Disclaimer: I don't own the Eldar. Or the Romans, history gets them. Er, or the Three, the Elves get those.
A/N: Sad, isn't it? My torture fic, which is a grand total of two chapters long, has more reviews than this fic, currently seven chapters long- okay, eight. And by now Tired of Life and Death: Shadow King is most likely three chapters long. But still…no fair!
Seizing a Chance.
Thranduil jogged gently over the slight rise of the sandy ground. The lightweight sword in its sheath thumped against his leg with every stride he took, but he barely noticed it as his eyes scanned the horizon.
Searching, searching, ever searching, as the lordly sun beats down,
Scan the distance, look for danger, finding friends on unknown ground.
He had to know.
What had become of Elrond and Elrohir? Tindome had only inherited a tiny amount of Elrond's foresight; whatever she saw- and she rarely saw anything- was misty and uncertain. None of the three children were anything more than average, really. Maybe more cynical, definitely more sarcastic, unnervingly sadistic at times, and possessed with a disturbing tendency to disregard authority- probably they'd inherited those traits from their mother. But really- just average.
So, she'd supposedly seen a city. The two Elves now moving swiftly through Italy had only found a small town so far, nothing like the towering rise of stone that Olorin had described. But for the fact that Gandalf had confirmed what they were looking for, Thranduil would have already passed off her vision as a heat-induced hallucination.
Whiteness glared suddenly in the distance. A huge object was thrown into sharp relief, light glancing keenly into his eyes. It dominated the normally unbroken line of the horizon, and the former Elvenking was assaulted by a peculiar combination of relief and dread. The place they saw now was most definitely a city- possibly even the one that they were searching for. But…
So far, Thranduil's experience with large, unknown buildings was that they were almost inevitably accompanied by pain, orcs/Nazgul/vengeful Haradrim/slavers, whips/swords/clubs, and a general deterioration of his health. Unless he was led in by a trusted friend, the Sinda preferred to keep any place more than two hundred and fifty metres tall and thrice that wide at a good few miles from his person. Rome definitely fell into the category of 'should be avoided'.
However, it did not look like they were going to be able to avoid it. This was the only city that they had found so far, and they had to see if their two stray Peredhil were nearby. Two half-Elves could not survive more than five days in the desert without water. Elrond and his son had been free for a week. Dehydration was going to be a serious problem.
Now that they had an 'anchor point', the pair increased their speed, searching ever more desperately. Their keen eyes whipped over the earth, missing nothing, not even a bird. Yet there was naught to be seen of their quarry. Just sand, dirt, birds, rocks, stunted shrubs, the occasional rabbit, and a miniscule, muddy puddle. There were no Eldar in this range of sight…so there were several possibilities. Wrong city, the pair had passed them, the two were too far ahead to be seen yet, or they had been recaptured. Thranduil was fervently hoping for the third option.
Swift limbs ate up the miles- and then, not too far away, two thin, black-headed figures, lying exhausted in the scant shadow of a slim, wilted apple tree.
It was Elrond and Elrohir.
The pair were simply sprawled on the ground, unable to move. Wasted frames twisted slightly away from the lashing heat of the sun's rays, the two did not even stir as their hunters came up to them. Their eyes were half-lidded, indicating extreme hunger, dangerous thirst, and lethargy. Neither made any motion whatsoever as Legolas and his father gently knelt beside them- until Thranduil tried to turn Elrohir onto his back.
The Noldo groaned softly, attempting to move his face out of the direct light. His eyelids fluttered, his lips moved slightly, and one hand twitched, as though he was trying to cover his eyes, but were incapable of summoning the energy to do so. His features clenched slightly, a vague suggestion of fear flitting over the parched face. The Elvenking carefully moved his own body into the path of the sun's burning rays, supporting the starved Elf while his free hand picked up his water skin. Gently tilting the other's head backwards, he allowed a single drop of the precious liquid to trickle past the dry lips.
The reaction took a moment to happen. Then Elrohir's throat moved as he swallowed slowly. A quick grimace of pain followed this simple gesture; the Elf's mouth and throat were dry and dusty, making any constriction difficult to handle.
Thranduil allowed a few more drops to trickle into the half-Elf's open mouth. Elrohir began to try and move up towards the flask, gulping greedily at the water. The Sinda removed the bottle; he didn't want the young Noldo to drink too much too fast, which would be a very bad idea.
Out of the corner of his eye, he just glimpsed his son taking care of Elrond in the same fashion. Giving a slight, unseen nod of approval, he carefully pulled the Peredhil into his strong arms, lightly supporting the wasted frame. The younger being grumbled quietly, and nestled into his chest. Taking extreme pains not to cause unnecessary discomfort to the child-like figure huddled in his warm, cautious embrace, he climbed to his feet.
"Hush, young one," he whispered tenderly. "Legolas? I should not think that he will be too heavy for you in his current state."
His son gave a stiff nod, before carefully collecting the older Ringbearer into his youthful, powerful arms. It was strange, Thranduil mused, to see the wise and independent Lord of Imladris lying, curled up like an Elfling of few summers, in the hold of one several centuries his younger. But then…
So much had happened. They had thought that all of the Elves inhabiting Valinor at the time of the Breaking –which was still unexplained –had been thrown onto Arda, but that was not the case, as he had deduced with a few day's thought. None of the House of Finwe was there, for example, none of the House of Ingwe. He would have automatically deferred to someone from either family, but they were simply not there. Neither had he seen a terrible amount of the Nandar, who had lived in their small 'colonies' along the estuaries. And even of the other races, the numbers were hardly the same as they had been in Aman. There could only be two explanations. Either the others had been left behind…or they were dead.
The time-jolt that the Valar had sent them through had not been very effective. Basic calculations had revealed that they had only been forced back a couple of years, which they would quickly catch up with, as time in Valinor would be slowed for a while so that the land could be fixed. Therefore, it would be a while until they knew what had transpired.
Returning his attention to the present situation, the Elvenking began to casually examine his new patient as best as he could while on the move. Elrohir was starved, lethargic, and parched. The muscles in his lower limbs were strained and swollen; possibly torn. He had cracked a bone in his forearm, and he was suffering from sunstroke. He also appeared to be hallucinating, from what the Sinda could see. All in all, the Half-Elf was quite a mess.
Watching the dazed eyes, he ran on, before having to look away so as to see where he was going. The Half-Elf was incredibly light in his arms, almost like a bag of feathers instead of a living being. His dark hair drifted in wispy strands about his face. It was easy for Thranduil to carry him over the sandy desert.
He looked almost longingly at the bright, lush land nearer the city, but decided against heading for the inhabited area. The last thing that they needed was to be seen by somebody as they looked for food, which they could find on the way back anyway.
The sand shifted silkily under his dry, smooth feet as he fumbled to stay standing. The boy's weight was throwing him slightly off-balance, and he wasn't finding it as easy to move over the deserted waste. Behind him, he could hear his son breathing heavily; stumbling a little with the burden of Elrond huddled in his arms. He was feeling a little weak himself.
No. Must stand. Must continue. Children. People. All lost. Don't know anything. Must get back to them. Lead them. They need me. They need Elrond. Children. Adolescents. Need Elrohir. Must get back. Cannot stop. Cannot die.
If I stop, I will die, and then they will not have a leader anymore, or at least not one who was raised to protect people in situations like the one that we are all in now, and then they will run, and they will be caught. No, Mithrandir is there, he will take care of them. Radagast –is Radagast with him? I do not know, I was so busy with my people.
Wait. I am becoming unfocused. I have to think of the here and now. Yes, that's right. Sun and sand and comatose Half-Elf. That's right. Keep on running. You know the way.
And then he knew that he could not sustain the increased and straining pace that he had set for them both. He slewed to a ragged halt, his breath jerking through his lungs, and looked exhaustedly at his almost spent child.
The two Sindar had covered forty miles in two hours, on foot, in a desert, under a midday sun, in mid-summer, without a rest. They had been moving steadily for the previous thirteen days. It was quite a feat, even for an Elf-Lord. More so when it was acknowledged that neither had eaten as much as they would have liked to recently.
Gently laying Elrohir down, he reached for his water-skin, sipping lightly from the contents, before kneeling to trickle some into the Peredhil. The younger Elf groaned softly, his tongue flicking weakly out to catch a glimmering drop.
Then he looked up clearly into the Elvenking's slate-blue eyes with his own storm-grey ones, and spoke, only just audibly.
"They have two of the Three."
Thranduil froze, horror and shock jolting horribly through his system. No, no, he could not possibly have heard right…
"What?!"
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The woman lifted her head from the wine jar that she was carrying, and stared out over the houses. Her silver hair still hung over her shoulders, but had been neatly gathered back in a headscarf so that it stayed put. Her lilac-blue eyes were still sharp and clear, her mind still alert…but the body that supported all of these had changed a lot.
The wind teased at the tattered, soft brown dress that trailed from her thinning frame. The bones forming her eye sockets and jaw were horribly clear, the skin clenching over her cheekbones. Her figure was terribly gaunt, approaching skeletal –although she had managed to retain enough strength to lift a wine jar.
Celebrian was a far cry from what she had been in Valinor. She had lost weight. Her skin had tightened and dried in the relentless sun. Without her family, uncertain even if they lived, she had been refusing most food and drink. The result had been to turn her into a dehydrated, hungry, swiftly weakening frame of protruding bone and little flesh.
But she was still noticeably Eldarin. The way her body had been shaped was distinctly more lovely than a human woman's figure, her height was greater, and she walked with queenly grace. Perhaps many of the other slaves looked at her askance, but she was the wife of Lord Elrond of Imladris, and she was determined to retain her dignity.
Glancing around quickly, she slipped a thumb into the rim of the amphora, and gently tasted the rich, sticky paste that had once been fine wine –before some of it had congealed, of course. However, if anything, it had become sweeter. She closed her eyes briefly, savouring the flavour.
But all too soon, reality demanded her attention again. She could not wait. Tiredly, she picked up the jar from where it rested its base on the floor, and set off wearily for the house.
"I miss you, meleth," she whispered. "And I miss Elrohir, and Elladan. I want to see their faces, hear them laughing. I want to feel your arms around me." The dust rose in clouds about her bare, worn feet. "I want you here. I want to feel the safety that you always give to me. But you are not here, and so I cannot."
She glanced out, over the walls of the farm. Her mother was not too far away; just a few farms over –although, given that each farm spanned over a mile each way, she could have been closer. Still, just knowing where she was was a comfort.
Smiling to herself, she dragged the heavy amphora up the stairs, over a landing, up more stairs, deliberately walked past the room Quanamus had wanted her to put it in, found a ladder to the flat roof, then deposited her burden on the floor. She climbed up, undid the latch, opened the trapdoor, and went down again to collect the jar. Once certain that it was secure, she hauled it up onto the roof.
The sun slapped her head.
She rolled the wine jar neatly to the edge of the roof, looked over to examine the distance to the ground, and grinned. Wickedly.
Then she pushed the amphora over the ridge at the edge of the flat roof.
It made quite a nice sight, she decided. Some of the wine got out on the way down, and glinted in the sunlight –a lovely, ruby-lilac colour. Of course, the sight and sound of it smashing were even lovelier.
From below, somebody yelled incoherently in rage. Celebrian smiled, shutting the trapdoor. Then she calmly jumped off, neatly landing on a protruding windowsill. From there, it was an easy jump to the ground.
Then she dashed off again to hide in the bushes. She was getting good at that.
Although maybe one would have expected her 'owners' to get used to it by now.
Two hours later, she emerged from the pretty, flowering shrubs that adorned the edge of the yard. Sitting cramped up in a small space for a long time without moving was a useful skill, but not a very pleasant one. At least, not a very pleasant one after your muscles started to stiffen up. She stretched delicately, limbering up the ridged muscles.
She was going to be in a lot of trouble when they caught her, but it had been worth it. She'd managed to create such a confusion that the loss of two rolls of parchment, a quill, a small bowl, and some ink had gone completely unnoticed. She now had the means to write a letter, although she couldn't send it.
Dear Elrond, she wrote.
I have been 'sold' to…well; I would assume that he is a farmer, although I have yet to see him work as one. Mostly the labourers do that, of course, but he does not even come out to oversee their toils more than once every two months. Instead, he conducts his farm from his house. I do not think that the overseers obey his instructions closely, for if they did he would be ruined. To be fair, though, he does have some knowledge of what goes on upon his lands.
Melethen, I wish I could see you again. With you I am safe and protected. With you I am happy. I love you.
I wonder where you are. When I last saw Mother –a week ago, at a meeting –she said that you were in a fighting-place, like a battlefield. I am afraid that I did not quite understand her. It all seemed too complicated and unprovoked. Why would anyone fight merely for the pleasure of others?
The 'farmer' tells me that he thinks that we may have come from somewhere called Gaul; he also mentioned a place called Britannia that these Romans have tried to conquer. They have failed. He thinks that we are from these Northeast regions because of our paler skin. However, if this Britannia is not a Roman colony, then we…melethen, we would be safe there. Our children and grandchildren, they would be safe there…if only we could reach it!
I do not know when the ships depart, meleth, nor do I know where they go from. But let us have hope for our freedom!
Your beloved,
Celebrian, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn.
She blew on it to dry the ink, and carefully folded it. Then she concealed it beneath the bush, covered it and the writing equipment with dust, and headed for the gate.
She often stood there, blending with the pillar as she wistfully watched the road through the bars. She couldn't fit through, though, despite her being so thin. So she spent her free time there, watching wistfully, and crafting dreams of freedom.
A horse went by, heading out from the city, passing through the lush farmland on its way to other places. Beyond the cultivated area, she knew, it would turn either to the East or to the Southwest. To the Southeast and the South, all that would greet them was desert. There was a small village of vineyards and their tenders somewhere near the side of it, next to a river, but apart from that, the desert extended for about sixty to seventy miles. Sixty to seventy miles of shifting sand, oases, small streams, tiny animals, tough, sparse vegetation, and cacti. Mostly sand, though. Oh, and sun. Lots of sun.
A firm, neat cart clattered after the zinc-tinted stallion, pulled by a pair of bay mares. A bronzed, fairly dressed man drove it. A couple of dogs, along with a few slaves, walked or ran beside, while a dark-haired figure huddled on the back scribbled at something, muttering random Latin words –with a distinct Quenyan accent.
"Erestor!" She said, before she could stop herself, and proceeded to flip instinctively into Sindarin. "What are you doing here?"
He looked up, his eyes widening in shock. "Celebrian!"
But they didn't have much time…
Something slim, wrapped in cloth, twisted through the air toward her, tracing a swift, extended curve. She caught it, sliding it into her dress to examine it later.
"Elenlome is with a metal trader, your father and son are in the arena –" "What?" "- Your husband and your other son have escaped, your mother…"
And then he was out of sight, or at least far enough that if she had spoken, they would have heard too, even with their mortal ears. Cursing softly, she leaned back against the post, feeling exhausted. Looking at the travelling sun, she could not help but long for the cool of night, and the chance to lose herself in her sweet, sweet dreams.
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Gandalf was examining a fox.
At least, it looked somewhat like a fox. The ears were too big, the colour was wrong, and it was too small. Still, it was undeniably…fox-like. The little creature had made itself a den in a sand dune that provided at least one firm wall for three different Telerin shelters. So far, all it had done was to run through the encampment, snapping up bits of meat from plates. Of course, Gandalf was well aware that bits of meat did not regularly appear in the desert, so this beast must eat other things too. Things that they could eat.
Added to that, he was feeling rather bored, and the fox-thing was quite interesting.
The sound of somebody sliding down an embankment and landing in a thin puddle of water was clearly heard. With a mutter about irresponsible Elflings, he got to his feet, walking over while trying to look vaguely intimidating. The 'camp' had been moved to an area nearer the stream/oasis/whatever-you-liked-to-call-it for matters of convenience. The Eldar had dug tiny channels in some places, so that little rivulets trickled through the 'streets' most of the day, except at noon.
He arrived at the puddle, to be greeted by the sight of two immature Peredhil and four immature Elves. All were slightly damp. Apparently, the fact that there was hardly any water did not decrease the attraction of a serious, engaging, and amusing water fight.
"Children!" he huffed, eyes sparkling. "Get out of that puddle! Now! Have your parents not seen fit to inform you that we must go carefully with what liquid we have? There is only enough for drinking, and sometimes cooking. You ought not to waste it with your games."
"We weren't wasting it," mumbled one black-haired boy. "We were just having some fun." Nevertheless, they all clambered back up the small incline, and sat down in front of him.
"If there isn't much water to go around, why don't you just make it rain?" asked Tholinsul, shaking his dark brown hair out of his face. "You're one of the most powerful of the Maiar. Surely you can manage a shower or something."
For someone his age, Tholinsul certainly was perceptive.
"I do not do so because I do not believe that it is my place to control the weather without consulting my Lord Manwe. He can grant me the permission to do that, but I shall not presume to think that I may do so of my own initiative. It is a delicate matter, young one."
The child pulled at a blade of tough, dry grass.
"Mother would say that that wasn't a good enough reason." A couple of his friends nodded. All of them were aware of Elenlome's peculiar, logical, and inventive way of thinking.
"Maybe she would, but your mother is not here. Unfortunately for us. So we do not know what she would say, apart from that I didn't have a good enough reason. Besides that, your mother does not completely understand."
"I know what she might say," Tholinsul muttered. "She'd say that you couldn't seem to contact Manwe, so the matter was out of his hands. Then she'd say that, since we are basically on our own, you are obliged to help, and rain would be helpful. Then she'd inform you that we wouldn't ask unless we had to, because we don't like to ask you to do things that we can't do. And then she'd say that you ought to think about it."
Gandalf considered that point. (It certainly fit in with Elenlome's character.) Hmm. Now that I come to think of it, she would say something like that. It is also an idea that makes sense. But still…I don't like to just do this at once.
We must survive. That much is plain. We need water. But we have water, even if there is not much of it. Oh, Eru Iluvatar, this is a quandary! How can I want to do the best for our fragile community, and yet not wish to do this? Because I am still in Arda, and therefore still under obligation to her Lord…yet I am also needed to assist these Elves. And I must assist them however I can. But does that include doing something that I am so uncertain about? I am a fool!
Let us think this over carefully. These Quendi must live. I must help them to survive, to the best of my abilities. But I must not usurp the laws of the world by doing so. Which takes priority…lives or rules?
Lives, of course.
He raised his arms to the skies, whispered, and summoned the rain.
It wasn't much, not really. But, to the dry-skinned, parched Eldar, it was a blessing. They raised their faces, lifted their arms, fetched pans and jars to collect the liquid. They laughed, shouted, and sang, letting their wet hair cling to their skin.
All too soon, the brief shower was over.
And Gandalf Greyhame, also known as Mithrandir, Olorin, and Gandalf the White, smiled to himself, and turned away to watch the wet sand as it attempted to be blown about.
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Elladan stayed huddled in the corner of his cell, gazing stupidly at the door.
Soon now –soon. Can I do this? At least I will not be attacking one of my own, but still…I don't know if I can do this. I have killed in battle, but this –how can I possibly fight without either of us wishing to? Perhaps if I beat him and they want me to kill him, I could simply not do so. But then they might kill me, and I don't know if Elrohir could survive that, even though we are apart.
It is my duty to live –for my family's sake. But I don't know if I can live with my sanity, if this is what is going to happen to me. Day after day locked in a cell, occasionally let out only so that I can fight somebody…Varda, I am so confused!
The gate opened, and he was pushed out. Sun flared in his eyes, but he was quick to adjust. The sand rasped harshly against his ankles as it was blown up.
He reacted instinctively to the sight of another trying to attack him. Darting forward, he lashed out, aiming for the top of the thigh, hoping to cripple his opponent. Metal clashed on bone.
He ran back, then stared stupidly for a moment, realising that this gladiator was armed only with a net and a pike. He also noticed that he only wore a helmet and a breastplate. The contest hardly seemed fair. In fact, it was as good as over.
But the other was good with his weaponry. Elladan's reluctance to hurt him seemed to encourage him, urging him to take wild risks. In the end, the Elf became tired of dodging.
It took one strike.
The blade slid in the man's throat, and, due to the angle at which it had been thrust, it jabbed up into his brain. He collapsed back, dying instantly.
And the Peredhel collapsed to his knees, gazing at the limp body in shock. His mind was a humming mess of confusion. He didn't understand it. The sun sliced at his neck, but he hardly noticed it's fierce rays.
I have killed again. I have drawn blood. I have taken a life for the sport of others.
I am as low as those whom I fight.
He closed his eyes tightly, not daring to let the tears of shame spill out.
"It's not that bad, lad."
He raised his head. A trainer was standing there. Not his –one of the older ones. He answered haltingly, fighting for the words.
"How so? I…I have killed…dead…a man, for…for no reason of my own." He was guided to his feet.
"He was tryin' to kill you, boy. You were defending yourself. That's reason enough, especially down here in the arenas. Good fighters die, or live, sometimes. No personal excuses, but it still gets done. You'll learn to live with it. All of us do, or we die ourselves." The arm was warm about Elladan's shoulders.
"May I see my Grandfather?" He needed the reassurance so desperately…
"The one with the silver hair? Goodness knows what they thought they were doing when they picked him. Odd, though…looks old, yet doesn't. At any rate, you'll see him tonight. Come on, Lanus."
Lanus. So that is who they will see fighting in the future. Lanus.
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A/N: So, that's the end of that chapter.
I am terribly, terribly sorry for being so slow with this chapter. Thing is, my writing power has slowed down a bit. In addition, I have another fanfic and a novel on the go. Therefore, Where The Present Meets The Past now has an update expectancy of about a month at the minimum. I'm terribly sorry for all the delays, believe me. It's a good story.
I have also planned for it to be part of a series that will go quite a long way. After this story, there will be a sequel, and then maybe as many as ten after that. Yes, I am actually rather attached to the storyline.
For anyone who wants to know –yes, there is a plotline. There is a reason for the Eldar appearing on Earth. There is going to be a proper story coming out, not just a list of activities. These Quendi are going to do important things. However, you will have to wait a bit for them. I can't just write a whole story out in two weeks. I apologise for that.
For anyone interested, I have a Livejournal. You can find it by clicking on the 'Homepage' link at my Bio. There is a Silm/LotR crossover going on in it, as well as snippets of poetry, original fiction, upcoming fanfic, and real life. I hope you find it interesting.
I will be trying to write faster –I'm going to start the next chapter today, and I won't stop until I've written at least a page. Fortunately, holidays are here, so more free time. Blasted computer rota.
Starwind Rohana, who hopes that your anger will be mollified by her LJ.