Once again, I would like to thank the reviewers who are being so encouraging: dragonfly32, MoroTheWolfGod, Jebb, and Konzen.
The morning after the second skirmish, Elrohir sat brooding by the campfire. In both skirmishes, he had slain several Orcs, but he didn't feel any closer to achieving vengeance for his mother.
"And now there is Taurmeldir to avenge as well," he thought bitterly.
Why could he feel no satisfaction in having felled several of the creatures whose kind had tormented Celebrían and butchered Taurmeldir?
"Perhaps," he mused, "it is because I haven't had time to exult. In a battle, everything happens so quickly. Having slain one enemy, I must turn to the next. I wish I had time to relish the death of each Orc who falls to my sword. Yes, that must be it; I am never able to take pleasure in the killing of my enemies. It happens; it is over."
Elrohir stood up, clenching and unclenching his hands. "I am going to enjoy the next skirmish," he swore to himself.
The next battle, however, was long in coming. For two nights the Elves and Rangers were assaulted by nothing more than the eerie mist that the power in Dol Guldur could summon and dismiss at will. The third night, Orcs and wargs engaged in several sorties that proved to be no more than feints meant either to unnerve them or to test their defenses. Elrohir could only wait in frustration, and his rage grew by the minute. He could not understand how Elladan could sit so calmly, polishing his blades, checking the fletching of his arrows, all the while talking quietly with Anomen, Thoron, and Baramagor as if they were sitting in the armory at Rivendell preparing for an inspection by Glorfindel.
On the fourth night, Elrohir at last had a chance to put his resolution into effect. The mist began to creep toward them, and this time shrieks and howls could be heard as the Elves and Rangers fired into the vapors.
"At last," exulted Elrohir, "at last I will wreak my vengeance."
Elrohir seemed to have the strength of two Elves that night, but, ai! no sooner had he hacked down one foe, than another appeared to take its place. At last, however, the number of Orcs had been so diminished that he was able to skewer one of the beasts without another one immediately taking its place. Elrohir let the battle roll on past him and paused to relish his kill.
It was then that he realized that the Orc still lived. Elrohir's sword stroke had broken its hip and exposed its guts, but it still breathed. Moreover, it was conscious.
Breathing hard, Elrohir stood over the wounded Orc. The creature, although helpless, snarled up at him. Elrohir looked as if he were snarling himself, his lips curling back from his teeth as he glared down at his foe.
"I am going to have so much fun finishing you off," he taunted his enemy. The Orc did not know any words of Elvish, but Elrohir's face and voice made his meaning clear. The young Elf had the satisfaction of seeing a look of fear spread over the creature's face.
"Oh, yes," he gloated, "I have been looking forward to this moment for a long time—and I'm going to make it last." He prodded his prone victim with his sword and was pleased when it yelped in pain.
But it was another cry of pain that brought Elrohir back to his senses. Instantly forgetting the wounded Orc, Elrohir spun about and in a panic looked about the field for his twin.
"Elladan" he shouted. "Elladan, where are you!?" He caught sight of his brother desperately trying to fend off three Orcs. Elladan's shoulder had been slashed, and blood ran from the wound down his side as far as his thigh.
Elrohir charged across the field, and so great was his fear for his brother that he thrust his sword completely through one Orc and skewered a second. The third Orc spun about and raised his scimitar but never had a chance to bring it down. Elrohir hacked the Orc's hand clean from its wrist, and the severed claw fell into the dirt still scrabbling at its weapon. Before the Orc even had a chance to react to that injury, Elrohir had gutted him.
Elladan meanwhile had collapsed to the ground. His eyes were closed, his face pale, and his head flopped to one side. Elrohir knelt beside him and, seizing his uninjured shoulder, shook him. By then, Thoron, Baramagor, and Anomen, who had seen Elladan fall, had crossed the battlefield and reached them.
"Elrohir," protested Thoron. "Shaking him won't help!"
"What shall I do!? What shall I do!?"
"First," said Thoron, "calm down."
Elrohir nodded, but his eyes were wild with fear and he was gasping for breath. Anomen put his hand on his shoulder.
"Elrohir, take deep, slow breaths."
Elrohir did so, and he began to feel steadier.
"Here," said Thoron, ripping off a strip from his tunic. "Hold this to the wound and press down. He hasn't been cut in a vital area, so if we stop the bleeding and keep the wound clean, he should be alright. Anomen, go and fetch Elrond or Mithrandir."
Anomen leaped to his feet and ran off. "Fetch both of them!" Elrohir shouted after him.
By the time Anomen returned with the elf-lord and Istar, Elladan had come out of his faint. He still looked a little pale, but he was swearing that he would be able to sit up if only Elrohir and Thoron would let him. The two were insisting, however, that he wait until a healer had looked him over.
Elrond had been hurrying to reach his son until he drew near and saw Elladan bickering with Elrohir and Thoron. Then he slowed to a more deliberate pace and let the mask of a commander slide over his face. Mithrandir, noticing the change in his friend's demeanor, had to hide a slight smile.
"So," said Elrond calmly, "I have been summoned to treat a wounded warrior, yet it seems as if appropriate treatment has already been rendered." He briefly inspected their handiwork and nodded his approval. He arose to leave them.
"Ada," said Elladan, "you cannot go without saying something to Elrohir. On his own he beat off three Orcs—else I had been dead!"
Elrohir blushed a fiery red and looked down at his feet. Had it been any other Elf, Elrond would have written off his reaction as one of excessive humility, but Elrohir had never been known to suffer from that fault. Elrond would have to inquire into the matter, but for now he had other injured warriors to attend to.
"We will speak of this later, Elladan. I must tend to the wounded." The elf-lord strode off with Mithrandir, who had been observing the exchange with keen interest.
"So your sons did not escape this skirmish altogether unscathed."
"No, and I suspect that Elrohir has suffered an injury more painful than the cut
Elladan received to the shoulder."
"But they will both be the tougher once their injuries heal."
"It is to be hoped so."
The two friends stopped to hear a brief report from Berenmaethor on how his patrol had fared and then headed to a pavilion that had been set up to receive the injured. After they departed, Berenmaethor saw to it that their dead foes were dragged into one large pile and ordered that the injured Orcs be put out of their misery as painlessly as possible.
"Elrohir, Thoron, Anomen, you can leave Elladan be for the moment. Baramagor will watch over him. Wounded Orcs are scattered about this field, and they must be dispatched."
It was a distasteful duty but the young Elves now understood it to be a necessary one. As efficiently as possible, they moved from one Orc to the next, quickly cutting the throats of any that still lived.
Elrohir found himself kneeling beside the Orc whom he had been tormenting only a short time before. The Orc still lived, but the evil in its eyes had been replaced by the bewildered pain of a dumb creature that suffers and does not know why.
Elrohir hesitated, but not because he wished to prolong the creature's dying. No, he suddenly found that he dreaded inflicting more pain that day, even if were upon the most loathsome of creatures. He steeled himself to the task by reminding himself that he was in fact shortening the creature's suffering and easing its death. "I am sorry," he whispered, as with one swift stroke he cut the creature's throat. Then he called for Thoron and Anomen to help him drag the body to the growing pile of Orc carcasses.
Later that evening Berenmaethor ordered Elrohir to deliver a scroll on which he had written the names and status of all the members of his patrol. Elrohir joined a steady stream of young messengers on similar errands to the commanders of the army. When he reached the tent that served as headquarters, he held back, allowing all the other messengers to go before him. When all had delivered their scrolls and returned to their patrols, Elrohir at last stepped up to the entrance of the tent. Inside, Elrond sat alone at his field table, studying the scrolls that had already been delivered. Sensing that someone waited, and without looking up, Elrond said, "Enter."
Elrohir quietly stepped up to the table and placed his scroll upon it.
"Thank you. That will be all," said Elrond, still without looking up.
Elrohir cleared his throat.
"Ah, Elrohir. I did not know it was you. Is there something further that you wish?"
"May I—may I talk with you a minute?"
Elrond studied him intently. "Do you wish to speak with me as your commander or as your father?"
Elrohir's voice trembled a little. "As my—my Ada."
Elrond arose from his seat. "Even though we Imladris Elves call this land Mirkwood, there is still much here that is beautiful. Come. Let us walk a little."
The two left the tent and strolled a short distance, keeping well within the line of sentries but still far enough for privacy.
"What is it you wish to say, ion-nîn?"
"Ada, tomorrow the severely injured will be sent under escort to Thranduil's hall, is that not so?"
"Yes. There they will receive better care than they would in the field—and the escort will be able to return promptly to battle. No warriors will have to be detailed to defend the injured any longer than necessary."
"Ada, I would like to be numbered among the escort, but once I reach the Hall"—here Elrohir hesitated before taking a deep breath and plunging on—"once I reach the Hall I think I should remain there."
Elrond raised both eyebrows. "And have you a reason for asking to be taken out of battle—for this is what you ask, is it not?"
"Yes, Ada, I have a reason. I am not reliable."
"What do you mean by that phrase, 'not reliable'?"
"I mean that my comrades cannot depend upon me. If it had not been for my selfishness, Elladan would never have been injured. I—I was thinking of vengeance and did not notice that Elladan was being assailed by three Orcs with no one near to help him."
Elrohir bowed his head in shame. His father stood for a few minutes in silence before he spoke.
"Elrohir, do you remember when I summoned Anomen to my chamber after he returned from his unfortunate encounter with several large and venomous Mirkwood spiders?"
"Yes, I remember. He was petrified, for he was certain that it would be centuries before you let him go on another patrol."
"Yet I did not make him wait centuries."
"No, you sent him out immediately—because you needed to keep him safely out of the clutches of Thranduil."
"True, but I would have sent him out anyway. He had learned from his experience; there was no reason he should not have rejoined the patrol. That day I told him something that I will now tell you: It would be a shame to waste wisdom so dearly bought."
"What did he say when you told him that?"
"If you must know, he flung his arms around me and called me 'Ada'."
Elrohir sighed wistfully. "I wish I were not too old to do that."
"Oh, and who told you that you were?" The eyebrows were up again, even higher than before, if that were possible.
Elrohir needed no further invitation. He threw his arms around his father and squeezed so hard that, truth be told, tears came to Elrond's eyes.
"Elrohir," he gasped at last. "I believe that you are going to do me an injury if you do not loosen your hold!"
Reluctantly, Elrohir let go of his father and stepped back a pace. "I hope Elladan is an understanding as you are, Ada."
"Ah, so you mean to disillusion him?"
"Yes, Ada. If I don't I will be miserable ten times over as he insists on telling everyone how brave I was."
"I believe he is right about that. Your error had nothing to do with lack of courage. But by all means talk to your brother if you think it will make you feel better. I think he will understand. He misses his Naneth as much as you do, even if he does keep his anger better hidden. Now you had better return to your patrol before Berenmaethor sends out a search party."
"Yes, Ada." Elrohir bowed to his father and hurried back toward his patrol's encampment.
Elrond slowly walked back to the tent, relieved that his sons would heal, body and soul. When he arrived, Mithrandir was there before him. The Istar had already poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Elrond as soon as he entered.
"I took the liberty of making myself comfortable in your absence," said the Istar.
"Yes, I have talked with Elrohir, if that is what you wish to know," said Elrond with a smile.
"Hmm," mused Mithrandir, "I think you are becoming like Galadriel. You answer questions I have not yet asked, an uncanny ability that I am more accustomed to encountering in a Lothlórien Elf rather than in an Imladris one."
"There is nothing uncanny about it, Mithrandir. We have been friends long even by the accounting of Elves. In such a case, it is easy for one friend to anticipate the questions of the other."
"True, true. I take it that the conversation went well."
"Yes. I think that Elrohir has won this battle—although he may still face a skirmish or two."
"It is to be hoped that such a skirmish will not be as painful as the one he fought today."
"The ones," corrected Elrond.
"Yes, of course. The ones he fought today." Mithrandir raised his glass. "Until tomorrow's battle."
"Yes," said Elrond. "Until tomorrow's battle."