Also, I'm trying to decide what story I want to write next. I have six written up as summaries so I don't forget them. Since I can't decide which one I want to write, I figured I'd let you all decide. I'll only give you actual summaries on some of these if you show an interest in them, otherwise I'm far too fond of surprises. In no particular order (and I mean no particular order), we have
What If (that's not the title, it's just what I've taken to calling it for my own purposes): an AU that takes place during the trilogy and explores some of the . . . darker possibilities of the War of the Ring. This would include the whole Fellowship.
(This one has no working title as yet) It's more or less the prequel to this trilogy. But, as the first part is largely based on Cassia's and Sio's works, and this would take place about the same time as those, it's going to fit into the same general timeline but not actually be taken as part of it. The problem with using other people's work as a basis for writing. grins ruefully This takes place early in Legolas' and Aragorn's friendship, the human being about . . . 23? I haven't settled firmly on an age yet.
Second Chance (working-title) is another AU, and takes place just after the War. I'm not ready to spoil the surprise just yet, but if enough of you ask, I might be pursuaded to give a small explanation.
But Ada (I'm nearly positive I'm going to use this title) is a young Estel story that came to me while I was baby-sitting. Estel would be somewhere between 5 and 10, I think, but I haven't quite decided yet, and it would be short, single shot.
(No title) This one would place Estel at about 18, before he's learned of his heritage while out doing "great deeds" with the sons of Elrond.
(No title) This one would be the next sequel to this story, and will either take place in Rohan or Gondor during his "errantries." I have to come up with a suitable storyline if I am to write this one, though, for Rohan has been done by Sarah and Hannah, and Gondor by Cassia and Sio, and I want to be at least somewhat unique.
There you have it, the 6 story ideas currently passing through my brain. I beg you choose the one you want to read next. I shall not be writing another story after this one until I have received . . . at least 10 votes for a story. To vote, you can use the title (if it has one) or assign it a number counting down (I'll figure out which one you mean), or identify it by Aragorn's/Estel's age. I think that covers all of them. That should do it. Now that I've done that, though, I've forgotten what else I wanted to say. Hm. . . .
Oh, yes: because of my Islands of Adventure trip on Saturday and my AP Bio test and AP Psyche test Monday and Tuesday, respectively, it may be longer than a week before I get the next chapter up since I really do need to study and more than likely won't get any writing done until after the tests. The week after brings all sorts of graduation stuff that I'm not looking forward to in the least. Ugh. But that shall also take up my time. Can anyone tell me what Baccalaureate(?) Is like? It's absolutely useless to ask anyone at my school. No body ever seems to know anything. rolls eyes My class is so hoplessly unorganized.
Anyway, speical notes: Aragorn and Legolas are at a different time than Elladan and Elrohir. They're a day behind unless I've missed my count. I need to go back and make sure. But all the events save theirs are at the same time. I didn't explain that very well. Oh dear. I think you'll get it when you start reading, but feel free to ask for clarification if it's confusing. I did it this way for artistic reasons, and artistry doesn't always allow for understanding. g
Now, have fun, review, don't forget to vote, and I'll see you again as soon as can be contrived. Responses are at the bottom. smiles brightly
Chapter 15
Floating.
That was the first thing he became aware of; the feeling of having no ties or bonds, no firm holds beneath his feet. It felt like one of those long summer days when he would go down to the lake and relax, letting the sun warmed waters soothe and comfort his body, all cares borne away on the easy lassitude of the day. Just floating. All that was missing was the mating songs of the birds.
And the sun.
Darkness was the next thing he was aware of, the darkness one found when standing in a dark room in the middle of the night with the drapes drawn over the windows to block out the moon and the stars and simply closed one's eyes. It was even: no deep or threatening shadows imposing on the easy shade of a moonless night. Here, there was no fear, only comfort.
He felt like he had been taken, lifted away from something dreadful, and left here; free from pain, discomfort, and sorrow in a paradise few knew of or had ever been allowed to enter. He had never felt this way before, so at peace. Then again, he could not remember much about-- before at all.
Before did not exist here.
"That's not fair!"
Not fair? Confusion curled through him lazily, prodded by that soft, echoing voice that seemed to cry into his ear yet sound from from a long way off. Young, it was, but he knew none so young. Who had cried thus?
As easily as the confusion came, then, it drifted away, carried as if on a spring breeze, eased as if down a clear, trickling stream. He felt it slip away and did not try to stop it, did not mourn its passing nor try to recapture the feeling. Contentment settled back over him like a warm blanket when winter's chill was harshest. He smiled dreamily as the memory of the voice drifted out of awareness, knowing what it could not and secure in that knowledge: all was fair here.
"But I want to go hunting, too!"
Scandalized tones once more cut through the comfortable darkness, slashing it, and he jerked. A frown marred his face, but he did not move. Why would anyone want to go hunting, go traipsing about through mud and rain and snow when they could be here, in bliss?
His mind provided no answer, and the voice offered no attempt, seemingly content to dissipate back into the shadow from which it had come, and once again the soothing shadow eased away the memory of the words, comforting his ears with silence, and the outburst was no more, not even a memory. But a niggling little point of something, like the light of single star in a field of black sky, yet tickled him, a feeling beyond thought or memory that would not release him back into peaceful oblivion. He twitched.
"You promised!"
The anguished cry ripped through the empty darkness, stirring it from its peaceful stand, as it vibrated through the land, at once sounding strong and true, then running back to trip over itself.
A pained twinge cut through him, a sympathetic pang to that which had sounded in his ears and now echoed through his mind, prickling him even as the echo died away. It seemed to fade, stretching and growing smaller like the ripples in a pond after a stone has breached its tranquility. Yet even before that ease could be restored, before the darkness could ease it away from him, another voice echoed through the air, as impossibly familiar as the first.
"You can't come with us this time, little one. Maybe when you're older."
Then almost immediately on its heels, before the echoes had a chance to die away, yet perfectly clear and understandable: "I am older. You can't protect me forever."
He was frowning again, grasping, trying to find in his mind what he knew should be there but remained stubbornly hidden, slipping ever from his grasp. He knew those voices. Instinctively, he opened his eyes.
The darkness still lay before him, unchanged, but the peace it had held was gone. Tension, a strange kind of vibration against the skin, now curled through it-- excitement. He stared eagerly around him, desperately trying to pierce the gloom, to find where the voices were coming from. He had to find them.
"Don't hold back, brother!"
He whirled, thinking the cry had come from behind him, but found only the same empty shadow, devoid of the life he sought. Frustration snaked through him, tightening his jaw and thinning his lips till they pressed into a thin line.
"I didn't hold back!" the other voice retorted, sounding miffed, and he spun again, quick as he could in case he had missed them the last time. But no-- speed lent no new revelations. Frustration gave way to irritation.
Laughter reached him, tinny through the echo, and sly amusement twined through the words. "I see. So I beat you with superior skill-- the mighty Elf brought down by the lowly Man."
He peered hard into the nothingness of his prison, trying stubbornly to burn a hole in this cursed shade that held nothing of virtue. He focused upon a single spot and glared with the full force of his ire, tempted sorely to spout a few scathing curses to unfading dark. He would not stay here, would not remain a prisoner here, bound here, cut off from those--
Suddenly a light exploded, bursting from the focus of his gaze and rushing out, barreling toward him with the speed of an arrow and the inexorable doom of a mountain collapsing upon its foundation. True, blinding, white light lanced out at him, expanding like one of Mithrandir's fireworks, and he could do nothing but stand.
He clenched his eyes tight shut as the explosion reached him, bracing, tensing, expecting burning fire, searing flame--
And felt nothing but a rush of warm air against his face, fingering through his hair.
A snort touched his ears, a mixture of amusement and scorn. "You are not yet so good, young one."
Slowly, he opened his eyes. Familiar land appeared before him: open grasslands backed by stands of trees, dropping away to the river before winding back up the sloped valley wall. Birds sang happily, and critters of all kinds meandered about the land, passing to one place and then another, darting as their whims led them. But that was out there. More immediately, he found Elrohir and Estel, both before him with swords in their hands, facing each other separated by roughly half a dozen feet.
His twin was dressed simply, his hair still pulled back though bits were beginning to come free, nearly the only sign of his recent exertions save also a bit of color high on his cheeks. Estel had a wide grin on his face that did nothing for his appearance (worked wonders if he was trying to look mad, though). Dirt from a tumble on the ground clung in creases on his dark clothes (not that they really looked any different from when the boy claimed they were clean), and sweat beaded his face and slicked his hair which clung valiantly to his face like a scared child to his mother.
Estel snorted a strangled laugh. "Come now, brother; don't be like that! If you did not hold back, I beat you fair and square! Admit your defeat gracefully."
"One victory does not make you invincible," Elrohir shot back, standing with his arms crossed haughtily over his chest, sword still dangling loosely form his fingers.
"Ai!" the human exclaimed, rolling his eyes. "Truly, you are a sore loser!"
"I am not."
"You are! Elladan, tell him."
He jerked at being addressed directly, startled despite himself because neither had shown any indication of noting his presence. Estel turned to look at him, gesturing helplessly at the younger twin. The elder recovered quickly from his surprise, however, and smirked at his mirror-image. "You are."
Elrohir's jaw dropped. "You cannot take his side, brother! That's not fair!"
The laughter Estel had held back before came bubbling out of him like water from a spring. He could barely hold it back enough to taunt, "What's fair? The two of you against little old me? When Elves are supposed to be naturally superior? No wonder Orcs fear you so, El!" Then laughter choked off whatever else he might have said, likely for the best.
Elrohir exchanged a glance with Elladan, his disapproving frown ruined somewhat by the spasms that plagued his lips as he tried to hold back his laughter. Elladan could see that great effort went into not laughing, but none of that strain made it into his voice when spoke. "You hear that, brother? No respect among the youth these days."
"No brains among the wise," the human taunted immediately.
Elrohir lunged for the laughing young man but was thwarted as one brother moved into his way and the other out of it. Elladan clasped his twin's shoulders and said, "Easy, my brother. We can't just rush him. Think of how messy that would be." More laughter behind him forced him to give into the smile he was holding back. "We need to approach this as Elves, not common Men."
"You'd still need clubs and pitchforks for that. Common Men have standards, you know."
Elrohir's smile matched his own. "Of course, my dear brother. Our revenge must have style."
Two pairs of identical blue eyes turned to focus on the young man across the pitch from them. His smile seemed to freeze as he registered their gaze. He stood very still as his eyes darted back and forth between them. He reminded the brothers very much of a deer just scenting danger before it broke into a run. Then the youth unfroze. He smiled uneasily and backed up a half step, a nervous chuckle escaping him. "Wonderful day, isn't it?" he inquired inanely.
"Why don't you make this easy, little brother, and come here," Elrohir suggested.
"We may even be persuaded to mercy if you come quietly," Elladan felt inclined to add.
Estel continued to back up. "Right. I'm going to simply walk over and turn myself in to you orcs," he said, his eyes darting around quickly. He took off running a second before the twins did, his instincts apparently sharper than his brains. "You can't kill me!" he called back over his shoulder, whether trying to remind the twins or reassure himself, it was difficult to tell. "Ada would have your hide!"
"Effort well spent," Elrohir mumbled, loud enough for the human to hear.
They raced away across the practice pitch, past the equipment shed and through the fringes of the forest. Elladan was surprised at how fast Estel had gotten, how nimble he was at running through the woods. Grasping tree limbs, covered in vibrant green leaves, rushed past them. Then Estel broke right, turning unexpectedly towards the house and sprinting over open land. The twins followed suit, gaining slower than they would have liked on their quarry, but still gaining.
Neither were sure exactly where Estel was going until they rounded a corner behind him and found themselves in the gardens. The plants, shrubs, and trees were all in bloom, creating a tidal wave of color that was easy to get lost in if you were inexperienced. The twins were anything but.
Elladan and Elrohir slowed fractionally, needing the brief respite to catch sight of their brother again having lost sight of him when he turned the corner, before lighting after him with renewed energy. The boy was fast, no doubt, but he could not outrun an elf indefinitely. His eyes glowed with the joy of the hunt. It had been so long since they had had the time and freedom to just have fun, to tease and chase and challenge each other. It felt good.
They split up slightly as they ran, drifting to opposite sides of their little brother's trail so they were bracketing him instead of following him, running with effortless grace as the distance continued to drop between them, time eating away at the lead the human had gained upon entering the garden. The wind whistled past his ears. His eyes remained locked on the dark-clad form of the human. A smile, predatory in nature, graced his face.
Then they pounced.
Elrohir hit first, jumping from the foliage and slamming into the young man's upper back, grabbing him and twisting so they crashed down on their sides. Both continued rolling, but Estel altered his roll and Elrohir lost his grip. The elf went one way and the human went the other-- right towards him.
Estel pushed himself up onto his knees, preparing to start running again, and Elladan jumped on him, his weight landing on the young man's back. His arms buckled, then collapsed, and his knees slid out from under him, dropping the human to the ground. He whoofed as his air was forced from his lungs beneath Elladan's weight. Elrohir plopped down next to him, and together the twins rolled the youth onto his back before he could recover enough to fight back and pinned him there. He struggled slightly in their grip, but could get no leverage. Each twin half-sat on one of his legs and pinned an arm beside him.
They grinned down at him devilishly as he stared back with wide eyes. Elladan could practically see his mind spinning as he sought a way to escape. His eyes closed fractionally as he found none, but tension still wound through his frame-- prepared should an opportunity arise, but resigned to not finding one.
The boy forced a cheerful smile. "Ah, there, now you caught me. You can let go now."
Elrohir and Elladan chuckled lowly. "No; I don't think so, little brother."
"It doesn't work that way."
"Sure it does," Estel countered, his voice childishly bright, a tone fabricated just for them. "You caught me. Now you have to let me go so we can do it again." He smiled with the kind of simple pleasure a child feels upon proving themselves to their elders.
For a moment Elladan was so reminded of the eight-year-old they had chased laughing through the forest that he was surprised at the bulk of the being beneath him. He had to blink to chase away the brightly innocent eyes that smiled back at him from a past that was long gone. The boy he had helped raise was no longer the carefree child he had once been. Too much had happened to change that. His eyes--
"Or not. To the victors go the spoils, Estel," Elrohir taunted. "You know what that means?"
The young man blinked at him, obviously well aware of the answer but hoping to gain a respite if he offered no response.
Elladan grinned. "It means you're ours, little human--"
"Little?" Estel interrupted, scowling, somewhere between amused and indignant. "I'm not--"
Elrohir increased the pressure on the lad's arm, drawing his attention back onto the other elf. "We've got you and there's no one to help you now."
"Is that so, Elrohir?"
The twins jumped and whirled, automatically releasing their younger brother as if burned as they turned to face the deep, quiet, familiar voice that had interrupted them.
"Hello, Ada," Estel greeted happily.
Six foot four inches of imposing robe-clad strength confronted him, and caught red-handed abusing their little brother, even now that the human was grown, he could only stare at the elven lord in wide-eyed silence. One eyebrow raised expectantly.
"Ada," he greeted weakly. Elrohir could not stir himself to move.
"I trust I am not interrupting anything," he continued quietly, his pointed glances telling the twins in no uncertain terms that, should he find them in similar pursuit later, they would regret it for years to come.
Elladan shook his head. "No, Ada. Nothing."
"Estel?" The elder twin thought he could detect a hint of amusement in that inquiry.
The human glanced at his brothers before replying. "I think everything's fine, now, Ada. Thank you for asking."
"Behave," he ordered, leveling them a stern glare.
"Yes, Ada," they chorused. Elladan felt like he was a hundred years old again.
The elven lord watched them a moment longer, his gaze measuring, before nodding and walking away. He melted into the surrounding brush as quickly as he had come, and as silently. Elladan had the uncomfortable feeling of having been shoved lightly while standing on a narrow ledge, his balance tossed but not quite lost. Not yet.
He turned to look at his youngest brother. The human had sat up now and was crouched roughly two paces away. A small smile curled his lips, a pale shadow of the laughter that danced in his eyes. "I got you" they seemed to say, and Elladan could not begrudge him that point at all. He had gotten them good, had led them exactly where he wanted them, and they had never noticed. He had grown beyond them without their realizing. He shook his head inwardly, pleased in spite of himself.
He glared at him half-heartedly. "How did you know Ada would be here?" he asked finally, shifting so that he sat more comfortably upon the ground, conceding his defeat with more grace than Elrohir had been willing to earlier. Elrohir quietly followed suit, watching the human intently.
Estel's eye narrowed, perhaps debating whether or not his brothers were truly finished trying to attack him. Silver eyes searched blue, then the boy also took a more comfortable seat on the forest floor, apparently deciding the twins were genuine. His smile widened, became smug. "Simple, really," he declared nonchalantly. "For those who listen."
"We listen!" Elrohir contradicted indignantly.
"Then you heard Ada say he would be in the gardens after first meal if anyone needed him?"
The younger twin's lips pursed, able to claim no such thing but unwilling to admit it to the young one. He glanced at Elladan. The elder could claim no such knowledge, either, but he thought he might remember something to that effect, now that his attention had been drawn to it, when Elrond and Glorfindel had walked out together. He shrugged and smiled at his human brother. "Looks like you won for once, baby brother. What do you want to do now?"
Irritation (perhaps at the term "baby") passed briefly over the ranger's face, there and gone like a cloud passing before the sun. Silver eyes gazed thoughtfully at the foliage, through it, as he considered his answer. "Well. . . ." His head tilted to the side and he glanced at the elves slyly from the corners of his eyes. "I don't know about you perfect elves, but it seems to me it's getting somewhat hot here. What do you think?"
"That you're feeling things," Elrohir retorted immediately, leaning back on his elbows. "Elves don't feel the elements, Estel."
"Rather humid, too," the young man continued, ignoring his brother. "Hot and humid. Typical summer weather, the kind of weather that feels like its smothering you and you want to simply lie around and do nothing, languishing in the shade. . . ."
"Or cooling off in the blissfully refreshing chill of the a certain lake conveniently placed," Elladan finished knowingly, looking to his twin with a wide smile.
Slowly, a matching smile appeared on Elrohir's face. He nodded once. "Estel: I do believe that's the best idea you've had all year."
The human glared at him good-naturedly, retorting dryly, "And your plans are so much better."
"Hush, child," he remonstrated, winning a laugh.
"So the lake?" Elladan prompted with a grin, laughing inwardly at his twin's expense.
Elrohir grinned ruefully as Estel chuckled. "The lake," he confirmed.
It was dusk. He hated dusk.
The sun had nearly disappeared behind the western mountains, only the barest sliver of orange peaking over them, looking for all the world like a misplaced orange slice-- not that he could turn around and look at it.
He glared out over the twisted, uneven, crumbling landscape that dropped away in sharp canals and shallow valleys before him, interrupted with dry, dead-looking bracken trees. He shuddered, hunching inside his cloak and tucking his hands inside the flowing sleeves, as an unbearably chill wind sliced past him. His dark hair slipped about his face but he ignored it in favor of staying as warm as possible. Winter in the mountains. It just had to be winter. No matter how cold it became during the day, it always got colder as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, and the winds took perverse pleasure in coming out to play when there was nothing to chase away their bite. He was sure of it.
The ferns rustled, scraping lightly against each other, and the already long shadows that stretched out before him danced under that icy touch, reveling, seeming to laugh at his discomfort, feeling nothing of it. He shivered again, then straightened.
Intent eyes scanned over the land before him, tracking methodically from one side to the other. A slight, perplexed frown drew furrows over his brow. He thought he had seen movement, sensed it at least; something other than the normal shiftings that plagued the sentry's watch, something that put him on his guard. Yet there was nothing. Nothing moved. He wished he had a torch.
CRASH!
He jumped, his hand going automatically to the hilt of his sword as he turned. More crashes followed the first, a tinkling cascade that nearly made him wince in sympathy for the poor souls who would catch hell's fury for it. His gaze found the scene just as the guards began yelling. The snap-crack of whips could be heard though he could not see them through the gloom. They lashed the slaves from a circle as a half-dozen bodies scrambled to pick up what they had dropped, fluttering frantically as pain rained down on their heads, half jumping back at every snap.
Past them, the main fire was just being kindled, and he caught sight of one of the newbies coming towards him with a torch. The youth grinned at the chaos as he passed, and the elder turned back to his watch with a snort of disgust, scanning the rocks by habit.
A hint of movement, more sensed than seen, made him turn quickly. But just as before, he saw nothing. The shadows were deep and still. Nothing moved within them-- nothing his eyes could detect, at any rate. Yet he knew from experience that that did not always mean nothing was there.
When the kid walked up next to him, he took the torch without looking away, and thrust it forward, chasing away some of the darkness that hovered between him and the next guard, the light casting hard shadows in the rise that cracked away from his section of land. He could see. . . .
Nothing.
The uneven crevices held nothing but shadow; no bodies, no strange creatures, just more darkness. Not quite at ease, he nevertheless looked away, scanning the area once more before turning back towards the cold lands before him, wordlessly passing the torch back off to the boy. For once the child took it without question. Maybe the lad was growing some brains. He doubted it.
The man resisted the urge to look behind him again, to check the shadows to his left once more when there had been nothing there the first time. He refused to show such nerves to the upstart he had been saddled with, but he could not force his unease to go away. It gnawed mercilessly at the back of his mind as he stared out into the night. Damn this cursed place!
Behind him, barely three feet away, a shadow rose from the ground and slipped further into the camp.
Laughter rang through the air like the clear tones of a trumpet calling weary soldiers home in triumph.
Elladan glared between his two laughing brothers, his efforts seeming only to incite their hilarity (which was what he was aiming for, no matter that his expression would have one thinking the opposite-- an elf is always successful, after all). Water dripped down his face, beading at his chin and ears, and his now water-logged hair hung in clumps across this shoulders-- neither of which were responsible for his frown. The point of swimming, after all, was to get wet. It was the mud that slithered down with the water that he objected to.
Superiorly, he ignored his brothers and carefully wiped his face, the motions slow and somewhat exaggerated. The laughter from his younger brothers even increased, as expected, and grim satisfaction tingled through him. He tested out the substance left in his hair and grimaced at its feel. He and Elrohir may no be so particular about their appearance as their Mirkwood friend, but that did not mean they took so little care of their hair as Estel. He shot another angry glare at the human in question.
The young man stopped laughing long enough to grin at him infuriatingly. He would have taken his revenge then and there, better intentions be damned, had he not had more important things to do.
With a haughty sniff that nearly cost Estel and Elrohir their balance (they were laughing so hard they could hardly stand now), he pulled his legs up and plunged beneath the water, feeling its crisp freshness rush up to cover his head, the contrast between the temperature of his skin and the temperature of the water creating a delightful tingle. His hair floated up around him and he pulled out the leather thong that held his hair back before running his fingers quickly back and forth through it, dislodging the last of the dirt that sullied it. When he was satisfied it was gone, he stood back up.
He blinked to clear the water from his eyes and ran his hands back over his head, brushing the excess water from the strands and slicking the hair back at the same time. He frowned, freezing mid motion, as he took in his surroundings once more. The water was calm once more, save for where he had just disturbed it, and the shores were empty. Quiet he had not expected engulfed the area, and he looked to Elrohir's widely grinning face to explain this unexpected turn of events. "Where's Estel?"
The other's smile widened nearly to bursting as he stepped closer to his twin. "Hiding, I imagine. He seems to have more sense than we gave him credit for."
Elladan smirked and finished re-securing his hair. "You mean there's still some we haven't knocked out him yet?"
"No," Elrohir replied. "Rather, I think he's had so much sense knocked out of him, someone finally managed to knock some back in."
"I bet Legolas," the elder chimed. Twin eyes met and they both burst out laughing. Then a wicked gleam sparked to life in Elladan's eyes. Without warning, he struck out, shoving Elrohir backwards into the water. The younger twin yelped, his eyes going wide as he splashed in the lake, his hands going straight through the surface instead of catching him. He emerged moments later, spluttering, to find a smirk on Elladan's face and a familiar hard glint in his eyes that had rarely been leveled against him.
The younger twin glared at his brother. "What was that for?"
"I thought it was rather tame, considering the alternative," Elladan replied.
"What--" But Elrohir bit that question off before it could get him in trouble. He had lived with Elladan too long not to know what would happen. Besides, there was something else he needed to find out. "What did I do?"
"Do? Who said you did anything?"
"But then. . . ." The perplexed frown melted into something closer to horror as his brother's look and actions finally clicked into place. His gaze sought out matching blue eyes for confirmation of his conclusion.
The smirk became a wicked grin. "Traitor," Elladan hissed.
Elrohir did not move.
"And now," he continued, stepping forward, "it's just you, and me."
Elrohir took a step back. "It's not my fault!" he exclaimed hastily, raising his hands defensively.
"No?" Elladan asked, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.
"No," Elrohir assured, even being so bold as to hold his ground when Elladan took another step forward. "It was Estel's fault. He bewitched me!"
That was too much. He dropped his head to hide his amusement, and half slid under the water to keep from laughing. He shook his head as he stood back up, his eyes clearly showing his mirth though his voice remained level. "That's wretched of you, brother, to blame your own shortcomings on a poor, helpless, guileless, defenseless little human child that looks up to you and respects you no matter if you actually deserve it or not."
Elrohir was caught somewhere between amusement and indignation. He shook his head slightly. He remembered the original from years ago, and had to admit Elladan captured their father's tone and look nearly perfectly; which made it all the more entertaining to hear it now. "How uncourteous of you, Elladan," he chided, his laughter only visible in his eyes, "not to accept my words. Would I lie to you? We have long known that Human has resources beyond what it usual for his kind. How else could he have so misled father, one so well known for his wisdom?"
Elladan's lips twitched. "My trust of you notwithstanding, it is still impardonable for you to place the blame for your misdemeanors on your little brother, no matter what he has done. I certainly would not do so."
"Then you're saying you believe me?"
"That Estel made you do it? No."
"But--"
"That Estel bewitched you. . . ." His voice trailed off, wavering slightly, as he tried not to dissolve into disgracing giggles, his lips twitching helplessly in his struggle. He took a deep breath. "Perhaps. For how else could there be so many Elves who like him? He must have bewitched them all!"
"That," Elrohir began, only to stop as his voice gave out on him. He cleared his throat. "That is a lofty achievement brother, especially for a human. You are, after all, speaking of all the Elves in Rivendell--"
"Hardly a small number, I know."
"--the mighty Slayer of Balrogs among them--"
"Truly astonishing."
"--and a fair number of Mirkwood's warriors, people, populace--"
"Always knew they were touched in the head."
"King Thranduil among them," Elrohir finished, grinning openly.
"And that is the seller, is not?" Elladan prompted. "The proof we need. For truly something foul must be at work if the intractable King of Mirkwood, legendary mistruster of Humans, has placed such faith in Estel as to deem him a worthy friend of the Precious Prince of Mirkwood." Elladan was impressed with himself, quite proud that he had not only managed not to burst out laughing while saying all that, but also managed to sound quite earnest.
Elrohir, also, looked impressed. "You raise a valid point, my brother."
"Indeed, I do." It escaped neither of them that they had switched sides on the issue, and it did not bother either of them at all. "But how shall we fix the situation? Ada would never let us harm him under his roof; he is under his spell, after all."
"True. I don't suppose we could give him to the traders, could we?" Elrohir asked.
"Would the traders take him?"
"He could bewitch them same as us," the younger pointed out.
"I suppose that is true," Elladan admitted. Now that they were fully engrossed in the argument, it was easy to keep from laughing. Their minds were as fully engaged in the debate as if they were hunting orc. Anyone who saw them would have thought them quite serious. Estel could not have caught us in one of our arguments, could he? But he did not want to dwell on that. It had been too long since there were no dark thoughts to plague his mind. "But suppose it only works on Elves."
"I believe some of the ladies in Strayton find him quite handsome," Elrohir revealed slyly.
"Truly?" the elder prompted, a touch surprised by this news as he had heard nothing of it.
"'Roguish charm,' I believe they called it," Elrohir said, grinning. "So there is something alluring about his filthy appearance, little though we can see it."
Elladan laughed lightly. "I suppose he does not need to bewitch humans, then."
"Or human females, at least."
"True. Humans always do seem to want what is worst for them."
"It is true, brother," Elrohir agreed soberly. A moment of silence passed between them, the elven twins apparently contemplating the shortcomings of the human race. Elrohir grazed his hand over the surface of the lake and took a moment to watch the ripples.
Elladan watched, too, then said, "But suppose he can repel them."
"We already know he can do that, El."
"Quite true. His stench would be enough to repel anyone, but if it were just that the humans could still be persuaded to take him with them with the right . . . persuasion. I mean, what if the same bewitchment that lures Elves could be used to repulse Men?"
"That would be troubling, indeed," Elrohir admitted, frowning slightly as he worked out his reply. "But the Rangers seem to have no trouble. Surely that is proof?"
"No, indeed, my brother. He wants to be with the Rangers. He would not repel someone he wants to be with."
"Hm. He does not want to be with Orcs," the younger elf observed.
Elladan grimaced. "Orcs are related to Elves, El; no matter how vile an admission, we cannot dismiss it."
"But surely if he wished to repel the Orcs, he would. That he does not can only mean he is incapable. And if he cannot choose to repel Orcs, then he cannot choose to repel humans, either."
"A valid point."
"Thank you."
They fell silent again, cocking their heads to listen to their surroundings. Birdsong drifted to their ears, carried on the warm breeze. No footsteps accompanied it. The last thing they wanted was for Estel to overhear them, think they were serious, and end up hurt-- and not just because Lord Elrond would have their hides for it. Elladan remembered all too clearly how many times they had had to comfort the boy because he had believed himself to be unloved; he had no wish to inflict that pain on him again, simply for their amusement.
Satisfied they were not going to be overheard, Elladan spoke again. "But do you think the traders would truly be able to take him and keep him from returning if he did not wish to go?"
"Do you think they would not?"
"Rangers are said to be wily and difficult to hold on to-- Estel more so than most."
"Very true," Elrohir agreed. Idly, he traced one of his fingers through graceful patterns over the surface of the water. "I suppose the traders are out, then, for we could not risk him coming back. I suppose taking him out somewhere and leaving him is also out of the question?"
"Unless we could find a way to make sure he could not return."
Elrohir pursed his lips. "Trap him in a mine?"
"Father would hear of it."
"Take him to the mountains?"
"And keep him from returning, how?"
"Well, he attracts Orcs by the dozen."
"And manages to survive them," Elladan reminded his brother.
"He has help."
"And if he somehow got help? Legolas is just as likely to show up as not. The danger would draw him. I think, mayhap, that he is attracted to Orcs; and that is why, when they are together, they can never escape them. How could they, when Estel attracts them and Legolas is drawn to them?"
"A viable theory, my brother," Elrohir answered with a laugh. "I suppose we could pin his feet."
Elladan snorted. "Pin his feet?" he demanded. "That would do no good. He would still have his hands!"
"We could pin them, too,"
"He is grown, brother, loathe though I am to admit it. It would be a simple task to remove them. Then he would not only come back, but he would be injured, too, and probably ill. That would not do."
"No, indeed. I don't suppose we could just kill him?"
Elladan looked up, meeting Elrohir's gaze as they both seemed to consider it. Each could see the other picturing it in their head, mentally executing the foul deed. Both shuddered.
"Nah!" they chorused.
"I would not be able to do it," Elladan continued mournfully.
"Nor would I," Elrohir echoed. "I fear he has already worked his magic on us."
"Just so." Elladan looked amused. "Speaking of which, shouldn't we go find him?" He looked around.
"Why?" the younger asked. "He's a big boy; you said so yourself."
"Quite true," he agreed with a sigh before turning to look at his brother with a wicked grin. "You know what that means? It's just you, and me, and you know what you are?"
Elrohir stared at him a moment, apparently disturbed by the toothy grin his brother was favoring him with. He licked his lips. "You know, on second thought, I think it would be a very good idea to go find our little brother. He finds so much trouble, after all, and he has been gone a very long time. . . ."
Elladan nodded solemnly, but could not hide his amusement. "A good idea, my brother. Good thing you thought of it."
Elrohir shook his head, chuckling, and climbed out of the pool, Elladan close behind. They squeezed excess water out of their hair as they walked, then dried off with towels one of the servants had brought out and slipped their shirts on. The sun still shone high in the sky. They glanced around them curiously.
Elladan tipped his head, glancing sidelong at his twin. "So. Where should we start looking?"
The last of the sun had fled behind the mountains. Around the camp, fires were being lit, working their way out from the main fire in the center of the camp to the perimeter fires that burned just behind the guards.
Akin watched the yellowish-orange light flare up and chase away the darkness of night from the entrance to the med tent, her cool gaze watching the activity with indifference. It was the same routine as had even been and of little concern to her. Even if she died, the routine would still go on; someone would replace her and the fires would still be lit. When the fires on her level burned, their glow seeping to illuminate the inside of her haunt, she turned and walked silently back inside.
Bare-frame cots were set up at intervals around the sparse interior. Shelves and tables held herbs, bowls with water, and mortal with pestle for grinding along with various other utensils for healing. Currently, some of them were being used.
Her wandering gaze took in the three occupied beds at the far end of the tent, various supplies strewn on the light tables nearest them. One of the occupants, Virgil, had a busted knee, the result of too few brains dealing with prisoners willing and able to fight back. The other, and one of the more experienced in the group, had taken a fall down the mountainside during patrol, cutting his head and breaking his arm, twisting his leg. The last was a novice and the one she had the least sympathy for. Too much drink with too little brains and a temper he had no control of when sober had combined with too little skill to land him with her, and she was only to glad to kick him back out.
The woman stopped beside his cot. The kid lay on his back with his arm thrown over his face to hide his eyes from the light. She glanced at the table, then stepped closer and shifted lightly through its contents: antiseptics, pads, gauze, the leftovers and waste scattered carelessly. Annoyance sharpened the set of her mouth, and she ignored the splatters of blood to touch a bottle that stood among the trash. She tilted it to read what it was but found no label, the trademark symbol of the maker scratched off. Upon smelling it, however, she stiffened.
The bottle thunked dully as it hit the table, the healer taking no care to put it down carefully, and Virgil jerked from his light, pain-filled doze. His dark eyes looked on the healer, noting the fire that had kindled in her gaze, and he sat up, quietly gathering his things.
Akin glared at the boy, fury and disgust wending through her. He had brought alcohol into her tent. Alcohol had landed him in her care and he had the gall to bring it with him, to get even more drunk than he had been already? He was going to wish his opponent had killed him instead of sparring him come morning. She would make sure of it. Her lips tightened, pressing into a thin, bloodless line. Without warning, she raised her foot and brought it down hard on the side of the cot.
The flimsy construct cracked ominously and overbalanced, dropping the youth unceremoniously to the floor. His hand struck the table as he fell, knocking it away to crash loudly against the ground and scattering its contents. The bottle smashed, flinging glass shards in every direction and releasing the contents still held within. The boy's head hitting the floor resounded with a dull thunk similar to the whiskey bottle when it had struck the table. Her eyes narrowed. She had not imagined there was anything in his head. Only one way to find out, she thought, but that was not her decision to make.
The youth's head jerked back up after its abrupt meeting with the floor, his eyes flying open. Almost immediately, he groaned, his hand reaching gingerly for his head, whether because of the hangover he undoubtedly had or the concussion he might have just gained, she could not tell. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his head sink back to the floor, his body relaxing once more as if nothing had happened.
Her eyes narrowed further, this time in anger, but she kept her ire in check. Gentler than she would have liked (but firmly enough to get his attention), she nudged him with the toe of her boot, rocking his body back and forth. His head lolled from side to side like a rag doll's, and her disgust for him reached new levels. Slowly, his eyes flickered open.
"Get up, boy," she ordered, her voice low and stern.
He did not answer, merely groaned again, and rolled further over as if to go back to sleep. She nudged him again, catching him in the ribs with a good deal more force than the first time. Her anger came through in her voice when next she spoke, but she still did not yell. "Get up, brainless pig, or I shall have you thrown in with the slaves! See what a bit of tender loving care will do to your ability to follow orders."
It was amazing what threatening to take away one's freedom can do to their cooperativity. Faster than the boy probably would have believed possible for his condition, he was wide awake and on his feet. He stood before her at attention, swaying slightly where he stood, his eyes glazed and fixed well over her head. Messily done bandages could be seen on his arms and chest. A bruise circled his eye. It would be brilliant come morning.
She nodded once, sharply. "Get to your barrack, boy." He snapped a salute and started to leave. "And, boy?" she called before he could leave, halting him in his wavery tracks. "Report to Nirt tomorrow morning for you punishment. Then come here. For clean-up detail. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She heard him leave the moment she looked away. Her gaze traveled back over the room and lit on Virgil, who stood at the foot of his bed, balanced on one foot with a wad of bandages clutched tightly to his chest. He bowed awkwardly with a murmur of "my lady," then left as quickly as his injured leg would let him.
Akin took a deep breath, held it for five counts, then let it out slowly, releasing the tension that had crept in with her anger. Once again clam and relaxed, she crossed to the elder's cot. Jaret lay peacefully, his sleep undisturbed by the clamor of a few moments ago. That was only to be expected, though, for she had drugged him herself a few hours past so he could get some undisturbed rest. Now, however, it was time for him to return to his own tent.
Delicately, she picked up a small bottle and removed the cork from the top. She deftly waved it under his nose, making the man jerk, and bleary gray-green eyes slowly blinked open. The barest hint of a smile touched her lips. "The sun is set, my friend. You will be more comfortable in your own bed."
Jaret closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then slowly sat up and swung his legs over the side. He paused and rubbed at his eyes, giving her a wry grin. "So thoughtful, my dear."
"Would you like another sleeping potion?"
"No." He shook his head and she watched Jaret leave without comment, his steps steady despite the injury to his leg and the concussion he had suffered which made his balance suspect. He was the only person she knew of who could walk and talk coherently while still under the effects of a sleep potion. One day, she would discover how he did it; but right now she had other things to worry about. One of them entered before she had a chance to move.
Dane was one of those wonderfully strange people whose life seemed to be their job. Any task he was given, no matter how mundane or momentous, was completed quickly and flawlessly, his attention to detail a commander's dream. He performed perfectly; so perfectly, in fact, that his perfection nearly became a weakness: he could complete any task he was given, but he could never ascend to greatness because he could not adapt. He bowed deeply, then waited for his first task.
She smiled ironically. "Clean up this mess," she ordered, then walked over to the only occupied cot in the whole tent as the man moved to comply. This one was separated from the others by a series of curtains arrayed to create what amounted to another room. Once behind it, you could see no one and no one could see you. This bed was more permanent than the others: sturdier. Shackles were hooked to the floor so the occupant could be held in place. Currently, that occupant was a dark-haired elf with a noble face.
The woman leaned over him to check his stitches, pealing away the bandages that hid her artwork and ignoring the numerous bruises that decorated the pale flesh. She had been told to save him, to treat his lung and ribs, and nothing else. Now that her task was done, there was nothing left to concern her with him. When she was satisfied her stitches still held, she let the bandages fall back and picked up a basin and sponge. Carefully, she removed the bandages completely and sponged the elf's chest, lightly grazing the close packed stitches. Infection was one thing she did not want to have to deal with. The sooner he recovered, then sooner he was off her hands.
Sudden silence from the other room brought her head up and stilled her hand. Frozen, she listened, straining to hear the tell-tale patter of Dane's feet as he moved about the room or the low rustle of items being moved about. She listened hard but neither sound reached her ears, only silence.
Akin looked down at the elf, studying him for a moment before dismissing him. She stood and placed the basin and sponge down, then pulled a dagger from the holster strapped to her thigh. She held it easily, the art of killing just as familiar to her as the art of healing, and more natural. Cautiously, she eased past the concealing fabric.
The first thing she noticed was that Dane's task was not done. The overturned cot and table had been righted and restored to their original order; the bowl that had held an antiseptic rested once more upon the wooden surface, along with the bandages; the blood that had dripped here and there was gone, the rag used for the purpose lying on the table with the soiled bandages. But the glass from the whiskey bottle lay half-gathered on the floor, apparently abandoned, and the various medicines were not returned to their rightful spaces, still scattered about the tent. Dane was nowhere to be seen.
On guard, she continued forward, scanning her surroundings constantly with trained alertness. Someone was here; she knew it. She could feel it. Shadows hung throughout the room, cast by the many objects that littered it, plenty of those large and deep enough to hide an intruder. That old excitement, that hum when danger was near, reawoke insider her. It banished the notion of calling for help before it was even considered. Too long had she stayed behind to care for the injured; too long had she been held back, cursed by her skills in a little-needed vocation; too long had others taken the glory that was rightly hers. Now she would catch the being fool enough to attack them in their home and prove to her fellows that she was still a warrior.
She stepped forward, intent on seeing around the supply shelf, a human-like shadow catching her attention. Her eyes narrowed and she raised her dagger higher, prepared to strike. When she stepped around the obstruction, however, she froze. She had not expected to find Dane, propped against the wall, his eyes staring sightless and glassy at a space just past her shoulder. His head tilted at an odd angle; his arms were spread out, laying limply beside him.
She blinked at him, unconsciously lowering her blade. It took her a moment to figure out how he had died, thrown by the lack of blood. Then she realized his neck was broken, snapped from close quarters. His attacker had managed to sneak up behind him, get right up next to him without his knowing, and snap his neck before he had a chance to cry out or fight back. A chill shuddered down her spine.
Something cold pressed against her neck and a hand clamped down tightly over her mouth. Too late, she realized that she had walked straight into a trap; that Dane had not been hidden so she would not find him, but so she would. Then fire drew across her neck, biting sharply, and liquid warmth ran down her neck, her free hand automatically coming up to stem the tide. Blood cascaded over her fingers. She felt her life's sustenance flow out of her. With the last of her strength, she thrust the dagger backwards, hoping to strike flesh, but her hand was caught and a voice whispered in her ear, dark amusement lacing the tone.
"Now, now, Akin. That's no way for the dead to behave."
She knew that voice. Her eyes widened in shock; her body tensed.
Then all went dark.
Gradually, he became aware. The darkness that held him in peaceful oblivion slowly released its hold. He could hear sounds: the popping crackle of a fire, the steps of a horse moving to better ground, the chomp-chomp of the large creature eating, the quiet steps of something much lighter. He entertained himself with figuring out what they were and meant while reveling in the warmth that encased him. It had been a long time since he felt this comfortable. He could just lie here forever.
The light steps moved closer, bringing with them a sense of presence, and stopped just past him. He could hear something being stirred and half-roused himself to see, falling just short of actually opening his eyes and raising his head. He could sense light just beyond the darkness, a warmish glow that seemed to surround him; there but too far. He did not feel like chasing it.
Disgruntled, he shifted slightly and turned his head away, an innocent gesture with childish roots. If the light did not want to come to him, he did not want to go to it. This warm, dark room was more comfortable anyway. He let himself sink back into shadow; let everything flow over him.
He was drawn back out, however, when he felt something or someone settle next to him. A gentle hand suddenly rested on his back, the light pressure appearing out of nowhere. His awareness focused on it all at once, then a voice spoke, calling part of that awareness away.
"Strider? I know you can hear me, my friend. It is time for you to wake."
He disagreed with that last. It was time for him to go back to sleep, and he wished he could deny hearing that musical voice. It was as familiar to him as that name, and he wondered how long he could go without putting an identity to either one of them.
"Come now, mellon nin. What would your brothers say if they saw you lazing around like this when there was work to be done?"
He was quite sure he did not want to know.
The hand on his back shook him lightly. "Strider! Ai, you wish to drive me to insanity! First, I cannot get you to go to sleep; now, I cannot get you to wake up."
He smiled at the exasperation he heard in that wry voice. This was fun.
He felt the hand leave his back, then, but though the presence moved away he had not the sense that it left, a conclusion that was confirmed when next it spoke. "Estel Elrondion, if you do not get up right this minute, I shall feed that beloved leather jacket of yours to the flames in pieces!"
"Only if you want your beloved bow to follow," he retorted without thought. A moment later it occurred to him that that had been a bad idea. Instinctively, he rolled away, trying to get more distance between himself and that voice. When he dared stop, he opened his eyes, unwilling to keep them closed when he could be attacked at any moment by something far more dangerous than a warg could ever be.
Silver eyes opened, but it was a moment before he found what he sought, so small was it in comparison to endless green plains and boundless blue skies. It was a different blue, though, that caught his eye, deeper and (he was pleased to see) far more amused than annoyed.
A wry smile completed the picture when the elf was certain he was watching. "He lives," the fair-haired being quipped dryly.
Aragorn smiled back hesitantly, something in the back of his mind telling him this was wrong, though why or how he could not yet place. He pushed himself up as Legolas turned back to what he had been doing prior to waking him, and the young ranger let his eyes track over the makeshift camp, lightly briefly on some packs the elf had pulled aside before jumping to the fire the elf kept burning with grasses, noting a small pot whose contents were being stirred; he could not, for the life of him, figure out what was in it. Whatever it was, Legolas seemed content, and he was positive he would discover the answer to the riddle, acquiring an understanding beyond his desire, as soon as the task was complete.
He snorted to himself and pulled the blanket that pooled around his waist more closely around him, glancing at the fabric in passing before freezing. The cloth that had been draped over him was not a blanket, and it was not his: it was Legolas' cloak. The ice that seemed to settle around his heart caught him by surprise, constricting his breathing with a painful ache. Then he remembered. He closed his eyes and let his head sink further down upon his breast. How could Legolas be so kind to him after what he had said?
"Aragorn?"
His head started up, his eyes snapping open. Concerned blue eyes searched his silver ones. Aragorn swallowed, then said the first thing that came to mind. "I'm sorry."
Legolas blinked, twice. "Whatever for?"
"For saying what I did. I know you were only trying to help and I should not have snapped at you so, no matter how tired I was. I did not mean it and I do need your help. I'm so sorry." He stopped, his words falling away awkwardly. A part of him desperately wanted to ask the elf's forgiveness, but the larger part of him dared not ask.
"Oh," Legolas said.
"Oh?" he asked. That had not been the response he had expected, and certainly not the tone he had expected. He had feared Legolas would scoff; expected he would nod regally and perhaps say "of course you're sorry. You're supposed to be sorry" even as he knew the elf prince was not so cruel; but he felt he would deserve it. He had hoped he would accept the apology, had hoped he would make some comment the young man could use to judge if he should-- dared, ask for forgiveness. This single-syllable lack-luster response that one might give if you told them their shoes were on the wrong feet made him feel like he had just been pushed free of his last handhold. He desperately wanted to drop his gaze. He did not dare.
"You've done this before," the elf prince continued, smiling serenely, as if that explained everything.
Aragorn did not know what to make of that smile. "Done . . . what?" he asked hesitantly.
"Apologized, of course."
"I have?" The ranger blinked; his gaze slid past the elf as he desperately tried to remember when that had been, for he recalled no such thing. Unless Legolas was referring to the many times over the last several years he had done something remarkably stupid and been obliged to seek his friend's forgiveness, he was at a loss.
"You have," Legolas confirmed, watching the young man closely. "Last night, in fact."
Aragorn went still. He remembered next to nothing from last night. The only thing that was fixed clearly in his mind was treating Ardevui, and even that he was half-sure he had to have imagined. His eyes darted quickly to the horse in question, still grazing contentedly a dozen feet away, just to make sure his bandage was there and that it had not been a dream. The white stood out clearly.
For once in his life, he wished he had woken up with a splitting headache and a cotton dry mouth. Then, at least, he would expect to have no memories of the night before; the blank space in his mind that came up with an odd kind of static would not be inexplicable. He wished he had woken up to find the twins sitting before him, their solemn faces poor covers for the amusement in their eyes. Then he could blame this memory lapse on them, his current predicament some elaborate prank they had concocted in the twisted bowels of their collective minds. Anything would be better than this.
He licked his lips. "I did?"
Legolas nodded slowly, once more looking concerned; Aragorn wished he would not. "You did," his friend affirmed. "Do you not remember?"
Hesitantly, he shook his head.
Legolas studied him seriously a moment, his bright blue eyes boring into him mercilessly. It had been a long time since he had felt so thoroughly wretched around his friend as he did just now. He wanted to look away, to drop his friend's piercing gaze, but he doubted that would make him any feel better, and he still wanted-- needed, to know what had happened, if his friend could ever forgive him.
Finally, Legolas nodded, as if he had reached a conclusion he had expected. "You did," he affirmed again quietly, "but since you cannot remember my words, let me put you at ease: I do not hold your words against you. You have no reason to apologize. As I know from experience you are ill-disposed to accept that, let me put it another way: I forgive you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and beseech you to put the incident behind you in the name of friendship." He smiled, blue eyes twinkling, and added, "If you mope over it much longer, your guilt will infect me, and then I shall be beseeching you for forgiveness, apologizing at every moment, until you stop."
Unwillingly, Aragorn smiled, picturing in his mind the noble and proper Prince of Mirkwood following him around on his knees, invoking heaven and earth and everything in between in his efforts to wear his friend down . . . and then he was laughing, chuckling uncontrollably and shaking his head. "Oh, mellon nin, I do not deserve you."
Legolas just smiled. "You would do the same for me."
Aragorn looked up, his amusement gone faster than the flash of lightning that had knocked him from his horse. His silver eyes locked intently on the elf's face. "But, Legolas, after what I said? How can you be so sure?"
A scowl settled over the fair elven face, irritation flashing briefly. "You're not forgetting it. I asked you to forget it, or do my requests and wishes mean nothing?"
"I-I'm sor--" he tried to stammer, surprised, but Legolas cut him off.
"Besides, you forget that I know you, Strider," the elf continued before he could finish. He flashed a quick smile. "I know your heart, and I know how grouchy you get when you are tired. I can take a perverse kind of pleasure in knowing you would snap at your brothers, too, if our positions were reversed."
Aragorn stared at his friend dubiously but soon saw he was serious. He smiled wryly. "You're probably right, my friend, except they would not simply stand there and gape as I walked away. They would chase after me and yell back." A bittersweet ache settled in his gut.
"I believe you're right," Legolas agreed, "which means I should probably watch out if it is ever you I am searching for with the twins, especially as they're already unstable. I should hate to see what they're like sleep deprived. They are peredhel, after all, and Noldor besides."
He laughed; then his gaze fell on the pot that still hung over the fire as smoke curled from the top. "I don't wonder," he told the elf. "But I should like to know what you were cooking as it looks about ready to breath fire."
Legolas frowned, then turned to glance at the pot only to curse and jump up as he saw it. The elf moved quickly to get it off the fire, the somewhat acrid stench of burning finally reaching their noses, too late, accompanied by a kind of dry sizzle as it was pulled from the fire, held gingerly with an old rag and set down quickly on the first suitable surface the elder being could find. He fanned the smoke away with the rag, then peered inside anxiously. A moment later he grimaced in disgust.
Aragorn stood gingerly and made his way over to get a look himself. A congealed white and black mass met his gaze. It looked vaguely familiar (likely he, himself, had burnt it once) and he ran through a list of what they had with them for eating in an effort to identify it. He settled on oatmeal.
Legolas looked at him. "Well, it was going to be breakfast."
He could not help the wide grin that spread across his face. "I'll eat it if you do."
His friend made a face he had last seen on a girl in Strayton when her mother had tried to give her medicine. He burst out laughing. Legolas shoved him away peevedly. "Hush, human. You do not want to eat it, either."
"No," Aragorn admitted, plopping down where his momentum took him. "But I would to see you do it." He was still grinning widely.
The elf shook his head mournfully. "Now I know you have spent far too much time with the twins. I fear they have corrupted you irrevocably. But you have promised me to eat breakfast this morning, and time slips away toward afternoon. What say you to some waybread?"
Suddenly reminded of their quest, of the twins, Aragorn looked up at the sky, ignoring his friend's question. The sun hung nearly directly overhead. Nearly half the day had slipped away while he languished in warm comfort on the ground. What about his brothers? Were they warm? Comfortable? How much more certain was the fate he had seen for them now that so much time had been spent idle? He jumped up, a dismayed cry on his lips.
Legolas anticipated him and caught his wrist before the human could take two steps, unceremoniously pulling him back down. Aragorn collapsed back to the ground, the brief shock of pain in his knees jolting him back to the moment, and he found himself face-to-face with Legolas.
"Listen to me, Aragorn," he demanded, his voice stern and his eyes as serious as the young man had ever seen. "You listen to me and you listen good. Your brothers would never begrudge you a few hours sleep. Never. They would never hold it against you that it took you just a little longer to reach them because your body betrayed you. They want you to be safe, Strider. They would be upset it you did not get any sleep. It is well, mellon nin."
He wanted to believe, found the words rang true as he already knew they were, but something else kept him from taking the comfort being offered him. He whispered, "They do not have to, for I already hold it against myself. I can't lose them, Legolas. What if I lose them?"
He expected no answer, and knew his friend did not have one when the elf's clear gaze darkened. Still, he somehow felt better, like a great weight had suddenly been lifted from his back. When Legolas squeezed his wrist in mute comfort, he twisted his hand and squeezed back.
Legolas glanced over his shoulder at his horse, who had taken up watching the duo at some point unnoticed, then looked back at his friend and flashed a quick smile. "Why don't you go check and see if Ardevui's hoof has healed enough for travel while I dispose of my failed cooking attempt. Then you can eat while I pack and we can be gone before the sun begins her descent. We can reach Caivern before a new day dawns."
"Legolas, my friend, that sounds like a plan."
"Good." Aragorn stood as Legolas moved to the pot, but was called back by his friend's soft voice. He turned. "Strider, last night you mentioned you thought you knew who had your brothers, but you never said who. . . ." The elf licked his lips uncomfortably before posing the question that weighed so uneasily on his heart. "Who do you think it is?"
The ranger's eyes darkened to the color of a stormy sky. "The Slyntari."
Kalya felt the last of Akin's strength leave her body, the short healer suddenly becoming dead weight in her arms. She quickly removed her hand from the woman's mouth and caught her around her chest as she started to fall. More clumsily than she would have liked, she got her hands under the other's armpits and dragged her over to one of the cots.
More than once she had been required to drag one of her fellows back to camp and place them, while unconscious, on one of the flimsy beds. Her first attempt had shown her just how difficult such an endeavor was, having knocked over the cot a dozen times (nearly killing herself and her charge each time) in the process, but it had also taught her how it might be accomplished more easily. The last thing she could afford right now was to bring the entire camp down on them with suspicious crashes from the med tent before their escape was even begun.
The girl stopped before the tent halfway down its length and deftly turned Akin in her grasp, putting her back to the cot. She stepped on the woman's toes to hold her feet in place, then slowly, carefully, began easing her down into a sitting position, practically taking a bath in her still-warm blood in the process. But it accomplished her need-- namely, getting the lifeless body onto the cot without making any noise. From there it was a simple matter to push her down to lay on her side and swing her legs up onto the cot.
Kalya stepped back, then, and took in her handiwork before stepping closer and positioning the limbs more carefully, smoothing her hair back a bit so it did not fall everywhere. Then she turned away to pick up a blanket and spread it lightly over the still form. Only the woman's dark hair showed. It would do.
Satisfied with the results of her efforts, Kalya turned away and moved over to where she had left Dane. She stepped over him and picked up the small pack of supplies she had gathered, then moved quickly to the enclosed room where the elf was held.
Her first thought upon seeing him was that he looked terrible. His skin was pale, the unhealthy near-white making the bruises that covered his chest almost like a shirt stand out in stark contrast. Or maybe it was the dark discolorations that made him seem so pale. In any case, it was only the small rise and fall of his chest that told her he yet lived, and even that she did not think would last long.
She took a step forward, intending to finish washing his stitches, then thought better of it, reversing direction to stand before the various supplies on the far shelf. She poured more water into a bowl, then picked up a rag and began quickly scrubbing blood from her face and hands, her neck. The red liquid did nothing to her clothes but make them look darker, so she ignored them, little though she had any choice. Reasonably clean, she returned to his side and quickly bathed the row of neat stitches, working as quickly and carefully as she could.
It was impossible to know when someone would come check on Akin and Dane, and even harder to know if they would be dissuaded by her quick work of camouflage. Akin always slept in the med tent when there were prisoners, but never before all her tasks were done. If anyone took more than a cursory glance through the entrance, they would know that the place was still dirty. If they saw that, they would know something was wrong and look closer. It would not take much to discover the healer was dead, and even less to find that Dane shared her fate. From there, the entire camp would be mobilized and it would only be a matter of time before they were caught if they had not already made good their escape. She guessed they had an hour before that happened.
She hoped she was right.
The tub and sponge she put aside in favor of a soft, dry rag when she was done, which she gently pressed around the stitches, drying the area with light dabs and as little pressure as was feasible. It was almost a shame (to her mind) to waste so much time caring for the maintenance of the stitches, especially since she highly doubted they would survive the escape, but she could ill afford to burst them early and have the elf bleed to death, so she finished the task as thoroughly as ever and as quickly as she could manage. Deftly, she folded another rag and placed it gently over the stitches, then wrapped it in place as tightly as she dared, taking pains not to wrap one portion tighter than any other.
A bit of hair slipped into her face and she brushed it aside absently, slipping away from the cot and over to the desk that held vials, herbs, linens, and other useful things . . . some of them more useful for pursuits outside the healing arts. She ignored them. Running the tips of her fingers over the many neatly arranged, corked vials, she plucked a red one and a clear one. Both she held before her eyes and swirled slightly. . . . She replaced the clear one: it was not what she wanted, and picked up a different one, also clear, but this one held a tint, ever so faint, of yellow around the edges that was nearly lost in the poor light. She set them aside.
She stepped to the right and snatched an empty vial from an upper shelf. Into it, she poured nearly half of the red vial, then uncorked the clear and tried to ignore the voice in her head that was practically screaming at her that this was a bad idea. She knew it was a bad idea. She also knew the elf would never make it out of the camp without this interesting little concoction. She poured a third of the vial into the other liquid then put it in the holder and recapped both, quickly replacing the red and clear vials, the glass ringing slightly off the braces.
She found another stopper and secured it, then held it in place with one finger and quickly turned the vial upside down three times, the liquid splashing inside as she mixed the two substances. When she held it back up, the better to see, it had a purplish tint. She found another rag and picked up a knife.
Moving back over to the cot, she looked down on the elf and prayed he was strong enough for what she was about to do. If he was not, at least he would not have to worry about waking to the hands of the Slyntari. She laced the rag with the mixture and moved the knife over his arm, hesitated, then switched the knife with the rag.
Then she allowed no time for regrets or second guesses.
"We've checked the stables," Elrohir was saying as he and Elladan walked the hallways of the Last Homely House, ticking off items on his fingers as he did so. "We've searched the gardens, the library, his room, our rooms, the kitchens, the practice pitch, the archery field, the parlor, the northernmost balcony, the southern balcony, the eastern terrace, the store rooms, the Great Hall, the Lesser Hall, Ada's study, and the Histories."
"And Legolas' room," Elladan added with a nod.
"Right, and Legolas' room." The younger twin took a deep breath and let it out in a gusty sigh. "I don't now, brother, but I don't think we should let Estel go off with the Rangers any more. He's gotten far too good at hiding."
Elladan smiled. "Agreed." Then he sobered, frowning slightly as he looked out a nearby window that overlooked the road. "Hey . . . you don't suppose he left, do you?"
"Who left?"
"Why would he do that?"
Elladan and Elrohir whirled in surprise at the unexpected voices. "Legolas!" Elrohir exclaimed happily, a wide grin on his face as he took in the elven prince who stood a few paces behind them with their human brother. Elladan was too shocked to say anything. When had Legolas arrived? The two friends exchanged amused glances. Both looked innocent when they turned back to the twins.
"Legolas just got here, El," Estel reminded them, the barest hint of a smile on his face.
"Though their faces are enough to scare one away, aren't they?" the prince conspiratorially.
Then Legolas scanned their still somewhat damp clothing with the air of someone used to finding fault in others and finding plenty of it before him. His posture changed. "I don't know, Strider," the elf prince said after a moment, leading Elladan to wonder how much of what conversation they had missed. "They look well to me. Damp, but well."
"Aye, Legolas, but looks can be deceiving," Estel said sagely with a hint of concern. "Do you not remember how they jumped at our entrance?"
"Oh, aye; indeed I do," Legolas replied, his tone that of one who had just remembered something important. "And their faces! Such surprise."
"Clearly the work of diseased minds, my friend."
"Clearly. Do you think we should tell Lord Elrond?"
"I think we had better," Estel replied with a weary sigh. "Else wise they shall get it in their heads that he has left, as well, and go tearing across the lands in pursuit of him, spreading their madness."
Elladan gaped at the pair, unreality washing over him. Had he not known better, he would have sworn he was listening to himself and his brother. Perhaps their father was right: he and Elrohir had rubbed off far too much on their little brother and the prince of Mirkwood.
"Brother?" Elrohir murmured.
"Yes?" he replied just as softly.
"Tell me what I just saw."
He watched as the two openly smirking friends walked away from them, heading for the library where their father was working, unable to come up with a reply. He shook his head slowly. "Tell me what I just saw."
"I believe it was Legolas and Estel."
"I agree."
"Or at least it looked like them."
"And sounded like them."
"Or their voices did."
"Just so."
The twins glanced at each other, the same thoughts filtering through their minds. The pair they had seen had, indeed, looked just like Legolas and Estel. More, it had sounded like them. What threw them off was that their performance was something they, the twins, would do. It had even been convincing, in an odd, sort of twisted kind of way that the inhabitants of Rivendell had long since come to regard with more than just a little suspicion when facing the sons of Elrond. The same dawning horror widened both pairs of eyes.
"Ada!" they cried in unison. Elladan broke into a rapid spring, Elrohir right behind him. The residents of Rivendell had come to view their strangely believable comments dubiously, but the same could not be said of Estel or Legolas. If Elrond believed them, the elf lord would force vile concoctions down their throats from now until the day he sailed.
They skidded around the corner and took the stairs two at a time, rushing to reach their father before their little brother and the prince could. They reached the top and used the banister to swing onto the proper course. Their sharp eyes just caught sight of Estel as he turned the corner leading to the library, following Legolas. Their feet barely touched the floor as they ran. They took the corner without slowing, barely avoiding a head-on collision with the wall, and sped for the doors which were the others' aim.
Panic touched him when the human's hand curled around one of the door's handles and pulled, slowly forming a crack that grew even larger. Both twins ran harder. Then, in the flash of an eye, they were there. Elladan slammed into the door with no chance to halt, ripping it from his brother's grasp, Elrohir just behind him. The heavy oak flew back to the frame, slamming closed with a boom to shatter the heavens and rattling the walls and doors clear to the kitchens a floor down and across the house. China and other delicate decorations rattled ominously.
Estel and Legolas gaped at them, frozen, as the twins fought to regain their breath. They looked stunned, like someone had just struck them over the head with a club. Elladan, himself, still felt the angry vibrations of the door, the painful compression of a too quick stop. For a long moment, none of them moved, the only sound the heavy breathing of Elladan and Elrohir.
Finally, Estel shook himself from his stupor. "Elladan! Elrohir! What were you thinking?"
Before he could form a reply, the other door opened, revealing Elrond. The elf lord looked between them, checking for injuries and, finding none, demanded, "What is the meaning of this?"
"We, uh . . ." Elladan began, but trailed off as his breath betrayed him and his mind failed him. What could they possibly say?
"We were, uh, trying to stop them from disturbing you, Adar," Elrohir answered, apparently willing to sound slightly stupid so he could provide an answer.
Elrond's eyebrows went up, and he looked to his eldest. Elladan nodded dumbly, feeling sick. "I see," the elf lord said dubiously, that not-trust thing working against them yet again. He looked to the blonde archer and the ranger that still stood frozen to the floor. "Do you two have anything to add?"
Estel merely stared at the twins for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then the shock of having his two older brothers crash into the door before him seemed to wear off and amusement sparkled once again in his eyes. He looked up innocently at the elf lord. "No, father. I think Elladan and Elrohir have contributed more than enough already." Behind the man, Legolas tried to stifle a snicker.
Elrond did not react immediately, then he nodded slowly. "I don't want to know," he murmured, almost to himself. Then he pinned the quartet with a stern glare. "I want this house to still be standing at the end of the day. To that end, I want you out of it. I don't care where you go or what you do, but you will not return-- will not be found inside the boundaries of this domicile --before supper. Is that understood?" They nodded. "No, go. March!"
All four youngsters jumped, startled by the sharp command, then immediately headed in the opposite direction, nearly running down the hall to the stairs. They trooped down them quickly, their footsteps thudding on the hard marble more loudly than was normal. At the bottom, they paused, looking back up.
Elrohir was the first to break the silence. "What's up with him?" he asked. "I mean, we've never actually destroyed anything before. I mean, the china wasn't really our fault; Celboril should not have stacked it so, and the porcelain statue was knocked over by Landor. Even the Gondorian vase was not our fault."
"I don't think he cares, brother," Elladan replied.
"I think," Estel cut in, a strange gleam in his eyes, "that we had better get outside before he comes to check if we have obeyed. And then you two can start at the beginning."
"Yes," Legolas agreed, his voice mirthful. "This I very much want to hear."
Elrohir looked like he had been caught with the honey cake.
"I don't think you do," he protested as they led him outside. "They're dull, quite dull. You'd be bored to tears--"
"Oh, quiet, El," Elladan interrupted, spitting him with an amused glare. "We'll let them win 'em from us."
The younger twin frowned slightly as he looked at his brother, then understanding flashed in his eyes and a wicked grin spread over his face. Elladan heroically fought his own grin into submission.
Estel and Legolas exchanged wary glances. The human looked at him, cocking an eyebrow dubiously, and echoed, "Win them?"
"Yes," Elladan answered. "We will spar, two on two, and if you win, we will tell you the story of your choice."
The friends exchanged another glance, the silent communication impressive even to the twins. They looked back. Legolas pressed, "And if we lose?"
"If you lose. . . ." Elladan glanced sidelong at his twin, employing their own brand of silent communication. He grinned. "Then you tell us why the servants were so eager to be rid of you when we last picked you up from Mirkwood."
That this was something neither was eager to tell of was more than obvious by the mixed horror and embarrassment that flashed over both faces. An inner battle seemed to wage within them as the leaders that hid within warrior's heart weighed the chance that they would lose against their curiosity to know more. For a moment, the elder twin firmly believed they would turn down the challenge, hitherto unheard of, their hesitant glances doing nothing to change that opinion. Then they both looked forward, suddenly resolved, and nodded curtly. In that moment, they could have been twins, so closely did their expressions match, and Elladan had to blink rapidly to clear the notion.
"Agreed," Legolas said softly. "If you win, we tell. If we win, you tell."
"Agreed," Elladan repeated.
Together and without another word, the friends walked to the practice fields. To see them, one would have thought they marched to war against Sauron's fearsome throng. Undoubtedly, any servant that saw them would immediately run to fetch their father, and the eldest son was glad there were no servants about to test his theory: he was not sure if he would be more disappointed to have the elven lord storm out and insist they desist, or to find their father knew and did nothing.
The quartet arrived at the pitch the brothers had quitted earlier that morning (though the sun seemed barely to have moved) and split into their preordained pairs: Legolas and Estel pacing to the northern edge while Elladan and Elrohir moved to the southern edge. Weapons were drawn, inspected, tested by quick slashes through the warm air, whistling as they cut through the clear medium.
The pairs finished their preparations and turned to face each other in nearly the same moment, long familiarity with the others' ways showing early that this battle would not be easily won by either side. Anticipation fairly sang through the air.
"How shall victory be claimed?" Elrohir asked.
"A touch to the neck, I should think," Estel answered quietly. It was normal protocol for such sparring matches as these, but the twins had always avoided using it with their human brother, fearing a slip would cost them most dear. Silver eyes held firm.
Slowly, Elladan nodded. "Aye, a touch to the neck, but disarmament must come first." The other three nodded.
"May the best win," Legolas intoned with a wry twist to his lips, and the battle was joined.
Elladan and Elrohir met Legolas and Estel in the center of the pitch, their blades crashing sharply in the initial rush, the impact felt sharply in their arms, then they shifted, falling into fighting patterns of advance and retreat, strike and defend, that they had used many times in past against significantly more numerous foes. That, too, had its drawbacks.
More used to fighting back-to-back, the pairs now had to adjust their style to more exclusive fare, shifting to fight side-by-side, instead, while maintaining the shared defense and trying to maneuver their opponents to more compromising positions yet still avoid the same fate. It was hardly surprising that Elladan and Elrohir were better at it, despite their companions' spirit, having fought battles together for centuries, but the skill of human and elf prince were not to be overlooked as they escaped time and again, just at the last second, from the elven twin's traps, jumping through like soap squeezed in a too tight grip.
With barely a glance, the command to loosen their attack passed between Elladan and Elrohir. They increased the space between them and their quarry, allowing the pair more breathing room, but never let up on their attacks, their blows still coming as fast and from as many different directions.
Almost immediately, their opponents changed tactics, one falling back while the other took the brunt of the twins' combined assault. Anyone who did not know them so well as the prince, with speed and skill to match, would have fallen. As it was, he met their attacks squarely, just barely met them, but still met them. They pressed closer--
And were forced to retreat as Estel suddenly made his presence felt once more, slashing into their concerted formation with a blow calculated to scatter and unbalance-- one that worked quite well, he might add --as the startled twins discovered they could not turn to face him without being forced to reckon with Legolas. Instinctively, they settled into their old defense, angled slightly, and faced the friends separately, forcing them to meet them individually but never allowing themselves to be pushed back-to-back.
Elladan found himself combating his youngest brother, parrying high and low, slashing, feeling the sword shudder in his grip with each blow. As he stared across into silver eyes, defending himself against expert blows, he could not help but feel a wash of pride for the young human, knowing that he had helped train the skill that was even now leveled against him.
He raised his sword high, then low, twisting it around from the right to check his brother's sweeping strike, then back around to knock aside the jab aimed to skewer him. He ducked away as he saw an elbow flying for his face, felt it soar over his head, and swept his sword out towards the human's legs. His respect for his youngest brother's skills went up a notch as the blow was blocked. A smile split his face.
It faltered, along with his step, as burning fire cut across his arm above his elbow. Startled, he looked down at the limb, dropping his guard. Caught off guard by the abrupt change, Estel just managed to turn the blade so the flat would strike his brother and not the edge, but he could not check the blow, already wholly committed to the strike when he noticed the shift. Elladan staggered under the blow, knocked backwards by its force, his air pressed from his lungs. Shock kept him from reacting as three pairs of concerned eyes fixed on him.
The fire that had formed a line across his arm now spread, stretching to engulf his fingers before creeping up to his shoulder. He gasped, his eyes searching frantically for an injury that would explain the inexplicable pain, but he found none. His breathing accelerated, his heart raced inside his chest. Heat spread through him. His vision swam.
Elladan looked up helplessly, his pleading gaze seeking out his brothers and friend as his vision darkened around the edges. They stood before him, expressions sad, separated from him by a handful of steps, not even his twin making a move to come to his aid-- near, but untouchable. He felt his sword slip from his fingers. He tried to call out for help, but no words passed his lips. Wind or blood roared in his ears.
The world around him began to tilt, careening first one way, then the other, stretching strangely as the grainy darkness spread, tunneling his vision. He fixed his eyes on matching blue, pleading without words for his brother to help him. But Elrohir did not move. His eyes sunk, shadowed, turning haunted, and bruises suddenly appeared on his face, ugly black and blue splotches that disfigured his visage. Had he been able to move, horror would have driven Elladan backwards.
Terrified blue eyes turned instead to Estel, battling the darkness that pulled at him, consuming him, hoping the human would have answers he lacked. But the strong youth he had been fighting moments ago melted away before his very eyes, his broad frame shrinking as he lost weight, becoming an emaciated shadow of himself, his face turning gaunt, the light of youth and health and happiness fading from his silver eyes, leaving them dull and lifeless: a shell.
Desperate, distraught, he turned to Legolas. The blonde archer only stared at him; his empty stare more than the elder twin could bear. With a cry, his legs gave out from under him, and the darkness closed in, pulling him up and away even as he fell, spinning mercilessly, snatching his family, his home, from his grasp, and he felt his mind stretching, grasping desperately for those he was forced to leave behind, felt them slip, his mind spin, become hazy, grow clear, and then snap--
And felt a hand pressed firmly on down on his arm where the fire had originated. He battled the darkness that clung resolutely in his mind, trying to hold him in shadow. He forced his eyes open. The first thing he saw was a knife.
Then a hand closed firmly over his mouth.
Review Responses:
Tychen: lol. I understand completely. I had a similar incident when writing up last chapter. I always write the chapters out first because it helps me figure out what I want to say better than simply typing (for reasons I don't understand) and as I was typing them up I came upon a sentence I didn't understand. It made no sense at all. So I had to figure something else out. Threw a wrench into my typing session. Delayed me a whole thirty minutes. Lol. coughs Perhaps I should have a little more silence now? g I'm glad it worked well. I hope this one works just as well, strange though it is. Ah, well, they may not want my pity any more than they want Shirk's. . . .eg Ah! I just figured out what "eg" meant! Lol. I am such a loser. sigh giggles helplessly Hm, yes, it is rightly his turn, but I haven't figures out if it's going to work that way or not. These chapters fiercely resist any planning on my part. So we'll both have to wait and see what happens. My car is whole again, thank you. I got it Friday morning and have been enjoying my renewed freedom for the last week. Now, if only the next chapter will cooperate as well as this one did, I should be able to get it up by, hm, Wednesday(?) of the week after next, 12 days from now. That sounds like such a long time. Anyway, until next chapter.
Grumpy: lol. I wonder what Tolkien would say. I as looking back through the appendixes and I think I know where I came up with Legolas' horse's name from. giggles insanely The name in the book is Arvedui, and was-- unless I'm mistaken-- a descendent of the northern line who was denied the throne of Gondor(?), I think it was Gondor, because the southern kingdom was not given to the rule of...and I can't remember who. I get those people mixed up. Mmhm, several want him. He's very popular. And tell me, honestly, did anything ever bode well from Aragorn in this story? I dare say she'll try. Success will depend on the Slyntari and the twins themselves. We all know how stubborn they can be; Strider had to get it from somewhere, after all. g Yes, well, I'll be hiding from Lord Elrond for awhile, just until he calms down. Hope you enjoy!
Rangergirl: grins broadly I'm so glad. Mm, tired, hurt, yes. That's what wrong with him. Unless he's been hiding it from me, he's not sick yet, but I wouldn't put that past him. g I daresay the rest he's finally got did wonders for him. Thanks for reviewing again! smiles cheekily
Nerfenherder: shudders at the thought I was hiding from him. That's a full-time job, I tell you. g lol. Me, too, I cannot imagine what I was thinking when I wrote it, but I'm glad I did. For that matter, I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote this chapter either, except that I was obviously thinking less than the chapter before. lol. Forgive me my excentricies. That line was my favorite, too. I wonder if I was tired . . . No, I don't think that shall work. Hm. . . . Vaguely remember, do you, well what would you say if I told you she's shown up twice previously? Eh? Ah, yes, reunion. grins to self Reunions are so much fun. I had their little reunion all written up already before I went on this rewrite-athon, but I don't think I shall be able to use it, now. Ah, well. And I did it! Before the 8th! Yay! Your fault. g I bet you're more than willing to bare the blame, hm. Until next chapter.