A/N: Getting into some more songs of power shenanagins. Elrond fights to keep Elrohir alive. Beetle sees a familiar face and panics.

Enjoy! Leave a comment if you feel so inclined 3


09
Self Preservation and the Lack Thereof


The ride back to Imladris was swift and silent. Elrond had not wanted to tarry in the pass, not even to rest. There was no telling whether or not there were more Orcish war parties lurking in the mountains, and Elrohir's injuries were dire.

He had taken time to clean the twins' and Prince Fram's wounds to prevent infection and stitched up some of the worst gashes, but dealing with the bolt in Elrohir's shoulder was not something he wanted to do on the field. It was likely hooked, possibly poisoned. Ripping it out of him now would do more harm than good. Elladan rode with Erestor, Prince Fram was entrusted to Nelchanar, and Elrond kept Elrohir with him on his horse, his arm encircling his son's waist to keep him from falling. Elrohir was cold against him, shivering. For an elf, even a Peredhel, that was an ominous sign. It had been in that moment, when he realized how cold Elrohir was getting, that Elrond had reached out with Vilya and threaded his own fëa into Elrohir's graying one. And as time wore on, as night turned to morning, pain leached back into Elrond's shoulder. Every breath he took drew a matching one from Elrohir. That was enough.

Even as his head grew lighter and began to pound, his limbs turning to lead, Elrond kept his eyes fixed on the road. The long ride and the battle were, at last, catching up with him. The mortal blood betrayed the immortal, but he refused to give in. Almost out of pure spite, he fed Elrohir more of his own light.

The city came into view. The company let out a cry of victory, the gate horn sounding out in reply. Elrond didn't find comfort in it. Not yet. If he relaxed now it would consume him. The last shreds of his tattered strength would fail. The exhaustion would render him useless. His grip on Elrohir's fëa would slacken and break. He couldn't afford that. Elrohir couldn't afford that.

Arwen and Celebrían were there to meet them, both in tears. At first, the tears were of relief, but as soon as they saw the state the twins were in, their expressions twisted into something terrible.

Arwen ran forward to help Erestor get Elladan down from the horse. Celebrían darted to Elrond and Elrohir.

Wearily, Elrond slid out of the saddle. Celebrían touched his shoulder, but she might as well have been touching stone. Vaguely, he was aware that she was speaking to him, reaching for Elrohir and for his own face in turns. As he took Elrohir into his arms, he couldn't find it in himself to look at her. The world narrowed. He focused only on Elrohir and the fragile strands of fate strung between them. Focused on the way his son's fëa dimmed and cooled and clutched for purchase against Elrond's own. They were running out of time. Mandos was calling.

The pain in Elrond's shoulder pounded like a drum, each beat sharper than the last, and with it came terror. He couldn't distinguish between Elrohir's terror as he was pulled towards Mandos and his own terror at the thought of losing him. They were so tightly entwined now that it was impossible to say where Elrond ended and Elrohir began.

His feet carried him to the healing halls. The others must have followed. He snapped at the healers to tend to Elladan and Prince Fram and to bring him hot towels, water, herbs, and antiseptics, and then rushed Elrohir into his surgery.

When he laid Elrohir down onto the table, Celebrían was there, carding through Elrohir's sweat-slicked hair. Her mind crackled between them as Lia came in to help. It was Lia who had the wherewithal to call in another healer to build a fire in the fireplace and to build it as high as they safely could. They had to try to keep Elrohir warm.

Elrond took off his riding gloves and washed his hands, then returned to the table.

"Celebrían, help me turn him."

Between the two of them, they worked Elrohir to lay on his side. Lia rushed over to help hold him there. The pain was a clamp, every muscle in his son's body winding like a spring around the wound, and Elrond's own responded in kind. He sucked in a breath. Elrohir burst into tears.

Rage turned the corners of his vision red. He shoved it away. It would not help him. There would be a time for that and it wasn't now. He let his mind brush against Elrohir's, finding it already cradled in Celebrían's gentle, warm, silvery embrace.

We have you, she was saying to him. Ada has you. Nana has you. Stay with us, tithen pen.

Elrond kept his mind there, surrounding both of them, as he examined the arrow. It would have to be pushed through. It had missed major organs and arteries but shattered his shoulder. The shock was killing him.

Elrond put Elrohir to sleep, keeping a firm grip on his fëa, and then began to Sing.

It was one of the ancient healing Songs. He drew on its power now as he snapped the arrow's shaft. Pain exploded straight through Elrohir's body, down the tendrils where Vilya connected them, and echoed in Elrond's spine. He flinched, but kept Singing, taking all of it from Elrohir and into himself. Sunlight wove into the surgery, more than ought to this time of day, shining gold on Elrohir's ashen skin. Elrond sent an apology to his son's mind, steeled his own for what was to come, gripped the arrow's haft, and pushed.

Agony. Rending of flesh. If Elrohir had been awake to feel it, he would have screamed himself hoarse. Elrond's voice faltered and shattered into a cry as it slammed into him, but both Celebrían and Lia had joined the Song, weaving strong harmonies that bolstered it up when he could not carry it. Below them, Vilya hummed eternal. He drank the pain, welcoming it, letting it burn in his shoulder, down his spine, simmering in his blood, searing beneath his skin like the crack of a Balrog's whip.

He could take it.

For Elrohir.

There was little blood as the arrow came loose. Elrond made sure of it, Singing to it, commanding it to stay where it was, to clot. The blood obeyed the will of Vilya and her bearer. It always did.

Elrond was only vaguely aware that he was absorbing the sunlight in the room. Vilya drew as much in as he could channel, as much as she thirsted for. And slowly Elrohir's fëa began to grow warm again. Now that the arrow was gone, Lia made short work of his armor so they could tend to the wound.

Elrond used what was left of his strength to close up the gaping hole the arrow had left behind. It had not been poisoned. That was a small relief. His hands grew cold and shook. His Song wavered. In the end, only a shallow gash remained where the arrow had once been. Elrond stitched it up and packed a poultice and bandage on it.

As soon as he disentangled his fëa from his son's, exhaustion pounced. Elrond's eyes darkened and he dropped to the floor like a stone cast into the sea.

He woke sandwiched between two bodies and buried beneath a thick blanket. At some point, he had been shelled from his armor and dressed in a sleep shirt and leggings. Elrond peeled his eyes open, immediately regretted it, and shut them again. Good Valar, everything hurt. The top of his skull felt like it was going to slide off.

Someone was combing gentle fingers through his hair. The voice came to his mind in the silence:

How long?

He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes, but he knew it was Celebrían. He knew that bright, starlit presence better than he knew his own. A tentative reach told him that the other person next to him was Elrohir, sleeping soundly, his fëa burning strong and bright.

How long…? He sent the question back to her.

Exasperation, her exasperation, washed over him as if it was his own. Since you slept? Since you ate? Since you drank?

He had the grace to let her feel his shame.

Not since we left.

"Three days?" She snapped aloud, sitting upright. It stabbed into his head like a knife, though whether that was from intentional ósanwë or his migraine he couldn't tell. Had it been that long? The days and nights had all bled together in one seamless twilight while they had searched for the twins, fought, salvaged what they could of the mess, and rode home.

No time, was his feeble, unspoken answer. Please don't shout. Hurts.

"I should think it does! Elbereth, what am I going to do with you when you insist on punishing yourself like this?"

Elrohir stirred. He felt her mind brush over him to their son, soothing him back to sleep before it lashed back out to him scorching with anger.

He was dying, Celebrían. He sent it to her and felt her breath hitch. I could hear Mandos- hear Námo calling for him. I had no choice. I might have...if I had not misread the signs. If I had found them sooner…

He hadn't been willing to face the guilt, not when Elrohir had needed him. There hadn't been time. But now it threatened to consume him completely.

Celebrían wrapped her mind in his, entwining, soothing, almost an apology- but still laced in exasperation.

And you could have died, too. You have saved him. Let that be enough.

-It might not have been.

You did not fail. He sleeps next to you now.

Elrond dragged his eyes open and slowly levered himself up to his elbows, croaking: "-Elladan-"

She latched an arm around him, barring him entirely. "-Is looked after. He is well. You have only slept an hour and the day is young. Rest."

"He will think I abandoned him."

"He will think you are a fool if you get up to try to help him when you can barely walk yourself."

Sometimes, he hated himself. He hated the mortal blood coursing through his veins. This was one of those times. The other warriors had not struggled to ride for so long, nor go without food or water. But Elrond could never be that strong. He couldn't stay awake for longer than a few days without it making him sick, without accumulating migraines or nausea. And that was without having to tangle with Orcs and sustain his dying son. If he had not been a Peredhel, then the risk of failure would have been so much lower. He would have been strong enough beyond a shadow of a doubt.

But it still stood: Elrond could have failed. His strength could have wavered. He had been so dangerously close to losing his grip on Elrohir and if he had, it would have been the lingering mortal blood to blame.

"Stop that," Celebrían cut in.

"Stop what?"

"You are thinking very loudly, Beloved. And very foolishly. Stop torturing yourself."

Tears welled up in Elrond's eyes and leaked out onto his cheek. His mind turned, unbidden, to Elros, his twin -the other half of his soul- slipping away from his withered body before Elrond's very eyes; to Gil-Galad, his king, his mentor, choking as his burnt skin cracked black and red, sloughing off his bones and smelling of cooked meat. He had pressed Vilya into Elrond's unwilling hands on the blood-soaked slopes of Mount Doom while Isildur hacked Sauron's fallen body to pieces in blind rage.

And then there had been Eärendil, little more than a hazy memory, sailing away never to return before Elrond had been old enough to know him as a father. He had lost two more fathers when Maedhros had despaired when the Simaril had blazed like fire in his hands and he had thrown himself into that void in the ground. Maglor had nearly succumbed to grief (where did he wander now, in the far reaches of the world? ).

His mind sharpened now on a picture of Elwing: how she had looked between the glowing Simaril in her hands and him. The choice had been so clearly made: to cast herself over the side of their balcony to the ocean below. Elros had fruitlessly believed she would come back. Insisted on it as he dragged them into the wardrobe. Elrond had known the truth. The Simaril had been more important than they ever would be.

He had been found wanting even then, even as a child, even by his own mother. He hadn't been old enough or strong enough to save her from the Sack of Sirion, from Maedhros and Maglor. And instead, he had turned to his captors for comfort and abandoned all love for those that sired him.

And he would keep losing. And keep losing. And keep losing. Everyone and everything would slip through his fingers like sand because there always came a moment when he was too weak to save them.

"Stop. That. " Celebrían turned him on his side to face Elrohir and slotted up behind him. "Hold him," she hissed in his ear. "Hold your son."

Numbly, through one broken sob, he drew Elrohir up to his chest and buried his nose in his tangled black hair. Celebrían laced her fingers in his and pressed his hand to Elrohir's chest.

Feel his heartbeat, she whispered to his mind, curling warmly around him again. Feel how he breathes deeply. He is here. He lives. He loves you. I love you. Elladan loves you. Arwen loves you. You are a good father. An attentive husband. A mighty warrior. A selfless healer. A wise loremaster. A generous ruler. You are anything but weak.

He cried into Elrohir's hair, far too exhausted to attempt to rein it in. Celebrían pressed a chaste kiss to the back of his neck. And slowly, slowly, she coaxed him into a healing sleep.


Beetle hadn't been in Imladris very long, but during the past week, it had always been calm, unhurried, and steady like the Bruinen. That peace hadn't even been broken that awful day when Little Worm had collapsed. Time ran slowly here. No one was ever in a rush.

Today was different. Today, Imladris seemed to shake.

It had begun with the horn. Lord Elrond had returned. She'd been helping Lindir with the chores in Lord Elrond's solar and Lindir had dropped everything to run off to the front gates. Beetle hadn't followed. She'd just excused herself to Little Worm's side.

She reached the healing halls just as Lord Elrond did, and stopped short. He carried a man -elf- in his arms and was shouting for the healers. The arrow sprouting out of the elf's chest was as long as Beetle's arm. She reached Little Worm's room just as the entire healing wing erupted into chaos.

Little Worm sat up just as she came in, eyes wide.

"What's going on?"

Beetle shut the door and sat on the edge of his bed to take his hand. "Lord Elrond is back. I think…" she worried her lip between her teeth. "I think his son is wounded."

"He will live, though," Little Worm said with more confidence than Beetle felt. "Lord Elrond...he can save anyone, right?"

Beetle wasn't so sure. Lord Elrond had dragged Little Worm back to life from a fever, not an arrow. Selfishly, she was frightened. Not for Lord Elrond's son, but for them. Men turned into monsters when they lost the ones they loved.

She lay down next to Little Worm and wrapped him in her arms. Neither of them said anything. They just listened to the shouts, the hurrying feet in the corridors outside, the screams of pain...and... singing?

Beetle had never heard such a song. It was in Elvish, beautiful, somehow primal, half-music and half-chant. Three voices carried it in intertwining harmonies. Outside the light grew terribly warm and uncannily bright. The shadows on the floor disappeared as if the sun was at its peak straight over their heads- but it was still early morning. A chill swept down her spine. Below in the valley, the river roared and the wind howled through the trees and if she listened to it hard enough... it sounded like language.

"I'm scared," Little Worm whispered.

Beetle held him tighter. "Me too."

There were a few more cries of pain, one from the far end of the hall which she didn't recognize and another from Lord Elrond's surgery which sounded...almost like him. She wound tighter around Little Worm and shut her eyes.

After what felt like hours, the waterfall quieted, the shadows lengthened once more and a cloud passed over the sun. The wind didn't merely die, it stopped- the way a scream did when the throat was cut.

All was very still except for the thundering of her heart and Little Worm's anxious, harsh breathing.

Beetle got up and tiptoed to the door to peer out.

The hall was empty save for a few men carrying two figures out of the surgery. Her stomach dropped when she realized one of them was Lord Elrond. The other...the other looked like him, only younger. Both of them were still in armor and splattered with blood.

Lady Celebrían hurried out after the group, directing them to carry both upstairs to their chambers. Lady Arwen came out from another door across the hall and caught her arm, asking her something in Elvish. Lady Celebrían offered her a weary but reassuring smile and said something back. She didn't sound frightened or grieved. Merely tired.

Perhaps everything was sorted out.

Lady Arwen let out a relieved sigh and slumped against the wall as the group disappeared around the corner.

Beetle didn't realize that she had frozen in the doorway until Lady Arwen looked up, surprised to see her.

"Beetle?"

Beetle shrank back against the frame, but had the courage to ask: "Did anyone die?"

A little relieved laugh. Lady Arwen shook her head. "No, thank the Valar. Everyone will live."

Beetle let out the breath she'd been holding and then went back to Little Worm's side. She and Little Worm talked for some time, Beetle filling him in on what she knew about everything that had happened. Lindir had been able to clarify what Eirien had not: Lord Elrond's sons had been attacked on the road some days past, probably by a terrible beast. One of the princes' horses had come home without him, which apparently Elvish-trained horses didn't do unless the rider was dead or they were unable to get to them. If Lord Elrond's sons had been merely wounded, their horses would have carried them home.

Little Worm dropped off to sleep again in the silence. She brushed her hands through his hair and then got up. She wanted to see who else would be sharing the healing halls with them. Thus far, Little Worm had been alone and under careful supervision. She doubted such treatment would continue now that Lord Elrond's sons were home and injured. She needed to be certain he would be safe.

Beetle tiptoed down the hallway to the door Lady Arwen had come out of, looked inside, and immediately flushed red. An elf sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, while he washed his hands and face. A healer in a white jacket cleaned and wrapped a wound that spanned his entire side from hip to shoulder. He had long, dark hair like Lady Arwen and Lord Elrond, and the same features. One of the princes.

She ducked back out of sight and continued down the hall. Another door was cracked open. Inside, healers bustled around the warriors Lord Elrond had taken with him and Master Erestor. Master Erestor noticed her out of the corner of his eye and offered her a smile and a nod.

The most noise came from the door at the far end of the hall, and it came in the form of hushed, strained voices whispering to each other in Elvish. If Lord Elrond's sons and all of the warriors were accounted for, who else was left?

She frowned and crept toward the door.

The room was fairly dark. The curtains had been drawn. It was not a sleeping room, but a surgery. Three healers buzzed around a table in the center, working on a lump of bloody flesh that had been laid on it. One was making some incisions. The other handed tools when prompted. The third was cleaning and stitching up wounds.

Beetle squinted, straining to make out the person on the table, and then froze.

Though the man's face was bruised, swollen, and bloodied, she recognized him. She fell a step back. Her stomach churned. Then she broke into a run and flew down the hall back to Little Worm's room.

Beetle slammed the door shut. Little Worm woke at the noise and propped himself up to croak:

"What's wrong?"

With great effort, Beetle used her good arm to haul the chair up against the door. "Nothing. Go back to sleep."

She wanted to be sick. Her hands trembled. She sank into the chair and swallowed, fighting nausea.

Little Worm frowned at her. "That isn't nothing. Did someone hurt you?"

"No," she shot back. "Go back to sleep."

His frown deepened into a scowl, but he dropped the matter. He flopped down and turned his back to her, facing the window. Beetle closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the door.

Her rational mind knew that Prince Fram was here because he was wounded. Terribly so. But fear gripped her with frozen hands. Terror was a current dragging her down beneath deep water, threatening to suffocate her to death.

What if Lord Elrond sent her back with him once he was strong enough to travel?

No. He wouldn't.

Would he?

What if Prince Fram crept in here in the middle of the night to hurt Little Worm?

What if he crept upstairs into her room? What would she do then?

She wanted to say that Prince Fram would never do such a thing, especially not under Lord Elrond's roof. He wasn't like that. He never had been. Besides, he was too weak to, anyway.

But these reassurances were tiny pebbles skittering across the surface of an icy lake.

It had been a little over a week and already everything was shattering to pieces. She should have expected it. Nowhere was safe. Not for them. Not ever. She curled her knees up to her chest and folded her arms on top of them to bury her head. She didn't want Little Worm to hear her cry.

She cried herself into a headache. When she couldn't cry anymore she just sat there, utterly numb, listening for voices and footsteps as the shadows on the floor continued to lengthen and then mix with the dappled light. The room paled, then dimmed.

The door handle turned. Someone pushed on it. The chair legs scraped across the floor. Beetle planted her feet and pressed the door back into place.

It was Lia. Beetle heard her mutter in surprise. She tried the door again. Beetle kept her feet firmly planted, shaking all over with the effort. In the back of her head, she knew this was wrong. Lia wouldn't hurt them. And besides, this was the single most disobedient, ridiculous thing she had ever done in her entire life, but her heart was pounding so hard that she couldn't think straight.

"Beetle? Are you in there?" Lia called.

Beetle couldn't answer. Her voice was stuck in her throat.

"Beetle, open the door."

Another long pause. Beetle's hands closed into fists. Little Worm rolled over to stare at her and mouth: what are you doing?

Keeping you safe, she mouthed back.

It was a lie. Not to Little Worm- for that really was her intent. But she was lying to herself if she refused to acknowledge that this was sure to backfire and incur a punishment, accomplishing the exact opposite of what she wanted to do. Lia would be furious. Lord Elrond would be furious. But that was just like Beetle, wasn't it? To defy? To make mistakes? She had never been good at staying sweet, staying well-behaved. She was too scared. She did stupid things. She wandered. She brought punishments down on other people's heads. She was selfish. Lord Frumgar had always said so. Over and over and over again. That was part of why he had been so glad to be rid of her. She had fits of panic which overwhelmed every other logical bone in her body and turned her into a walking nuisance.

This was one of those times.

She couldn't bring herself to come away from the door. She couldn't hear anything. Her ears were ringing too loudly. She could barely see, not because her vision was darkening, but because her mind refused to make sense of anything other than her body, the door, and the fear that if she opened it any manner of awful things might happen. Little Worm sat up, about to roll out of his bed and shamble over to her. She shook her head at him and screwed her eyes shut.

The door stopped shaking. The handle stopped turning. Lia was gone. Beetle's head swam.

Oh, what have I done?