This is a VERY strange little fanfic I did a long time ago. Please, R&R and tell me what you think.
Guilt hung like a thick fog over the city, quieting the talk and hushing the laughter that would have otherwise been heard on a night such as this. Even the moon sensed the need to remain silent, and it stayed shrouded in mist, letting only pale blue rays penetrate its cover. Dread knocked on every door, and despair never failed to slither into the deepest crevices of stone, leaving an impenetrable wall of darkness in its wake. None could fight its power and all became subject to its hate.
Elladan's bane, his own brother's blade, what irony here lies. Had some trickery forced the mortal wound and fate upon his brother? Now in death, misery brings majesty, and once again the Pawn is played. The hand that had dealt Elladan's fatal blow had been the one held over his brother's bleeding heart until it beat no more. The look of confusion in the older twin's eyes as his brother's sword penetrated his chest stayed clearly in Elrohir's mind, vivid even in his waking hours. Elladan had tried to tell his brother that he was not to blame, but the iron was too swift and sharp for that. The Pawn was restless on the board.
Elrohir reached out and slowly brushed the back of his hand over his brother's cold skin, like marble it was, like ice. No longer would the halls of Imladris echo with the laughter of the brethren Elladan and Elrohir, instead they would silently mock the last son of Elrond whom guilt lay now heavily upon.
Elrohir could not bring himself to look his father in the eye. Taking Elladan's cold hand, Elrohir silently prayed to Iluvatar for forgiveness. He could not contain the cry of anguish that escaped his parted lips, and he bowed his dark head in an attempt to fight back the silver tears that threatened to spill forth.
Elrohir let his tears flow freely as he knelt beside his brother, he had never known pain like this before. "Adar . . . ." he whimpered, looking up at his father, who did not even seem to notice. "Adar . . . ." Elrohir whispered again, like a frightened child searching for comfort in the one person who had always been there for him.
"Leave. I wish not to see your face again in these halls." Elrond said stiffly, hugging tighter his daughter Arwen who had remained silent. Aragorn stood quietly in the corner, he had never thought that his Elven brother would be the one to depart before him and anguish was evident in his eyes.
Elrohir choked back another sob, "Yes, Adar." He stood up slowly and walked, shamed and hurt, from the room.
Elrohir fled, tears streaming in rivulets down his face, everything was going wrong, the tables were turning. He ran through the city's gates and continued until he came to the forest which looked ominous in the dark. Paying little heed to the warnings his mind was screaming, Elrohir ran on. He ran until his legs could carry him no longer and his knees buckled beneath him. The games of the Valar were cruel, that much he had excepted.
Elrohir's head swam, the world was seeming to melt like wax all around him, and dark blotches were appearing in front of his vision. Trying to stand, Elrohir made it only to the kneeling position before a wave of nausea knocked him back down. Gasping for more air Elrohir found himself coughing blood. A traitor would die a traitor's death, he thought to himself over and over. He had slain his twin, he was a traitor and a murder, he was as the people said. He deserved to die.
Memories flashed before his eyes, and finally ended with the dazed look in Elladan's eyes before he died, cradled in Elrohir's arms. Grief consumed him and the Pawn struck.
Elrohir awoke slowly to find himself in a small room with white linens and windows where sunlight shone through in bright rays. He smiled and stretched, realizing it had been a dream, but when he looked around, Elladan was not there. His brother was always there to wake him. Shaking off the horrid feeling that washed over him, Elrohir got up and looked out one of the windows, he wasn't in Imladris. Fear surged through him, it had been a dream, hadn't it? He looked at his hands, even after apparent washing they were still stained red. It had been real.
Yelling in anger and frustration Elrohir slammed his fist on the stone window sill, and something inside of his hand cracked when it contacted the rock. Elrohir wanted to be dead. Why had he not died?
He cautiously opened the door and stepped out, he wandered through a few halls and came to where two elleths sat at a table.
"Where am I?" he asked.
The eldest stood up and smiled, "In the house of Fingolfin, my lord."
Elrohir's eyebrows lowered in confusion, Fingolfin had lived during the times of Morgoth, not the times of Sauron. "Fingolfin is dead." he said, confused.
Suddenly the door burst open and the terrified servant who stood there spoke quickly, "Milady, he is dead! Lord Fingolfin! He was ambushed! Milady he is dead!"
Elrohir felt a knot form in his stomach, this wasn't right. The Elf who had been smiling at him just seconds before collapsed against the table, her daughter hurrying to catch her. Elrohir could not help but to notice the warning glance that the younger Elf favored in his direction.
Elrohir went back into the room in which he had awoken after a while. He was slightly startled when the door opened and the daughter of Fingolfin came in.
"Leave." she said venomously.
Forced out once again, Elrohir wandered. The nights were bitterly cold and often he would awake with crystals on his eyelashes. Time did not seem to exist, therefor it could have been a week or a year that he roamed, but soon he came to a faintly familiar place. It had been where he had stayed, the house of Fingolfin, yet it was deserted and smoke rose from its ruins.
Running swiftly to the once mighty halls Elrohir found complete destruction, everything had been burned. He found where he had stayed and small remnants of the Elves that had once lived there. Bending he picked up a small piece of broken pottery, it had been the cup which Fingolfin's wife had drank her tea from. Tears welled up in his eyes, who would do this?
Angered and frightened Elrohir set east, towards his home. Imladris would not welcome him but it was the only home he knew. He kept a straight course and made good timing. Within a few days the land began to look like he remembered, he was going home.
As he walked purposely through the woods a well remembered dizziness came over him, the Pawn was striking again, harder this time. Elrohir ran with all the strength he could muster, screaming in his delirium before he fell unconscious, his head resting on a bed of green ferns.
He awoke and continued with all speed. When he finally came to the city it was empty and silent. Racing up the steps he sped to his father's room, but it was deserted and the things there gathered dust. He opened up the closet and found it empty except for Elrond's finest cloak. Taking the silk up into his arms Elrohir fell to the floor, they had gone. He was the only one left. The clothing had that strange scent that Elrohir had never quite been able to figure out, a scent that Elrond had always had for as long as he could remember.
Elrohir rocked back and forth on the floor, tears pouring down his face.
"Adar!" His cry echoed through the empty building. He did not know how long he sat there, sobbing his heart out, as always, though, time did not seem to exist for him.
He got up and staggered outside, only to find the foundations crumbling and the gardens overgrown with weeds. What had happened?
"Ada! Naneth! Elladan! Erestor! Glorfindel!" he called, trying to connect with the past which had slipped away so quickly from his grasp. In denial he ran to the stables to find them, as well, empty and collapsing.
He ran once more, hard and unaware of all the pain except that in his heart. He ran for Gondor, Aragorn would help him, Estel would understand.
For months he ran madly and blindly, going by memory which wasn't even clear anymore. Nothing was clear to him now. His life had been turned upside down.
In the distance he could see the looming tower of Ecthilion shining in the light. Not much later he was racing through the gates, but things were different. Manure and waste littered the streets and the great Gondorian armies were gone, and the people stared at him as though he was something evil. The Eldar were not evil, they should know that.
He raced up to the throne room to find it bustling with many people.
"Aragorn! Lord Aragorn!" he called, everyone stopped and stared at him as if he were daft. "Were is the Elfstone, I must speak with him!" He said. Then all the people seemed to forget about him and go on with whatever they had been doing. "Strider! Telcontar! Aragorn! Thorongil!" he yelled in terror realizing that one seemed to know who he was talking about. "ESTEL!"
"Get over here!" An old, crippled man in the shadows called to Elrohir. "Elf are you deaf!"
Elrohir rushed over, "Were is Aragorn? Were is Estel?"
The man shook his head, "Elf, what year do you this is? The rule of Elessar is long past!" He said gruffly.
Elrohir shook his head, "No, Estel . . . . he was young ! They are still here! He wed my sister!"
The man shook his head, "Ah, the Evenstar. I was only a lad when Ellasar passed, and that was near to sixty years ago! Who are you anyway?"
"Elrohir son of Elrond."
The man shook his head, "Pah! Elrohir died not a year after he slew his brother, he died of grief! Lord Elrond sailed before the next new moon! Do not be ridiculous!"
Elrohir did not understand, but the name of Elladan fresh in his mind forced him to remember everything all over again. The Pawn was so cruel!
The old man regretted saying what he did because of the look of sadness that crossed the Elf's face. Perhaps Elrohir had not died, it was plausible. "I am sorry, lad. I did not mean to hurt you."
Elrohir nodded, "There is no need for forgiveness. Just the memories are vivid."
The man shook his bearded head, "Aye, the world plays strange games."
Then Elrohir felt a wave of realization pass through him, causing him to shudder. "And I am the Pawn."