elrond called to him and knew the king must have heard, but he did not so much as pause. Elrond hurried down the steps after him, slipping slightly in his haste and in dizziness from their recent experience. "Thranduil! What do you think you're doing?" When the king still ignored him, Elrond grasped his arm and spun him around forcibly. The look in Thranduil's eyes caused him to relax his grip quickly, however.
"Go back to your patient, Elrond. He must be your top priority at the moment." Thranduil drew on heavy leather riding gloves and turned away again, lightly running down the steps in front of the talan. Elrond followed him.
"You cannot do this! Thranduil, be sensible, if you and Celeborn were both caught . . . "
"I have sons to rule for me if I fall, Elrond, and Celeborn has the Lady Galadriel. Our realms will hardly falter should we not return." The king vaulted onto the back of the great black stallion he rode, and regarded Elrond from down his aristocratic nose. "You forget what is at stake."
"But . . . "
Thranduil leaned down to whisper fiercely into Elrond's ear, ignoring the curious stares of passing elves, who rarely saw one of their lords dressed in full mithril armor. "My father, Peredhil," he hissed, "do you remember? He fell at Barad-dur, too, or so I have always believed. Perhaps it is true, perhaps not; after what we just saw, I no longer know what happened that day. But be assured, I intend to find out!"
With a shout, Thranduil and the small party of outriders who followed him left the centre of Caras Galadhon at a full gallop, scattering elves to either side of them, their horses' hooves sparking fire off the smooth white paving stones. Elrond watched them go with a sinking feeling in his breast. But he murmured a prayer for their safety before turning to mount the stairs to the palace.
TBC