Disclaimer: All rights to whomsoever they belong!
A/N: As before, typos removed, a couple of bits tweaked, essentially the same; although I have decided to briefly include Romen, my OC from Lullaby of the Lily Flower simply for the sake of continuity. I still remember writing this ficlet over five years ago – I got so engrossed in the dark emotions and subject matter that my mum was convinced there was something wrong with me whilst I was writing it. Funny how these things stay with you, isn't it? Anyway, read on!
Chapter Two – Doubt
Lord Elrond stood motionless at his balcony, watching the arrival of the royal company below with tired and unseeing grey eyes. Around him, he could hear the voices of his people, of the birds, of the trees... yet to him it seemed that they became as one. A meaningless, droning noise that hummed like an insect in some forgotten room, lost and lonely. He saw the autumn breezes pace steadily through the treetops, the chilling breath of November causing the red and orange leaves to shiver, and fall silently to join the carpet on the ground. He saw the bleak, near midwinter sun struggling to break through the oppressive steel grey clouds that rose like towering mighty pillars above his ancient refuge. He could see that gushing river, swollen by heavy rain in the snow capped mountains, snaking its way through the valley like a great silver-scaled serpent. Coloured stones shone brightly as the powerful river rushed over them, foaming with white plumes as it crashed into the river banks in its haste.
All this he could see, he could hear…
But he could not feel them. It was as though he could never feel again.
He could not feel the minds of his people, of his family; he could not sense their thoughts. Nothingness enshrouded him, blocking out the very essence of the living things around him from his awareness. The trees, that normally would sing such sweet, hauntingly beautiful melodies at this time of year now swayed all but silently, singing not songs to their lord. They whispered amongst themselves, murmuring and muttering in the wind, concealing their hearts from the elf. The birds too seemed to seldom rise above the canopy, hiding themselves within the emptying boughs and speaking only in hushed, secretive tones between one another. As Vilya lay almost forgotten, veiled within a misty mantle upon his finger, the weather and river began to run beyond his control, as the rains of late did all they could to encourage it. He could not feel the spirit of the gushing water, save only for the faint tugging at his mind that tried to remind him. Yet where is the point? Remembering only brought more suffering, only more pain, only more grief than his immortal soul could bear. The one shining, ever joyful light that had lit up his life he had seen broken, and stabbed cruelly out; And it was my own damn fault. He passed a hand over his brow and eyes to hide his face from those below, as the heart-wrenching moment, that cold, starless night came flooding back…
Upon the aged stone steps he waited, radiating an ever so slightly pale glow in the dark. Everything about him was still; his breathing was slowed, his gaze fixed and unmoving upon the winding road, his very heartrate reduced to no more than a few beats a minute. The wood encased path wound away like a ribbon in the murky half light, leading out of the protected valley of Imladris and into the harsh, unwelcoming lands of the wild. Thither had his two sons ridden, nigh on a fortnight before, disappearing through the almost antique trees upon their silver silken steeds, Swiftsilk and Fleetfoot; and with a pang in his heart, he remembered they had been gifts from their mother. Long had they fought with him, striving with his will until it bent, demanding that he grant them this one, merciless consolation that he should allow them to find her. He had watched them, vanishing into the blustery icy twilight, glimpsing them only a little as they flitted through the trees like mithril ghosts, until they passed beyond his view and he saw no more. For twelve days, all of Rivendell had held its breath, speaking in hushed voices around their Lord, glancing in anxiety and sadness at him as he restlessly strode the halls at all hours of the night and day, pacing to and fro, the waiting driving him insane. One loyal servant in particular, Lindur, had made it a part of his daily routine to persuade his Lord back into his chambers for the night.
Yet something beyond anything he could explain or express stirred within his heart tonight, within the very air it seemed, and he knew that the wait would be over soon. And somehow, he knew, that it would not be the fair-haired Glorfindel, victorious in so many battles, who rode beneath the renowned archway; nor would it be the bright-eyed Erestor, wise and subtle in manner. Elladan and Elrohir were close, very close now; he felt as if he could reach out and touch them their presence was so strong. And someone was with them. Someone blank and hidden from him by a swirling, impenetrable darkness…
Elrond shuddered involuntarily. He had not thought for who exactly would be coming back to him, only that she had to, she must; Celebrían had to return home. But now the hour drew near, an irrational yet unquestionable fear awoke in his heart, and would not be quenched by thought or reason. What if the woman brought back through those gates tonight was not the same as he had known? What if she was past the powers of any healing that he possessed, though he could have all the skills of the Valar in his hands? What if, after all the agonizing and torturing waiting… what if her torture had been too great? What if, there was nothing he could do? He had been so overwhelmed, so consumed by the drive for her rescue, for the need to feel her safe and warm in his arms that he had not paused to think; and the possibility gnawed pitilessly at his mind.
Suddenly, his keen elven hearing picked up the faint, far away sound of silver bells, ringing through the night; the bells of a horse's harness. At once he turned to Feldeth, who as ever stood faithfully at his side.
"Lindur, go tell the maids to prepare the room for the lady; and gather all the healing herbs and tools you can find from the supply room," he bade him, "And go swiftly! The time for waiting is over, and all haste shall we need."
With a sharp, fiercely understanding nod, Lindur all but flew into the Last Homely House, and disappeared into the lantern lit corridors.
The call of the bells was clear now, piercing easily through the suddenly stilled night air, plain for even a mortal to hear. It was as though the very winds held their breath, gazing over the age old refuge in dismay and hope and sorrow, all at the same time. Yet Elrond's own emotions were far beyond explanation or understanding, as they spun viciously around inside him, and he felt his breath catch in his chest as the steadily pounding hoof beats thundered along the road, only one wooded bend away from home. He caught snatches of glimmering, dull white glows between the thick trees. His heart thumped ruthlessly in his throat as though it were about to leap into his mouth; his stomach churned and tightened sickeningly and for a desperate fleeting moment, he wished beyond all rationality that this responsibility were not his, that the dreaded meeting would never come, that he would never have to put his emotions to their hardest test yet. But the franticly foolish second passed, and to all who saw him he stood more resolute and grave than any before had seen him.
And so he watched, and waited, those last few unbearable seconds.
Then they came.
Two silver grey steeds erupted from behind the road's meander, charging hell for leather down the well worn path, as the very trees themselves seemed to leap out of their way. Their nostrils were wide and flaring red as they breathed deeply to get oxygen into their lungs. Their eyes were white and rolling, the whites clearly showing as they frothed at the mouths where they chewed the bit. Their normally so fine and silky coats were drenched with sweat, and caked in mud and foam as they stampeded tirelessly for home.
To a passing traveller, the horses would have been fearful enough to look upon indeed; but by comparison, the grim faced riders astride them were nothing short of terrifying. Raven hair whirled tangled and loose around their faces, steaming out behind them in rugged knots. Torn and ripped blood stained tunics and cloaks were darkened by black dirt and grime, clinging to their lean bodies. In the arms of the first was a bundle, wrapped all in a dirty grey cloth, concealing its precious burden within.
Lord Elrond did not need the foresight of his people who guess what – or rather, who it was.
All around him, Elrond suddenly felt the people gasp in awe and shock and apprehension; they raced to windows to capture a glimpse of the fast approaching young lords, running to the hallway and entrance and bustling and hurrying about the hallways, preparing for the Lady's return.
As the stallions passed maddened beneath the age old stone arch way that marked the beginning of the court yard, their iron shod hooves clattered and crashed upon the cobbled surface, and Elrond sped down the steps and drew beside the twice burdened Swiftsilk. The proud horse flitted on the spot and tossed his sodden mane as steam rose heavily from his body, and his flanks rose and fell sharply. A near by stable hand rushed to calm his head as Elrohir passed his fragile and priceless burden to his father.
"Please Ada," he whispered hoarsely, "Save her – you must…"
Elrond tore his gaze away from his beloved wife, covered all in the cloth, and looked deep into the eyes of his younger son, piercing through the strong, outer defences and heavily armoured barriers, until at last he came to see not a tall, fearful elf lord, but his young, scared child. Shining tears began to fill his eyes, but he blinked them away, struggling to stay strong in the face of such terrifying and terrible anguish.
Elrond rested a hand lightly on his son's leg for a brief moment.
"Though all the Gods stood in my way still I would heal her," he whispered fiercely. Elrohir choked back the sob welling up in the back of his throat, and nodded jerkily.
"Go."
With that, Elrond spun on his heels and walked as fast as he dared back across the courtyard, and quickly disappeared from the sight of the twins.
"We have to go in – we have to help," growled Elladan, and swung himself off his horse, his knees almost buckling beneath him as he realised how exhausted he was. A dark haired elf caught him by the elbow and pulled him upright, steadying him.
"Nay, my Lord," said Brethildur gently, a long serving horse master of the family, "These horses have travelled far and swiftly, and though the blood of the mighty stallions of Valinor flow in their veins, still they could ride no more this night. And neither can you remain awake much longer; I may be a master of horses, but my eye is trained, and your own strength has all but failed. You must go to your chambers and rest."
"I cannot think a moment for myself while my mother lies upon the brink of – of –" Yet his throat grew suddenly dryer than the eastern deserts, and he found he could not bring himself to say it.
"Listen to me, son of Elrond," said Brethildur in a slightly commanding tone, taking Elladan's shoulders and holding him still, "Your father has not won renown in the art of healing through mere cuts and grazes. There is no one else now in Middle Earth more skilled than he; and if he is to succeed, then he must have complete concentration, he cannot have two barely awake sons littering the room in which he works. You shall be of more help to him – and yourself – if you go and sleep."
"He's right, brother," said Elrohir quietly, having slid slowly off his horse which was now being led away. He swayed a little dangerous on the spot, but a passing servant caught him and kept his balance. "We cannot even stand under our own power; tomorrow, we shall aid father. Tonight we would be more hindrance than help." Shaking the servant away, he walked to his brother and took his arm as Larifel stepped aside. "Come. We've done all we can."
Reluctantly, Elladan allowed Elrohir to steer him in the direction of the house, and towards the stairs in the hallway.
"For now, perhaps," he breathed, and the twins ascended the sweeping marble staircase to their rooms.
Brethildur watched after them with a couple more stable hands at his side, sighing. Making a silent prayer to Varda, he headed back to the stables to bed down the stallions for the night.
Elrond sighed, pushing the despairing recollection to the back of his mind. Still, he kept his eyes shut, wishing with all his strength that he could disappear, and that he would be left alone in silent sorrow in the hazy nothingness he had created to retreat into. That was all he wanted, all the thought he needed – complete nothingness, where there was no pain, no fear, no heart rending misery that refused to leave him alone… Yet even as he thought of that blissful nothing, clear, sharp images of his children flashed across his mind; as the young boisterous elflings that had wreaked chaos and havoc upon Rivendell, their parents and each other; as the joking, taunting brothers, pushing each other in the river and off horses, alternately laughing with and pulling their sister Arwen's hair when they thought their father was not looking; as the broken, lost and confused warriors that now sat silent, numb with sorrow and guilt somewhere in his house, and the daughter that remained in the shadow of grief many leagues away from his comforting arms, over the mountains.
It was then something snapped in him, and in the deepest, darkest crevice of his heart, he knew; he could not block it out – he could never block it out. For if he forgot the shadow on his heart now, he forgot them all – his people, the valley… his children. And then, what sort of father would he be to them? One, who in the very hour when they needed him more than they had ever done in all their years slunk into the dark and hid from all emotions and reality? The thought made him almost shudder again. He had loved his own father dearly, and still did; but he knew what it felt like to have that role missing from your life, to have to guide yourself. He knew the twins and Arwen were already a good deal older than he had been when his father had sailed away, and he and his own brother had been taken captive… But still, he had been alone. The notion hardened him. No – not if I can help it, he promised himself. Not though all the skies should fall, will I abandon them now. They shall not suffer further through my own selfishness.
Yet even as he swore this silent oath, he felt unsettled and curious, unfamiliar eyes upon him; and opening his own and looking down, he saw the bright-blue eyed, golden haired Prince who had just arrived, staring up at him with a mixture of awe and inquisitiveness and sadness laid upon his fair features. Realising Lord Elrond had noticed him, he inclined his head and stooped into a low bow. When he looked up, the Eldar Lord had vanished.
Legolas sighed deeply, shaking his sunlit head, uninterested by the bustle of his royal guard around him. They went to and fro, seeing to the horses, taking the Prince's belongings up to the house, old friends exchanging a few welcoming words.
In a part of his mind, a small voice spoke what seemed to be reason; that he should not be here. This was not his place, not at a time like this. It had been only the short lifespan of a mortal since his own mother had lost her love for Middle-earth, and had passed beyond the seas into the West. With a sharp, painful pang in his heart, Legolas remembered the wrenching, tearing sorrow that had consumed him, not so long ago. In all the Prince's time, those few years had proved to be the hardest to live through. For of course, though he was ancient by the count of men, he was still new come to adulthood by the reckoning of his own people, and had been even younger then. He knew what it felt like to have that ugly, great gaping hole in your soul that seemed to spread over all around it until you felt as thought here was nothing left. He knew that hole never really went away; rather, it became covered and overgrown, with elenor and creeping vines as the forest floor, forgotten and forsaken by light.
Yet the rest of him, the royal part, the wiser, loyal part, knew beyond all contemplation that he had to be here. It was true, he knew the Lord Elrond and his sons very little; indeed, to his memory he had only met them once or twice before, on the rare occasions they had run errands for their father to the Palace. Even then, they had barely spoken; courteous words and greets and respectful bows exchanged, yet that was all. He never had seen reason to take the relationship beyond the formalities, there had not been any point. They were so different, after all; he was royalty of Mirkwood, and a Sindarin elf; they were nobility and Noldor, and lived on the far side of the Misty Mountains. Though, somewhere deep inside him a connection had been made, even if he wasn't too sure of it himself yet. He, Elladan, and Elrohir, they all had something that linked them now, a reoccurring emotion that linked associated them all together. He knew now, a least a little, that his being here was less to do with patching relations between his Kingdom and Rivendell than he at first had thought it.
A tall lightly armoured guard stepped up beside him; his chain mail glistened silver in the drab day light, and his flaxen hair ruffled slightly in the breeze.
"Your room is made ready, your Majesty," he said with a slight bow.
"Then lead the way, Rómen," replied the Prince with a forced smile, and followed his old friend up the aged stone work.
As he reached the main feasting hall, he could not help but to stop and stare up in wonder, despite his situation. Great streaming banners of chrome and gold, and crimson and jade, and velvety blue and fiery orange fluttered down from the high rafters, billowing in the wind. Tall, glassless windows rose from the glittering marble floor to the elegantly carved ceiling above, whereupon the inky indigo roof were littered hundreds of glittering silver stars, and a woman bathed all in a white glow, and her hands wide out as she flung the stars into space.
For a moment, the Prince paused mid-stride to take it all in. His own halls were all but legendary for their beauty, yes; but Rivendell possessed something far greater, a far deeper wisdom and knowledge about the world than his own Palace could ever hope to achieve, and it took his breath away. He felt Rómen smile at his side, shifting onto one foot.
"Have you been here before Rómen?" asked Legolas in a slightly awe-struck voice, still looking around him.
"I have visited Imladris before – once. Long ago," he added a little wistfully, "It has an ethereal feel about it does it not?"
"More than words could express," nodded Legolas simply, still drinking in the age old building, recalling every song he had ever heard about the place and thinking how they had terribly understated it.
"Your Majesty?" prompted Rómen, turning towards the door a little.
"Hmm? Oh – yes," started the Prince, the full weight of his task flooding him once more. "Lead on."
They passed under elegantly hewn archways and down long, airy hallways, all lined with brightly woven tapestries or finely painted murals.
At last, they came to a half open wooden door to a light, fresh room, in which the Prince's belongings had been placed.
"Lord Elrond's servants have already sent food and wine up," said Rómen, nodding to a table laden with a silver platter, covered all in breads, butter and meats. "Will you by needing anything else, your Majesty?"
"No – no thank you, Rómen," sighed Legolas. Yet as the warrior gave another slight bow and turned to leave, the Prince shook his head.
"Rómen – what am I doing here?" Legolas asked him, a lost look in his eyes, "I mean, what am I meant to do? What can I do?"
For a moment, Rómen looked taken back by the Prince's questions. He straightened up, and moved closer to him, then spoke slowly, choosing his words with great care.
"To all, it would seem we are the envoys of Mirkwood – to strengthen our ties with our Noldorean kin," he said wisely, laying his hand upon the Prince's shoulder, "Yet to my mind, though we are here for no more – you are here for nothing less. I cannot explain it any further your Majesty – when you need to speak, the words will come."
Legolas paused to smile at his dear friend.
"Whosoever they are that say; Go not to the elves for council, for they will say both yes and no, spoke truer words than most would like to admit, I fear," he half winked, "You always were the wisest of us all. And how many times must I tell you Rómen – we are friends, first and foremost. Please do not call me 'your Majesty'!" This had been along running joke between the two since they were children – indeed it was so old, neither of them could remember who had started it.
Rómen chuckled to himself, squeezing Legolas' arm a little.
"As you wish, your Majesty." he grinned, then with another small bow he left the Prince alone and silent in his room.
For a time he wandered around his chamber, taking in the styles of the furniture and decorations and ornaments, so very different from his own woodland halls. The very air smelled different here it seemed; it was older, much older, and filled him with a sense of underlying peace that stilled his spinning thoughts a little.
Unclipping the brooch that pinned his cloak by his right shoulder, he left it on a chair and unbuttoned his tunic, leaving that aside too. Loosening the collar on his silken shirt a little, he slipped off his supple leather boots and pushed them beneath the bed.
He was pouring himself a glass of honey coloured wine with his back to the door, when he felt, rather than heard, another presence in the room. He stood tall and stiffened his back, unaware of who it might be.
"Peace, Prince of Mirkwood – you need have no fear in my home," said a calm, soothing sort of voice; yet it seemed almost hollow, as though there was a gaping hole over which a rug had been thrown to hide it. Relaxing slightly, Legolas turned to see Lord Elrond in the door way, attired in robes of rich scarlet and woven gold, his arms crossed and resting just above his stomach. A single silver circlet adorned his dark head and wisdom filled sea-grey eyes pored into the Prince. He stood tall and erect; but in a second Legolas could see past the brave face, to struggling, grief torn mind. Hastily, he replaced the glass and pitcher back on the table, and dipped his head in respect.
"Not such formalities," insisted the elder elf, "For they are for more reserved greetings. Yet your coming here is not to be so; you half know this, in your own mind. I can see it." His voice flowed like liquid silver through the air, though it was tainted, tarnished silver, winding its way around Legolas' still unsettled mind. The note of bitterness and sadness was not lost on the elven Prince; nor was the distinct feeling that the Lord could read his mind.
"Nay, I cannot read minds," he said softly, making the Prince jump a little as he guessed the fair haired elf's thoughts, "I can only presume them. As you can presume mine; some part of it, at least. For that is why you are here, is it not?"
Legolas remained silent and did not reply. Even being a Prince, he knew when a superior stood before him and tales of Lord Elrond's deeds of valour and healing had gone on, far before Legolas had even been born, to the halls of the Elven King. And Legolas knew grief when he saw it too; to see it in a Lord so renowned and ancient made him both more confused and less so.
"You have not met my sons yet, have you Legolas?" asked Elrond.
"No my Lord," came the simple reply.
Inwardly, Elrond almost smiled. The Prince's cautiousness and wariness of treading on forbidden ground touched him; though he knew he should expect nothing less from the son of Thranduil. Still, he had always known Sindarin elves to be less… wise than his own people – almost more childish in an innocent way, a race that were both quick to anger and swift to laugh. Legolas did not seem to fit the bill though. He carried himself proudly, Elrond noticed, as any royal should – and he should know, having been the last who had spoken to the High King, Gil-Galad. But he was also humble after a fashion; he supposed he would have to have been. Growing up being the only Firstborn royal child in the country – indeed, all of Middle Earth, humbleness would have to have been essential if he did not want to end up alone. Duty too must have weighed heavily upon him – he knew only to well what that felt like.
"I would that you had come at a better time, Prince Legolas," sighed Elrond sadly, "But then, if you had had no reason, would you have come at all?"
Legolas gave no answer, but dropped his gaze, slightly embarrassed.
"Do not let it trouble you – Ilúvatar works in mysterious ways that we cannot begin to understand," he whispered encouragingly to the Prince, "And sometimes, those ways are wrapped in the most elaborate of tales."
Legolas redirected his eyes on Lord Elrond, his words giving him a little comfort.
"As for my sons," continued Lord Elrond, "I daresay they would not have hesitated in giving you a tour of Rivendell at – any other time… Whether you would have been in one piece by the end of it is a different matter," he said with a small smile. Legolas eased up, and smiled gratefully back.
"Still, I would very much like to meet them, if time allows," he replied, "Though of course – we do not know each other – I would understand if..."
"If they do not want to see you?" questioned Elrond, raising an eyebrow. Legolas nodded quickly, again feeling a little embarrassed, though he did not know why.
"It would probably do them more good than they would ever admit," murmured Elrond, more to himself than to the Prince, "Come – I will take you to them."
"Oh! – Right now – are you sure my Lord?" started Legolas. He felt vaguely stiff from the journey, and had hoped to get some rest and freshened up before facing the inevitable.
"Don't worry, Legolas. I would have it that you feel Rivendell is your second home – but we shall see. In time, we shall see. Now come." It was not an order so much as a request, but Legolas felt he had to obey as Elrond swiftly turned and disappeared up the corridor.
For a moment though, he hesitated, wondering exactly what to do. Then curiosity as well as duty overcame his misgivings, and he hurried out after the elven Lord.
Catching easily up with him, Legolas fell into long, graceful strides just behind. Soon, Elrond had led him back along the corridor and up a magnificent flight of stairs that Legolas had passed on the way, wide and sweeping. Lightly they ascended onto the second floor, their footsteps unheard and their breathing silent. Legolas had almost a foreboding sense as he continued to follow Lord Elrond to the end of the corridor. He noticed that most rooms stood with their doors slightly ajar, for the people were still out in the day time. One room though, had a heavy dwarvish bolt on it, sealing the way in completely. Elrond noticed Legolas' confused gaze at it as they passed.
"I think you know why you cannot go in there," he spoke quietly. Legolas hastily withdrew his gaze and bowed his head a little in shame. No more was said on the subject.
At last, Lord Elrond came to a halt outside a door almost at the corridor's end and turned to the young Prince. Much to the youth's surprise, he took Legolas' hand in his own and held his gaze steadily.
"Elladan and Elrohir are in here," he barely breathed, his voice so small Legolas had to lean in to catch all the words, though he never once broke eye contact.
"It may seem that your presence is not… needed," he said carefully, "But do not be disheartened. Do you not remember your own feelings, from not so long ago? Do what you came here to do – you will know when you enter." That was all he would say when the Prince tried to protest. Legolas sighed and dropped Lord Elrond's piercing gaze.
"You're the second to tell me that – I just wish I could believe it," he added wistfully.
"So young…" smiled Elrond, shaking his head, "Nothing in life is clear, dear Prince. Sometimes, we just have to feel our way, though the road be winding and the light dim and dark. But there is always hope. Remember that."
Once again, Legolas locked his eyes.
"Do you believe it, Lord?"
Elrond did not reply. He let the Prince's hand go, and softly tapped on the door. After a few tense seconds, still no sound came from within, and Elrond knocked again, just as softly, three times. Now however, the sound of dragging feet moved heavily to the door. Just before it opened, Legolas turned to Lord Elrond for a last gathering of courage – but to his shock, the Lord was already by the stairs, and quickly descended out of sight.
Unprepared for what he would face, Legolas fleetingly considered running; but before he could go anywhere, the door swung open. Upon the threshold stood a grief-worn, tired elf, who bore a striking resemblance to Lord Elrond. His eyes were of the same sea-grey blue, though not as ocean deep, and his hair too was raven dark and braided, though it was not as long. Yet he stood hunched, weighed down by a weariness that no amount of travelling could ever cause, and his face was a thinly veiled mask over tidal waves of pain.
For a moment, Legolas stood speechless, staring at the elf.
"Who are you?" he asked the Prince, his voice plain yet strained, not rude yet not entirely welcoming either.
"I – I am Legolas," came the faintly nervous reply, "of Mirkwood." Something told him now was not the time to boast royalty. It seemed however, that the elf before him knew anyway.
"You are the Prince?" he asked wearily.
"Yes."
"It's an honour to meet you," said the elf tonelessly, his voice betraying the impassiveness of the arrival, and he made no effort to formally greet him. Whether this was through unwillingness or down to grief, Legolas never knew. "My name is Elrohir. I assume my father sent you here?"
"Yes – yes he did."
There was a slightly awkward silence.
Elrohir sighed deeply, leant against the doorframe to let Legolas pass, and held his hand carelessly out into the room, gesturing for him to enter.
"You had best come in then."
Legolas swallowed hard and nodded, and slipped cautiously past the solitary twin into the elegantly furnished creamy room.
"Who is it, Elrohir?" A voice wafted in from the balcony over the apple orchard, its owner concealed by fluttering translucent curtains.
"Its Prince Legolas," answered Elrohir, turning to the Sindarin elf, "My brother Elladan," he explained quietly, though Legolas could guess it well enough.
Elladan appeared in the opening of the balcony. His expression was hard and set, but the emotion unreadable. Inwardly Legolas frowned, but maintained a polite look on his face. Underneath all that rushed around in his mind, he could not quite believe how perfectly identical the twins were, from their finely chiselled features to the way they placed their feet.
"So you have come – to do what exactly?" said Elladan suddenly, his voice sharp. It was like the sullen fire inside him had suddenly found an outlet, and pressed urgently to be released.
Legolas was immediately taken back, but didn't lose his head.
"I come to offer friendship and –"
"Friendship?" snorted the elder twin in disdain, "What need could we have to be friends with the likes of you?"
"Brother," Elrohir growled, though Elladan paid him no attention.
"You ignore us when we're strong – yet you come waltzing in, preaching of alliances and unity when we suffer a blow?" Elladan half-shouted, his eyes bursting into sudden life with raging anger.
"I do not come to preach anything, son of Elrond," said Legolas coolly, "If you were a subject at my Palace, or one of my own people, the situation would be no different."
"Oh, so we're about as good as your servants now are we?!" bellowed Elladan in fully-fledged rage, the fiery emotion bringing life to his deadened senses.
"That is not what I implied, and you know it full well!" Legolas yelled back, leaving aside all pretences, though he cursed himself for saying such a stupid thing.
"Well maybe you should make yourself a little more obvious, dear Prince, for we simpletons do not understand you!" the twin roared in defiance.
"Elladan!" warned Elrohir, put himself between the Prince and his brother.
Legolas couldn't believe what he was hearing; what had him being a Prince got to do with anything?
"Elladan, please, restrain your temper," pleaded Elrohir, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder, "He does not come to sneer or mock us in any way! You forget that he himself has suffered a loss." Elladan snorted and pushed him aside, glaring with a fiery gaze at the Prince.
"So that's it is it? He thinks he knows what we're feeling, and comes to make it all better?!" said Elladan bitterly, "And now you take his side, over your own brother?"
"I am not taking sides, Elladan, if you know me then you should know that," Elrohir told him more coldly, "But since you have not spoken to me since – since that night, I cannot be sure that I know you any more."
"What would be the point?" snort Elladan, tearing his eyes from Legolas and facing the wall.
"Has there not been enough sorrow in this house of late that you feel you must add more?" demanded Elrohir, his voice quivering slightly as he calmed himself, "Do you think that shutting yourself off from all the world and the aid it offers will ease any pain?"
"You know nothing of what I feel," Elladan answered shortly. Legolas watched silently; for the moment at least, he was forgotten.
"No – no, you are right, I don't. Because you have backed yourself into a black and lonely corner and refuse to accept the help out," said Elrohir, his own more stable temper rising, "How do you expect to make things better by causing more ill than good?"
"YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!" bellowed Elladan suddenly, knocking a vase of dying flowers crashing to the floor. He spun around to face his brother, seething emotion etched into his face. Legolas was not sure of the resemblance between father and son any more.
"You don't know what its like! To be swallowed up by all the guilt and the shame and the grief! You don't know what it's like, not being able to sleep for fear of the nightmares that haunt your dreams and yet seeing – seeing it all in the bitter watches of the night, or the light of day alike!" Here, Elladan's voice choked and became raspy, and much to Legolas' surprise tears began flooding down his face. "Every hour of every day of every week, I see her. And I know; if I had gone with her to Lothlorien, if I had set out sooner, if I had rescued her quicker, if I had been there in the first place, none of this would have happened!" His knees gave way beneath him and he crumpled onto the floor. Elrohir quickly dropped down beside him taking his twins cheek in his hand and tilting his head up to stare into his eyes. Elladan shook uncontrollably with each fresh wave of tears and tried to pull away, but Elrohir, whose own eyes were brimming with tears now, held him firm.
"You say I do not know what it is like? To feel utterly alone and afraid and ashamed?" he spoke softly, the tone in his voice more of pity than of anger now. "To be consumed by darkness, until you feel there is nowhere you can turn for everywhere you look there is pain and sorrow? To feel solely responsible for something because it was beyond your control to stop it? To see your own brother being devoured by the same thing, and now there is nothing you can do as he fades away before you? I know brother," he croaked, "Believe me, I know." A single silver tear rolled solemnly down his face.
His breathing ragged and shallow, Elladan tore his eyes away from his brother's and leant his head on his chest.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, "I'm so sorry, for everything, I'm so sorry…"
Legolas stood and listened quietly. The flared wrath had rapidly subsided, and he had presently been moved to pity and sadness. He realised now what his task was.
Kneeling down beside the twins, he laid a careful arm around both of their shoulders.
"Brothers, what is done is done," he spoke calmly, soothing the distraught twins, "Dark deeds have come to pass – and your beautiful home has been shadowed with doubt. Yet know this; you had no way of knowing what would happen, just as you had no way of preventing it. Our paths are already laid before our feet, if only we should choose to follow them, though there are still choices we must make. And now, you each must make a choice; to linger here in shadows and darkness all your long lives; or to bear the burden and keep the painful memory, yet begin to move on. That is your choice."
"Where is the hope in that?" despaired Elladan.
"As a very wise person once told me, 'There is always hope'. Trust is part of that hope; and you must trust it – not me, or you people, or anyone else, but you and your choice."
Gradually, the tears began to still and the twins slowly sat up, their faces reddened and blotchy, but the murky grey fast disappearing from their eyes.
"Prince Legolas, forgive me," Elladan murmured, "What I did – what I said –"
"What you said has already been forgotten," Legolas assured him, holding his eye, "I only hope that we can be friends now?"
The first smile that had adorned Elladan's face for weeks spread weakly across it now; but it was real.
"The others better never know I apologised to you," he warned, "I mean, a Sindarin elf…"
"That's the Elladan I know," Elrohir smiled, wiping his face dry and pulling his brother to his feet.
"You have my word," Legolas winked, steadying the brothers with his hands still on their shoulders.
"I think I should be proud to call you my friend," Elladan said seriously, wiping the last of his tears away.
"And I you, mellon nin – and I you."
End
Please R&R
Loadsa love, Estel xxx