Title: Wild Justice 31/?
Author: Rune Dancer
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.
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.
* * *
Gildor sat on his bed, hugging Haldir to him and trying to think. They had left Lord Elrond at his request a few moments after waking up and gone back to their room to rest. Gildor did not know about his companion, but he personally felt like he had run a marathon in the hour or so they had been . . . wherever they had been. It had all been so traumatic and had happened so fast, that he had not had time to think about it, but had simply reacted. Now, as Haldir slept quietly in his arms, Gildor rested his chin on his companion's head and slowly reviewed it all.
He realised that, physically, he had never gone anywhere. When he touched Elrond in response to Elwyyda's slightly incoherent instructions, he must have formed a mental link with his lord; since the High King had been there as well, he and Elrond must have already linked before that. Gildor was distracted for a moment by the thought that he had actually been in the High King's mind--it was an honour he could scarcely believe had been afforded to him--and he tried to recall every detail of his experience. Oh, how he wished his father was still in Middle Earth, so he could tell him about it! Gildor had so often wanted to see the great city--not to mention the king himself, whom he almost felt he knew from his father's many stories--but Lindon had been just a memory by the time he was born. Of course, he realised that what he had seen this day was no more than that, but the High King' great mental abilities had been another part of his legend, so Lindon must have been very like that.
Gildor pushed aside a pang of regret that he had not had the opportunity to explore a bit more, and tried to focus on the situation at hand. The High King still lived, of that he had no doubt. He knew what he had witnessed, and more importantly, that Elrond was aware that he knew. Somehow, the two greatest elves of recent history had merged into one, with the High King's soul apparently taking up residence in Elrond's body. Gildor had no idea how this was possible--he had never even heard of such a thing--but then, he had never known that what they just did was possible either.
Haldir moved slightly against him and Gildor decided his lover might be more comfortable lying flat, so he gently eased out from under him and stretched him out. Haldir immediately reached for him, however, so Gildor snuggled back into his arms, careful not to disturb his rest. He smoothed the pale gold of Haldir's hair out across the pillow, grateful for any chance to touch him, to be near him. He didn't really want to think about the serious problem he was facing, but just to hold Haldir all day and make passionate love to him later. He did not so much as want to let him out of his sight after what had happened, so afraid was he still that something might happen to him. He had never known that love could make someone so vulnerable, so dependent on another's well-being. It was almost as if Haldir was an extension of himself, and anything that hurt him wounded Gildor as well.
However, he knew where his duty lay, and it wasn't in indulging himself, so he reluctantly turned his thoughts back to the issue at hand. Lord Elrond and the High King had merged, that Gildor knew to be a fact. The king had very distinctive eyes, and he had seen them shining out of Lord Elrond's face; he could not have mistaken it. Which left him with a serious dilemma. He allowed himself the luxury of slowly stroking Haldir's arm, delighting in the feel of silken skin over hard muscle, as he debated his options.
He could simply forget what he had seen, and allow Lord Elrond to handle it. He was Gildor's sworn liege lord, after all, with the power to command him in all things. If he had sent Gildor on a difficult assignment, even one sure to claim his life, he would have accepted it and followed his duty. Unfortunately, in this case, things were not so clear cut.
What was his duty, exactly, and to whom? The Noldor, including his father, had sworn allegiance to the king for themselves and their issue for all time. Gildor was Noldorin, so did not his family's oath bind him as well? Yet he had personally sworn an oath to Elrond when entering his service. It was a difficult question, but ultimately, Gildor knew, his first loyalty lay with the king. The oath he had taken to Elrond post dated that taken by his family to the High King, and when he had sworn himself to Elrond's service, he had believed the king to be long dead. Gildor remembered seeing his parents off at the Grey Havens when they took ship for Valinor. His father had never recovered from his sorrow at the fall of the world he had helped to build and the king he had joyfully served for so long; he had had no heart to build another, nor wish to serve anyone else. Gildor knew what his father would expect of him under the circumstances, and it decided matters. He had to help the king, whatever the price.
But what if he doesn't want your assistance, a little voice asked. Gildor sighed. His conscience was a bit overactive, and never left him in peace. What if he is happy with Elrond? Gildor repressed a snort of disbelief, not wanting to wake Haldir. He did not see how the king could be satisfied living as little more than a parasite within another. Sauron had deprived him so long of a real life and true freedom, it was simply not to be born that Elrond was now doing the same. But Gildor had seen it in his expression; no words had passed between them, but ideas were conveyed nonetheless. Elrond had no intention of letting the king go. His narrowed look at Gildor when he saw the shock on his face had said that as plainly as if he had shouted it. Gildor knew a warning when he saw one, but he could not heed this one.
But what if he really is happy? That same voice was louder this time, more insistent. Gildor really wanted to listen to it, for going up against Lord Elrond, his sworn lord and long his kindly benefactor, not to mention one of the most powerful elves in all Middle Earth, was almost repulsive. He felt like a traitor at the very thought. In a real sense of the word, he loved Elrond. It had been at Imladris that he found a home once his parents sailed beyond the sea; it had been there that he was welcomed, not as an impoverished elf with few years and fewer skills, but as the son of a valiant warrior and an asset to the realm. Lord Elrond had been almost a surrogate father to him, providing food and clothing, training and shelter, then giving Gildor valuable assignments that brought him a measure of financial security as well as the even more valuable feeling that he was being useful. They had never been on close personal terms, for Gildor, like most elves, viewed his lord as something untouchable, distant, radiant--rather like the stars themselves--to be admired and loved and held in vast esteem. He would have died for him, but he could not do this. He could not betray the High King for him.
But you really don't know what he wants, do you? His little voice piped up again. Is it a betrayal or not? What if the king WANTS to stay with Lord Elrond? Who are you to separate them, or to even think of doing so? You are vassal to both and owe your loyalty to both--why not let Lord Elrond's wisdom suffice for this? Gildor shifted uncomfortably next to his lover, and pulled Haldir a little closer to him, craving his warmth. He dearly wished he could ask his aid with this, for Haldir's level-headedness was a trait he desperately needed at the moment, but he dared not risk it.
Gildor had seen the confusion in Haldir's eyes that morning, when he knelt before the king. Haldir had not understood any of what had happened, and how could he? He was Silvan, not Noldor. As much as Gildor loved him, he knew that there were certain things about himself that Haldir would never be able to understand. He would say the same as Gildor's little voice--just leave it to Elrond, it is none of our business. But it WAS his business, if the king was being trapped against his will. As much as he most sincerely wished otherwise, he was duty bound to find out.
* * *
Elrohir peered over the ledge into a murky chasm. Even with elvin sight, the place was dark; a human would have found it pitch black, but he could make out the basic outline of shapes moving below him. He could also hear voices, echoing eerily in the cavern's vastness, and it was all he could do not to shoot Tuor in the head. The traitorous bastard had known where the hidden entrance was all the time--he had never so much as hesitated in making straight for it. If Elrohir had not been close on his trail, he would have disappeared without a trace. As it was, Elrohir had managed to squeeze in through the narrow opening Tuor had somehow caused in the rock face just before it slammed shut behind him. Now he was witnessing the completeness of Tuor's betrayal, as he told everything to a group of orcs he had met inside--that most of the elvin army had fled, pursued by the huge orcish force, that a small band of elves was about to try to force their way into the main entrance, and that their objective was the rescue of the elvish mine slaves. Instead of killing the cowardly traitor as he deserved, however, Elrohir waited. His usual tendency to impulsiveness was not afflicting him at the moment, but something else was.
It was like his dream of the previous night was returning, but this time he was awake. Elrohir knew he should have been worried that he was losing his mind, but he felt no apprehension of any kind. Instead, he was strangely calm, almost peaceful, rather as if he had fallen into a battle trance without realising it. Instead of the darkness, he saw a brilliantly sunlit day; instead of the bleak interiors of the cave, he saw a grassy plain and a magnificent elf on a pale horse next to his own. Behind them spread a huge elvish army, colourful banners waving cheerily in the breeze.
** "You are looking worried, lirimaer. What troubles you?"
Glorfindel turned to face him, his concern briefly masked by an unconvincing grin. "Nothing. I relish the thought of destroying Morgoth's forces. As you said, they will rue the day they heard the name of Beleriand!"
Elrohir hid a smile; apparently, guile had never been his lover's forte. "True, King Fingolfin has an excellent plan. Do not worry, young one, we will be triumphant, I promise you!"
Glorfindel did not look much relieved at this assurance, however, and Elrohir worried about him. He was so young to be facing a trial of this magnitude, which could make even the most experienced of elves tremble. He wished he knew what to say to take his lover's doubts away, but then, perhaps he was better off to be somewhat timid. Overconfidence had killed many an elf by causing them to become careless in battle. Elrohir, of course, intended to insure that Glorfindel never left his sight. He would watch over him and make certain he came through the coming contest alive.**
"Where are the slaves? I will guard them while you deal with the attacking party." Tuor's voice brought Elrohir back to the present with a jolt. He shook his head to clear the image. Elbereth, but it had seemed so real, almost as if he had actually been there! .
"Zurgug will take you to them. We will deal with the others." A huge orc answered Tuor's question, his coarse syllables causing Elrohir to wince and wish to bury a knife in his throat. Instead he continued to wait and watch, as Tuor was led downward into the darkness by a hunchbacked orc with a tiny lantern, while the three larger orcs in the party started up the narrow, rocky incline towards him. Elrohir waited until they were almost level with his hiding place in the shadows of an overhang, then tripped the one who had spoken to Tuor into the ravine. His cries had not even died away before the other two, now headless corpses, followed him. Elrohir watched them fall with considerable satisfaction, but then he paused. Where to go now?
His day dream had no doubt been the result of his mind trying to persuade him that revenge on Tuor, however good that might feel, or even recovery of the lost elves, was not his primary objective. He had to insure the well being of Glorfindel and the others, who would doubtless soon arrive at the cave's entrance. Yet he had just insured that the orcs would not receive prior warning of their arrival and could not lay an ambush, so did his duty not now lie with the enslaved elves? They were the reason they had come so far and risked so much; could he abandon them now for the selfish reason of guarding his lover's life?
He looked down into the passage where Tuor and his guide had disappeared. These caves were a rabbit warren of intersecting passages; if he let them get away, he might never find them again. On the other hand, if he snuck up behind the guards at the entrance, there was a good chance he could clear the way for his party and then they could search together. The decision he reached after several agonizing seconds was largely the result of his belated realisation that he should have kept at least one of the orcs alive to lead him to the entrance. He had no real idea how to get there otherwise, so he supposed following Tuor was the only real option.
Elrohir moved quickly once his mind was made up, pausing only when he heard the orc's heavy footfalls change direction or slow down. It seemed like he followed the two of them for hours on a winding path down into darkness so extreme that even his elvin eyes had difficulty discerning anything. The air felt stale and musty this far into the earth, and Elrohir had to concentrate to insure that his breathing did not become laboured and give him away. With only the dim light of the far away lantern to guide him, he also had to use all his senses to avoid scraping against one of the narrow passage's walls and alerting Tuor to his presence. Finally, the tiny pinpoint of light from the orc's lantern stopped, and Elrohir strained to hear what the creature was saying to his companion.
"This is the lot. We grouped them all in here in case of an attack--the master knew your friends wouldn't give up so easily. But the elves will never find them--even most of our people don't know of this place."
"You are sure this is all of them?" Tuor seemed strangely excited about something, but Elrohir could not imagine what it could be.
"Yes, like I told you. There was one other, but he escaped a few weeks back. Just make sure nothing happens to this bunch--they're the master's favourite pets!" Elrohir's hand tightened on his sword as the ugly creature cackled with glee and savagely kicked a nearby elf. Then he hung the lantern on the wall for Tuor and starting back in Elrohir's direction. The light outlined his body perfectly as he shuffled forward, and Elrohir smiled into the darkness. A few seconds later, and he stuffed the now dead orc into a crevasse in the wall before moving silently forward.
Tuor had picked up the lantern and was examining the elves one by one, pushing the light into their faces although they shied back from it in confusion. It had probably been so long since they had a source of illumination that close to them that it hurt their eyes, but none of the small group of twenty or so made a protest. "Is any of you Oropher, King of Greenwood?" Tuor's voice sounded excited and apprehensive, all at the same time. "I am Tuor, consort to your son Thranduil, and have come to free you!"
When none of the elves responded to Tuor's rather pompous declaration, he began to grow agitated. "Come, I know you're here somewhere! They never found your body at Barad-dur--you must be here!" He dragged one elf up by the hair, pulling out some of the delicate strands as he did so, and causing the heavy chains the elf wore to slap one of the others full in the face. "Your son is worried about you--do you not want to comfort him? I know you probably bear little resemblance to him by now, but I WILL find you." Tuor pushed the elf away after carefully examining his face, and the fragile creature knocked heavily against the wall, letting out a small cry.
"Curse it, where are you?" Tuor looked about almost frantically, shoving the lantern into face after face. "Thranduil will love me forever if I find you. You must be here--why are you hiding?" He grabbed another elf by the few tattered garments it wore, and hauled it upright. "No, not you," he muttered. "Thranduil inherited his green eyes from his father, I always heard said." His voice grew dreamy and a strange smile came over his lips. "Like emeralds in sunlight, like the deepest depths in a spring of clear water . . . ," he suddenly snapped back from his reverie and shook the helpless elf in his hands. "Where is he? Tell me or I swear I'll kill you all!"
"Oh, I don't think so." Elrohir emerged from the shadows, his sword glinting slightly in the shuddering light from Tuor's wildly swinging lantern. "I, however, will take great pleasure in ending your miserable life."
Tuor looked at him in shock, some of the crazed light going out of his eyes. "Elrohir! What . . . I thought you were tending to the wounded."
"I'm more interested in preventing even more elves from suffering because of your selfish lust, Tuor. Put him down and draw your weapon; I give you that much. I could have shot you from the shadows and you would never have known what hit you, but I prefer to see an elf die with a weapon in his hands. Even an elf like you."
Tuor sneered, and drew the elf in his arms even more securely in front of him. "I'm not that much of a fool! I saw you fight today, and I prefer another solution." He put a dagger to the elf's throat, so tightly that a small trickle of blood ran onto his hand. "Put down your sword or this one dies."
"What if he is your precious Oropher? Wouldn't that ruin your plans?"
"He isn't, or are you blind as well as foolish? His eyes are grey."
Elrohir could not tell one way or the other in the darkness, but he supposed Tuor should know. "So his life doesn't matter?"
Tuor smiled. "To you, it probably does. That's your weakness--the same as all the elves! You spend your life protecting the weak and helpless, when they are only a drag on our race! WE could dominate Middle earth if only we had a few leaders with foresight and cunning, and the will to lead us! Instead, dwarves and men and other piddling races are allowed to spread ever more insidiously across our lands, while we shrink in numbers every century. Only our enemies have the intelligence to know what life is really about--taking what you want and forcing others to bend to your will!"
"And that is what you are doing? Bending Thranduil to your will by bribing him with his father's life? Do you really think he will be fooled? That Oropher, if he is here, will not tell him what you did and why?"
Tuor looked uncertain for a moment, then he smiled once more. "They have been so damaged that I doubt most of them have enough of a mind left to understand anything. I will tell the king how I, at the risk of my own life, rescued his father from terrible imprisonment, while you and your gallant party were butchered by orcs as you tried to assist me. You will be remembered in stories and song, Elrohir, as will that ridiculous popinjay Glorfindel, but I will be alive and it is to me Thranduil will turn soon enough."
Elrohir shook his head; Tuor really WAS mad, there was no doubt about it. Either that, or just evil, and Elrohir vastly preferred to think of him as mad. In any case, he had to be dealt with--there was now no other option. The question was, how to do it and not risk the life of the elf he was using as a shield. Then Elrohir saw it, a withered arm that was waving to him energetically from behind Tuor's head. It looked oddly disembodied, as Elrohir could not see to whom it belonged in the dim lantern light. He did not stop to think, for there was no time, but merely pulled a knife from his belt and tossed it over Tuor's head, still sheathed in its scabbard for safety's sake. The waving arm caught it and disappeared into the throng.
"What was that? What did you just do?" The lantern light so close to his face was making it difficult for Tuor to see much beyond it, Elrohir supposed. He never had the chance to answer him, as the next second the elves fell on Tuor, uttering hoarse battle cries and wrenching their fellow prisoner from his arms. The traitor disappeared under a pile of ragged clothes and flailing, dirty limbs, his surprised shout soon muffled by their bodies. Elrohir kept an eye on the pile, to make certain Tuor did not manage to escape, but otherwise did not interfere. Instead, he moved to examine the skeletal elf who had been thrown against the wall earlier, where he still lay bleeding from the head.
Elrohir poured as much healing energy as he dared into him, not wanting to risk harming the fragile body any further, and a moment later the elf's eyes opened. He looked familiar, although Elrohir could not say why. "By the Valar!," the elf murmured, his tone awe struck as his eyes devoured Elrohir's face, "I always said you would come for us! The others thought me mad, but I always knew." Claw like hands clutched at his shirt, and a small smile broke out over the elf's haggard features. "I knew it."
"Yes, we'll get you out of here. But tell me, friend, are there any more like you in the mines?" Elrohir had no intention of taking the word of an orc that they had assembled all the elves together. Perhaps these poor souls might know where their fellow prisoners were, if any still lived.
The elf looked confused. "Do you not recognise me, Lord? But of course," he sighed, and looked suddenly ashamed. "I must look horrible to you. My apologies. I promise to return myself to a more proper appearance before once more taking up my duties."
"Your duties?" Elrohir was confused. Of course, he reasoned, the elf was probably even more so and doubtless did not know what he was saying. It hurt his heart to see his people in this condition, and a low rage burned his stomach, crying for revenge.
"Oh please, my Lord, never say I cannot serve you again! I will do anything--the most humble task will be an honour, I assure you!"
The elf looked so distressed that Elrohir could only hug him, ignoring his stench as best he could, and murmur reassurances. "Of course you can serve me if you wish. There is room for anyone who wishes to come with me to Imladris. But tell me your name, friend, that I may call you correctly."
"I am Lothion, my Lord." The poor elf's eyes flooded over with tears, but Elrohir barely noticed. Lothion . . . why was that name so strangely familiar? "See, I told you so!" His new servant cried out to his fellows, as the elves in the pile slowly withdrew themselves from Tuor's remains. Elrohir looked at the mangled body and knew he should feel some sorrow, some pity, for the creature, but he could not manage even the slightest twinge of either. Indeed, he felt like joining in the cries of triumph from the surrounding elves that echoed off the walls of the little cave like the voices of an army.
"I told you he would come for us! Did I not say as much? Lord Ulmo will not forget us, he will send our champion back to us! Did I not say so?"
"That you did, Lothion, every day for centuries." The elf Tuor had used as a shield approached Elrohir and looked at him searchingly for a moment. Elrohir idly noticed that Tuor had been wrong; this elf's eyes were most definitely green. Then the battered body folded and he knelt at Elrohir's feet. "My Lord Ecthelion," he said in a strangely choked voice, "we are yours to command."
* * *
TBC
Author: Rune Dancer
Rating: R
Paring: Thranduil/Celeborn/Elrond; Elrohir/Glorfindel; Haldir/Gildor; Elladan/Orophin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline.
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.
* * *
Gildor sat on his bed, hugging Haldir to him and trying to think. They had left Lord Elrond at his request a few moments after waking up and gone back to their room to rest. Gildor did not know about his companion, but he personally felt like he had run a marathon in the hour or so they had been . . . wherever they had been. It had all been so traumatic and had happened so fast, that he had not had time to think about it, but had simply reacted. Now, as Haldir slept quietly in his arms, Gildor rested his chin on his companion's head and slowly reviewed it all.
He realised that, physically, he had never gone anywhere. When he touched Elrond in response to Elwyyda's slightly incoherent instructions, he must have formed a mental link with his lord; since the High King had been there as well, he and Elrond must have already linked before that. Gildor was distracted for a moment by the thought that he had actually been in the High King's mind--it was an honour he could scarcely believe had been afforded to him--and he tried to recall every detail of his experience. Oh, how he wished his father was still in Middle Earth, so he could tell him about it! Gildor had so often wanted to see the great city--not to mention the king himself, whom he almost felt he knew from his father's many stories--but Lindon had been just a memory by the time he was born. Of course, he realised that what he had seen this day was no more than that, but the High King' great mental abilities had been another part of his legend, so Lindon must have been very like that.
Gildor pushed aside a pang of regret that he had not had the opportunity to explore a bit more, and tried to focus on the situation at hand. The High King still lived, of that he had no doubt. He knew what he had witnessed, and more importantly, that Elrond was aware that he knew. Somehow, the two greatest elves of recent history had merged into one, with the High King's soul apparently taking up residence in Elrond's body. Gildor had no idea how this was possible--he had never even heard of such a thing--but then, he had never known that what they just did was possible either.
Haldir moved slightly against him and Gildor decided his lover might be more comfortable lying flat, so he gently eased out from under him and stretched him out. Haldir immediately reached for him, however, so Gildor snuggled back into his arms, careful not to disturb his rest. He smoothed the pale gold of Haldir's hair out across the pillow, grateful for any chance to touch him, to be near him. He didn't really want to think about the serious problem he was facing, but just to hold Haldir all day and make passionate love to him later. He did not so much as want to let him out of his sight after what had happened, so afraid was he still that something might happen to him. He had never known that love could make someone so vulnerable, so dependent on another's well-being. It was almost as if Haldir was an extension of himself, and anything that hurt him wounded Gildor as well.
However, he knew where his duty lay, and it wasn't in indulging himself, so he reluctantly turned his thoughts back to the issue at hand. Lord Elrond and the High King had merged, that Gildor knew to be a fact. The king had very distinctive eyes, and he had seen them shining out of Lord Elrond's face; he could not have mistaken it. Which left him with a serious dilemma. He allowed himself the luxury of slowly stroking Haldir's arm, delighting in the feel of silken skin over hard muscle, as he debated his options.
He could simply forget what he had seen, and allow Lord Elrond to handle it. He was Gildor's sworn liege lord, after all, with the power to command him in all things. If he had sent Gildor on a difficult assignment, even one sure to claim his life, he would have accepted it and followed his duty. Unfortunately, in this case, things were not so clear cut.
What was his duty, exactly, and to whom? The Noldor, including his father, had sworn allegiance to the king for themselves and their issue for all time. Gildor was Noldorin, so did not his family's oath bind him as well? Yet he had personally sworn an oath to Elrond when entering his service. It was a difficult question, but ultimately, Gildor knew, his first loyalty lay with the king. The oath he had taken to Elrond post dated that taken by his family to the High King, and when he had sworn himself to Elrond's service, he had believed the king to be long dead. Gildor remembered seeing his parents off at the Grey Havens when they took ship for Valinor. His father had never recovered from his sorrow at the fall of the world he had helped to build and the king he had joyfully served for so long; he had had no heart to build another, nor wish to serve anyone else. Gildor knew what his father would expect of him under the circumstances, and it decided matters. He had to help the king, whatever the price.
But what if he doesn't want your assistance, a little voice asked. Gildor sighed. His conscience was a bit overactive, and never left him in peace. What if he is happy with Elrond? Gildor repressed a snort of disbelief, not wanting to wake Haldir. He did not see how the king could be satisfied living as little more than a parasite within another. Sauron had deprived him so long of a real life and true freedom, it was simply not to be born that Elrond was now doing the same. But Gildor had seen it in his expression; no words had passed between them, but ideas were conveyed nonetheless. Elrond had no intention of letting the king go. His narrowed look at Gildor when he saw the shock on his face had said that as plainly as if he had shouted it. Gildor knew a warning when he saw one, but he could not heed this one.
But what if he really is happy? That same voice was louder this time, more insistent. Gildor really wanted to listen to it, for going up against Lord Elrond, his sworn lord and long his kindly benefactor, not to mention one of the most powerful elves in all Middle Earth, was almost repulsive. He felt like a traitor at the very thought. In a real sense of the word, he loved Elrond. It had been at Imladris that he found a home once his parents sailed beyond the sea; it had been there that he was welcomed, not as an impoverished elf with few years and fewer skills, but as the son of a valiant warrior and an asset to the realm. Lord Elrond had been almost a surrogate father to him, providing food and clothing, training and shelter, then giving Gildor valuable assignments that brought him a measure of financial security as well as the even more valuable feeling that he was being useful. They had never been on close personal terms, for Gildor, like most elves, viewed his lord as something untouchable, distant, radiant--rather like the stars themselves--to be admired and loved and held in vast esteem. He would have died for him, but he could not do this. He could not betray the High King for him.
But you really don't know what he wants, do you? His little voice piped up again. Is it a betrayal or not? What if the king WANTS to stay with Lord Elrond? Who are you to separate them, or to even think of doing so? You are vassal to both and owe your loyalty to both--why not let Lord Elrond's wisdom suffice for this? Gildor shifted uncomfortably next to his lover, and pulled Haldir a little closer to him, craving his warmth. He dearly wished he could ask his aid with this, for Haldir's level-headedness was a trait he desperately needed at the moment, but he dared not risk it.
Gildor had seen the confusion in Haldir's eyes that morning, when he knelt before the king. Haldir had not understood any of what had happened, and how could he? He was Silvan, not Noldor. As much as Gildor loved him, he knew that there were certain things about himself that Haldir would never be able to understand. He would say the same as Gildor's little voice--just leave it to Elrond, it is none of our business. But it WAS his business, if the king was being trapped against his will. As much as he most sincerely wished otherwise, he was duty bound to find out.
* * *
Elrohir peered over the ledge into a murky chasm. Even with elvin sight, the place was dark; a human would have found it pitch black, but he could make out the basic outline of shapes moving below him. He could also hear voices, echoing eerily in the cavern's vastness, and it was all he could do not to shoot Tuor in the head. The traitorous bastard had known where the hidden entrance was all the time--he had never so much as hesitated in making straight for it. If Elrohir had not been close on his trail, he would have disappeared without a trace. As it was, Elrohir had managed to squeeze in through the narrow opening Tuor had somehow caused in the rock face just before it slammed shut behind him. Now he was witnessing the completeness of Tuor's betrayal, as he told everything to a group of orcs he had met inside--that most of the elvin army had fled, pursued by the huge orcish force, that a small band of elves was about to try to force their way into the main entrance, and that their objective was the rescue of the elvish mine slaves. Instead of killing the cowardly traitor as he deserved, however, Elrohir waited. His usual tendency to impulsiveness was not afflicting him at the moment, but something else was.
It was like his dream of the previous night was returning, but this time he was awake. Elrohir knew he should have been worried that he was losing his mind, but he felt no apprehension of any kind. Instead, he was strangely calm, almost peaceful, rather as if he had fallen into a battle trance without realising it. Instead of the darkness, he saw a brilliantly sunlit day; instead of the bleak interiors of the cave, he saw a grassy plain and a magnificent elf on a pale horse next to his own. Behind them spread a huge elvish army, colourful banners waving cheerily in the breeze.
** "You are looking worried, lirimaer. What troubles you?"
Glorfindel turned to face him, his concern briefly masked by an unconvincing grin. "Nothing. I relish the thought of destroying Morgoth's forces. As you said, they will rue the day they heard the name of Beleriand!"
Elrohir hid a smile; apparently, guile had never been his lover's forte. "True, King Fingolfin has an excellent plan. Do not worry, young one, we will be triumphant, I promise you!"
Glorfindel did not look much relieved at this assurance, however, and Elrohir worried about him. He was so young to be facing a trial of this magnitude, which could make even the most experienced of elves tremble. He wished he knew what to say to take his lover's doubts away, but then, perhaps he was better off to be somewhat timid. Overconfidence had killed many an elf by causing them to become careless in battle. Elrohir, of course, intended to insure that Glorfindel never left his sight. He would watch over him and make certain he came through the coming contest alive.**
"Where are the slaves? I will guard them while you deal with the attacking party." Tuor's voice brought Elrohir back to the present with a jolt. He shook his head to clear the image. Elbereth, but it had seemed so real, almost as if he had actually been there! .
"Zurgug will take you to them. We will deal with the others." A huge orc answered Tuor's question, his coarse syllables causing Elrohir to wince and wish to bury a knife in his throat. Instead he continued to wait and watch, as Tuor was led downward into the darkness by a hunchbacked orc with a tiny lantern, while the three larger orcs in the party started up the narrow, rocky incline towards him. Elrohir waited until they were almost level with his hiding place in the shadows of an overhang, then tripped the one who had spoken to Tuor into the ravine. His cries had not even died away before the other two, now headless corpses, followed him. Elrohir watched them fall with considerable satisfaction, but then he paused. Where to go now?
His day dream had no doubt been the result of his mind trying to persuade him that revenge on Tuor, however good that might feel, or even recovery of the lost elves, was not his primary objective. He had to insure the well being of Glorfindel and the others, who would doubtless soon arrive at the cave's entrance. Yet he had just insured that the orcs would not receive prior warning of their arrival and could not lay an ambush, so did his duty not now lie with the enslaved elves? They were the reason they had come so far and risked so much; could he abandon them now for the selfish reason of guarding his lover's life?
He looked down into the passage where Tuor and his guide had disappeared. These caves were a rabbit warren of intersecting passages; if he let them get away, he might never find them again. On the other hand, if he snuck up behind the guards at the entrance, there was a good chance he could clear the way for his party and then they could search together. The decision he reached after several agonizing seconds was largely the result of his belated realisation that he should have kept at least one of the orcs alive to lead him to the entrance. He had no real idea how to get there otherwise, so he supposed following Tuor was the only real option.
Elrohir moved quickly once his mind was made up, pausing only when he heard the orc's heavy footfalls change direction or slow down. It seemed like he followed the two of them for hours on a winding path down into darkness so extreme that even his elvin eyes had difficulty discerning anything. The air felt stale and musty this far into the earth, and Elrohir had to concentrate to insure that his breathing did not become laboured and give him away. With only the dim light of the far away lantern to guide him, he also had to use all his senses to avoid scraping against one of the narrow passage's walls and alerting Tuor to his presence. Finally, the tiny pinpoint of light from the orc's lantern stopped, and Elrohir strained to hear what the creature was saying to his companion.
"This is the lot. We grouped them all in here in case of an attack--the master knew your friends wouldn't give up so easily. But the elves will never find them--even most of our people don't know of this place."
"You are sure this is all of them?" Tuor seemed strangely excited about something, but Elrohir could not imagine what it could be.
"Yes, like I told you. There was one other, but he escaped a few weeks back. Just make sure nothing happens to this bunch--they're the master's favourite pets!" Elrohir's hand tightened on his sword as the ugly creature cackled with glee and savagely kicked a nearby elf. Then he hung the lantern on the wall for Tuor and starting back in Elrohir's direction. The light outlined his body perfectly as he shuffled forward, and Elrohir smiled into the darkness. A few seconds later, and he stuffed the now dead orc into a crevasse in the wall before moving silently forward.
Tuor had picked up the lantern and was examining the elves one by one, pushing the light into their faces although they shied back from it in confusion. It had probably been so long since they had a source of illumination that close to them that it hurt their eyes, but none of the small group of twenty or so made a protest. "Is any of you Oropher, King of Greenwood?" Tuor's voice sounded excited and apprehensive, all at the same time. "I am Tuor, consort to your son Thranduil, and have come to free you!"
When none of the elves responded to Tuor's rather pompous declaration, he began to grow agitated. "Come, I know you're here somewhere! They never found your body at Barad-dur--you must be here!" He dragged one elf up by the hair, pulling out some of the delicate strands as he did so, and causing the heavy chains the elf wore to slap one of the others full in the face. "Your son is worried about you--do you not want to comfort him? I know you probably bear little resemblance to him by now, but I WILL find you." Tuor pushed the elf away after carefully examining his face, and the fragile creature knocked heavily against the wall, letting out a small cry.
"Curse it, where are you?" Tuor looked about almost frantically, shoving the lantern into face after face. "Thranduil will love me forever if I find you. You must be here--why are you hiding?" He grabbed another elf by the few tattered garments it wore, and hauled it upright. "No, not you," he muttered. "Thranduil inherited his green eyes from his father, I always heard said." His voice grew dreamy and a strange smile came over his lips. "Like emeralds in sunlight, like the deepest depths in a spring of clear water . . . ," he suddenly snapped back from his reverie and shook the helpless elf in his hands. "Where is he? Tell me or I swear I'll kill you all!"
"Oh, I don't think so." Elrohir emerged from the shadows, his sword glinting slightly in the shuddering light from Tuor's wildly swinging lantern. "I, however, will take great pleasure in ending your miserable life."
Tuor looked at him in shock, some of the crazed light going out of his eyes. "Elrohir! What . . . I thought you were tending to the wounded."
"I'm more interested in preventing even more elves from suffering because of your selfish lust, Tuor. Put him down and draw your weapon; I give you that much. I could have shot you from the shadows and you would never have known what hit you, but I prefer to see an elf die with a weapon in his hands. Even an elf like you."
Tuor sneered, and drew the elf in his arms even more securely in front of him. "I'm not that much of a fool! I saw you fight today, and I prefer another solution." He put a dagger to the elf's throat, so tightly that a small trickle of blood ran onto his hand. "Put down your sword or this one dies."
"What if he is your precious Oropher? Wouldn't that ruin your plans?"
"He isn't, or are you blind as well as foolish? His eyes are grey."
Elrohir could not tell one way or the other in the darkness, but he supposed Tuor should know. "So his life doesn't matter?"
Tuor smiled. "To you, it probably does. That's your weakness--the same as all the elves! You spend your life protecting the weak and helpless, when they are only a drag on our race! WE could dominate Middle earth if only we had a few leaders with foresight and cunning, and the will to lead us! Instead, dwarves and men and other piddling races are allowed to spread ever more insidiously across our lands, while we shrink in numbers every century. Only our enemies have the intelligence to know what life is really about--taking what you want and forcing others to bend to your will!"
"And that is what you are doing? Bending Thranduil to your will by bribing him with his father's life? Do you really think he will be fooled? That Oropher, if he is here, will not tell him what you did and why?"
Tuor looked uncertain for a moment, then he smiled once more. "They have been so damaged that I doubt most of them have enough of a mind left to understand anything. I will tell the king how I, at the risk of my own life, rescued his father from terrible imprisonment, while you and your gallant party were butchered by orcs as you tried to assist me. You will be remembered in stories and song, Elrohir, as will that ridiculous popinjay Glorfindel, but I will be alive and it is to me Thranduil will turn soon enough."
Elrohir shook his head; Tuor really WAS mad, there was no doubt about it. Either that, or just evil, and Elrohir vastly preferred to think of him as mad. In any case, he had to be dealt with--there was now no other option. The question was, how to do it and not risk the life of the elf he was using as a shield. Then Elrohir saw it, a withered arm that was waving to him energetically from behind Tuor's head. It looked oddly disembodied, as Elrohir could not see to whom it belonged in the dim lantern light. He did not stop to think, for there was no time, but merely pulled a knife from his belt and tossed it over Tuor's head, still sheathed in its scabbard for safety's sake. The waving arm caught it and disappeared into the throng.
"What was that? What did you just do?" The lantern light so close to his face was making it difficult for Tuor to see much beyond it, Elrohir supposed. He never had the chance to answer him, as the next second the elves fell on Tuor, uttering hoarse battle cries and wrenching their fellow prisoner from his arms. The traitor disappeared under a pile of ragged clothes and flailing, dirty limbs, his surprised shout soon muffled by their bodies. Elrohir kept an eye on the pile, to make certain Tuor did not manage to escape, but otherwise did not interfere. Instead, he moved to examine the skeletal elf who had been thrown against the wall earlier, where he still lay bleeding from the head.
Elrohir poured as much healing energy as he dared into him, not wanting to risk harming the fragile body any further, and a moment later the elf's eyes opened. He looked familiar, although Elrohir could not say why. "By the Valar!," the elf murmured, his tone awe struck as his eyes devoured Elrohir's face, "I always said you would come for us! The others thought me mad, but I always knew." Claw like hands clutched at his shirt, and a small smile broke out over the elf's haggard features. "I knew it."
"Yes, we'll get you out of here. But tell me, friend, are there any more like you in the mines?" Elrohir had no intention of taking the word of an orc that they had assembled all the elves together. Perhaps these poor souls might know where their fellow prisoners were, if any still lived.
The elf looked confused. "Do you not recognise me, Lord? But of course," he sighed, and looked suddenly ashamed. "I must look horrible to you. My apologies. I promise to return myself to a more proper appearance before once more taking up my duties."
"Your duties?" Elrohir was confused. Of course, he reasoned, the elf was probably even more so and doubtless did not know what he was saying. It hurt his heart to see his people in this condition, and a low rage burned his stomach, crying for revenge.
"Oh please, my Lord, never say I cannot serve you again! I will do anything--the most humble task will be an honour, I assure you!"
The elf looked so distressed that Elrohir could only hug him, ignoring his stench as best he could, and murmur reassurances. "Of course you can serve me if you wish. There is room for anyone who wishes to come with me to Imladris. But tell me your name, friend, that I may call you correctly."
"I am Lothion, my Lord." The poor elf's eyes flooded over with tears, but Elrohir barely noticed. Lothion . . . why was that name so strangely familiar? "See, I told you so!" His new servant cried out to his fellows, as the elves in the pile slowly withdrew themselves from Tuor's remains. Elrohir looked at the mangled body and knew he should feel some sorrow, some pity, for the creature, but he could not manage even the slightest twinge of either. Indeed, he felt like joining in the cries of triumph from the surrounding elves that echoed off the walls of the little cave like the voices of an army.
"I told you he would come for us! Did I not say as much? Lord Ulmo will not forget us, he will send our champion back to us! Did I not say so?"
"That you did, Lothion, every day for centuries." The elf Tuor had used as a shield approached Elrohir and looked at him searchingly for a moment. Elrohir idly noticed that Tuor had been wrong; this elf's eyes were most definitely green. Then the battered body folded and he knelt at Elrohir's feet. "My Lord Ecthelion," he said in a strangely choked voice, "we are yours to command."
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TBC