Disclaimer: I'd kill for it! But Arda and its occupants do not belong to me.
A/N: This chapter is actually rated R, for extremely heavy subject matter. No character death...Yet. sinister grin. This chapter is kind of just freaky. I am sorry you had to wait for so long, but my muses ditched me. I finished it the first chance I got. Elrohir this time. Enjoy. Usual request for reviews applies.
Empath98: Yes, you were first. You get your choice of a cookie or a mini-choco-elf. Yes, I bet people do love it when I update...it happens so rarely. Keep being a faithful reviewer! The psycho at this end of the keyboard likes those reviews...
Daeomae: Me? Wicked? You shouldn't have! Yes, the plot will only keep thickening...and thickening...to the point where even I get confused. I wonder what you will think of me after this chapter though...:has not written anything remotely evil at all:
Hyperactive Forever: Good? twitches violently I'm sorry, I do not throw granola. I throw rocks, glass shards, and olive forks. I have updated. Not really that soon though...I think you will hate me for this one.
Chapter 2: Tired:
I am tired. So tired. My brother gave up his freedom to save my life and I cannot even recover properly. I will not even recover properly. Legolas rarely has the time to stay with me, he searches for Elladan almost constantly. I have been told that he has arrived back from yet another unsuccessful round of scrutiny. He will rest and come to me as always.
His conversation is to me as food–which I have been avoiding–to a starved traveler, my friend's presence is needed. His hopeless optimism and both spoken and silent support and reassurance is worth to me more than the jewels of Valinor.
I feel drained. I have been awake less than a week. The amount of blood I have lost remains dizzying as my body works in a rapid elvish manner to right all wrongs. I am holding it back, I know. Breathing is painful, and my lungs feel heavy as lead. Though I am told I will survive, I doubt it on frequent occasions.
Elladan is afraid. He fears so few things I never feel terror tugging at our bond. I want to leave this bed and assist the feverent search, using the connection of our minds to its full advantage, but I cannot even sit up without assistance. I hope Legolas arrives soon, as my own pessimism is bound to drive me insane in a very short amount of time.
At the moment I am tempted to beat my head against the nearest wall until I lose consciousness, but the slow spinning of the room as I attempt to rise is an unneeded reminder of my inability to do so. I would call myself brutishly stubborn, as I am at war with my own body at the moment. I need to talk to someone, before I drive myself mad.
Hollow eyes stared at the ceiling, the feeling of despair the slim figure sprawled on the bed felt radiating through them like dark rays. Elrohir knew he hadn't been eating nearly enough to support his weakened body, but the elf did not quite care. His brother was not eating. Neither would he.
Silver eyes continued boring into the white-painted surface, thoughts barely grazing their owner in his private island of agony. The door swung open, but he failed to notice. Elrohir was not in good condition.
Legolas entered the room to see his friend in a horrid state. Saying nothing, he sat in the chair Elladan had set out when his brother was first injured. Now the seat belonged to the Mirkwood Prince. A slender hand stroked the raven hair of the wounded elf on the bed, as the normally lighthearted blond once more rose to the occasion.
After a few minutes of heavy, lingering silence, the youngest son of Elrond finally spoke, "I want to sit, Legolas..." he trailed off, ever unable to ask for assistance; but his Sinda friend understood his request, long ago used to his mannerisms. Legolas placed some cushions behind his friends back, flashing him a knowing grin.
"Your father says you have not been eating. Elladan told me to look after you. I shall do whatever it takes to make sure you are alright. I will not fail him," the blond prince rather affirmed.
"Stop talking about Elladan as if he were dead!" Elrohir burst out, "He will be alright."
The Mirkwood Prince furrowed his fair brow, "You have changed the topic of discussion. You have been starving yourself. You do not have to endanger yourself because your brother is in danger. You owe it to him to stay well."
A muddled expression crossed the raven-haired elf's face, "Legolas–I, I have a reason. You understand that he is in captivity, and that is due entirely to me. I will not eat while he does not eat."
Thranduil's heir made his disapproval known instantly, "That is possibly the most idiotic thing I have ever heard you say," his frown deepened, "You will eat. And you will be as close to fully recovered as possible in the given time when Elladan is brought home."
"My mind is at rest. No food shall pass my lips until my brother is safe," the younger twin once more affirmed.
"I am sorry, Elrohir," Legolas ominously voiced as long strides carried him from the room.
"Sorry!" the all too delicate seeming form on the bed spat as the door opened to let his companion out of the room, "Legolas!"
The door shut behind the blond, "Come back!"
Silence.
Elrohir was once more alone in the silence that eternally threatened to push him the short distance he stood from utter insanity.
An uneasy feeling began to grow in his heart. Elrond's younger son brushed it off. Insanity. Delusion. Paranoia. Yes, paranoia. 'You have recently been shot by a being you considered an ally, then kidnaped. You are bound to be a little bit too wary,' he told himself.
The door cracked open. Lord Elrond Peridhel stepped in, his eyes filled with an overpowering darkness. Two servants entered after him, one holding an odd instrument, the other a bowl. Their eyes were filled with the same dull blankness as his father's. Legolas entered after the party. And his eyes were the worst of all.
"Adar? What is happening?" the raven-haired elf inquired, a slightly shrill nervous edge coming to his voice. father
"Forgive me, ion-nin, for what I am about to do," the Lord of Imladris blankly orated. my son
"What is happening Adar, tell me!" Elrohir question once more, more frantically this time.
This time, the healer said nothing, silently instructing the two servants. The Mirkwood Prince stood in a corner, a pained look in his eyes. Blue eyes were begging for forgiveness. In his pained, somewhat starved state, the son of Elrond did not realize what for.
The same blue eyes watched as the Lord of Imladris silently approached his son, his imposingly tall figure towering over the bed-ridden one near him. Elrohir opened his mouth to protest, and the action was duly repaid. The raven-haired elf found his jaw held open with an odd contraption with a tube attached to it.
At that moment Elrohir knew what was happening. He watched in horror as a pump-like device forced the disgusting substance in the bowl into his mouth. Swallow or drown. The slimy concoction slid down his throat, and he had to fight to repress his gag reflex–not the best time to vomit–as the seconds seemed to transform into hours.
The already weak elf's body had finally had too much, and the last thing the silver-eyed elf saw before his silver eyes closed was his friend's mouth forming the simple words 'forgive me.'
A/N: Reviews make my night.