Many thanks to Anarithilen as always.

Note: Elrond was fostered for a while by Maedhros and Maglor after the Sack of Sirion-. Elwing turned into a seagull when she cast herself into the sea rather than give up the Silmaril when the Sons of Fëanor came calling. Maglor found Elros and Elrond and they took the children with them. Personally I feel that Maedhros, who searched for the children of Dior, Eluréd and Elurín, and did not find them and always regretted that, did not kill children and therefore probably did not kill women either as it suggests an honour. Because of that I think he would have cared very much for Elrond and Elros. And in my verse he collects abandoned children and fosters them all. As he did Erestor- it feels canonical. Of course he was gradually unravelling by then so perhaps it was Maglor who did indeed protect Elrond and his twin.

* Note for this chapter: I also think it too incredible that any warrior would have lugged a harp with him when attempting to penetrate Angband- although there are some fabulous stories that are very convincing about this. I prefer to think this is extravagant poetic licence and actually the 'Song' of Fingon was actually his own song and that the elves are so attuned to those they love most, he heard Maitimo/Maedhros's song rather than sing loudly in an area full of orcs.

Chapter 13: Elrond

Elladan lay cold and still, his face pale as if he had been bled dry. Beside him Elrohir stood, clasping his hand and willing Elladan to hang on, to stay, but he was so cold. Elrohir watched his father work silently, gathering glass bottles and small vials of different liquids. There were others who bustled around them but none of them spoke either, only glancing first at Elrond with concern and then, at times, Elrohir.

Elrond leaned over Elladan and pressed his hands against his son's still chest, but Elrohir could see it barely rose and fell, the breathing so slight it could not keep his body and soul together surely?

Corrosive poison drove itself between his brother's fëa and hröa, split the notes of his Song and the calm blue peace that was the very essence of Elladan was purpled, like a bruise and instead of blue the edges were yellow and painful. The notes of his song jarred and clashed and separated, tearing and ripping apart. Instinctively, Elrohir saw how the spell of unmaking was unravelling what made Elladan, separating element from element.

'This is how he made the Orcs,' Elrond murmured quietly and Elrohir glanced up at him. 'This was a morgul blade, was it not?' He did not wait for Elrohir's answer. 'As soon as I saw him I knew. My father told me that Morgoth made these blades as weapons of Unmaking.' He did not mean Eärendil when he spoke of his father; he never spoke of Eärendil. 'They were to cut the souls from Elves, leaving their bodies empty. He told me how Morgoth gave their spirits, their souls to the ever-hungry demons of the dark, the Balrogs, the vampires, those corrupted spirits that feed upon the purity and energy of the souls of men and elves, though at the time I did not realise how well he knew this…' Elrond drew a breath that seemed hard to take and said even more quietly, 'The Nazgûl have been feeding on the souls of Men in the same way for this Age past.'

Elrohir could not speak when his father said this: he knelt beside the bed and leaned in and pressed his hands and head against his beloved Elladan and willed the infection, the evil to himself but it did not move.

'It is my fault,' he said between clenched teeth. 'I did not see it. I could have stopped it. I could have got here more quickly.' He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead more closely against his brother's arm.

'Why did you not?'

Elrohir sucked in a breath. Though the question was mildly asked it was a bitter knife twisting in his chest. Failed! You failed again! You were too late for your mother, too late for your brother. He could almost hear the accusation in his father's voice.

'The Nazgûl' he said softly without looking up. 'They were waiting for us. Angmar and Khamûl.'

Elrond glanced over at Elrohir. 'Both attacked you?' He looked back down to the gleaming scalpel that he moved delicately against Elladan's skin. He was carefully sliding it along the wound, slicing away the skin that had been touched by the morgul blade. It was painstaking work, cleaning it of every trace of the blade's infection.

Elrohir took a breath and glanced around at the two healers who waited upon Elrond. They had sunk back into the shadows and waited for their lord's command.

'We came upon Glorfindel and Erestor when they were already in the Tower,' Elrohir said, thinking he would not yet speak of the Balrog, for it would certainly panic the whole Valley should those healers overhear him. 'The Nazgûl were waiting and attacked us,' he said instead. 'That was where Elladan was wounded although I did not know at first. When Erestor realised, he bid me hurry and bring him back here. To you.' Elrohir found himself defending his own actions. 'Angmar was waiting and I tried to defend Elladan but…'

He swallowed and remembered how he had been on his knees like he was now, before Angmar, how he had pledged himself. But he did not speak of this; how could he? How could he tell his father the impure thoughts and desires that had opened him to the Witch-King? Instead he never took his gaze from Elladan's white face, the purple bruises under his eyes, livid and stark against the white of his skin; he looked bled. 'Gandalf came,' Elrohir continued quietly, and punished himself with honesty about his uselessness before the Nazgûl. 'It was he that drove off the Nazgûl, for I could not.'

'Then I am glad for I could not bear to lose either of you.' Elrond's voice was as gentle as he could make it but Elrohir could not bear it, could not stand to hear the love in Elrond's voice, the forgiveness. If only his father knew what a viper he had in his house, Elrohir told himself bitterly. Elrond should cast his deviant son from the Valley and swear that he should never set foot here again!

'I would have given anything to save Elladan!' he burst out unable to bear it any longer. He wanted his father to know how he had depraved himself, the depths to which he had sunk, the perversion that wormed its way through him, the corrupt desires; he had wanted to rape his mother. He wanted to humiliate and violate Legolas Thranduillion, one he hated for no other reason than he had spared an Orc great suffering. And Elrohir hated himself above all. 'I would have sworn myself to Sauron if it had saved him.' Elrohir's despair and anger gathered so it roiled in his chest until he thought he would burst.

'I know.'

Bitterly Elrohir thought that Elrond could have no idea the depths to which his son had sunk, or how low he could sink. 'How could you possibly know what I could do!' he snarled in his hurt and fury.

'Do you think me so cold that I have not done the same when my mother abandoned us? I knelt before Maedhros Fëanorian and begged for my brother's life.' It was said so quietly, so mildly that Elrohir thought for a moment he had dreamed it. Elrond's hands were busy about the wound, the scalpel glinted in the light, a swab washed across the blood, stained bright red. 'It was not necessary of course,' he said matter of factly. 'But everyone thought we were doomed to a dreadful death and Elwing had filled our heads with such nonsense about the fiends that were upon us.' A light laugh broke from his lips as if he were genuinely amused.

'The Fëanorians were hardly the Nazgûl,' Elrohir bit back.

'Oh, I believe we thought them the very spawn of Morgoth. Elwing told us how Maedhros the Red Devil had been corrupted in the dens of Angband. He had been maimed and his fëa devoured, replaced by that of a vampire and he had come to feed upon our blood.' It was said conversationally, as if they merely passed the time of day. 'It was only later that we heard other stories, and some of them were just as untrue. That nonsense that Lindir sings about Fingon and the Harp*!' he smiled fondly. 'Maedhros would have had Lindir's hide for that.' Elrohir listened intently, in faint astonishment for Elrond so rarely spoke of those times, of his foster fathers and when songs were sung of the First Age, he left the room. Then Elrond's voice changed and his hands stilled for a moment. 'Do you think I would not do anything to save Arwen?' His voice was so quiet then that none but Elrohir could have heard him. 'And your mother? I would have gone down on my knees before Morgoth himself if it would have saved her.'

That shocked Elrohir into silence.

He glanced at Elrond's smooth head bent over his brother; his father's grey eyes were narrowed now in concentration and his face was still. Vilya glowed on his hand and Elrohir knew his father had activated the Ring and its violet healing light reflected softly on Elladan's face. For the first time, Elrond had admitted he wished he could save Arwen. And Celebrián, for he never spoke of her either, as if speaking the names of those he had lost would somehow make it real.

Suddenly Elrohir understood; his father had lost so very many over his long life; his parents had forsaken him, then his foster fathers, Gil-Galad had been killed, Celebrían, the countless fosterlings, and now Arwen. Pity moved him.

'Adar,' he said softly. For the first time in many, many years, he reached over and brushed his fingers lightly over his father's knuckles. Elrond's fingers caught his then and pressed them tenderly.

Elrohir could not look at him but he felt the blaze of love that washed over him, and then channelled itself into Vilya. White Power blazed from the Ring and pierced Elladan so he writhed and they both turned their attention to him then, their moment of shared understanding lost in Elladan's terrible need.

They wrestled with the infection, if that is what it could be called. Others came in and went, sometimes they would lean in and whisper something, or remove something, or wipe the face of father or son, sometimes one and sometimes the other.

At one point Elrohir was aware that a quiet, soft spoken woman came in and murmured that Glorfindel and Erestor had returned and wished to see Elladan but Elrond shook his head, not speaking and barely glancing up from their work.

Elrohir felt his his father sank down, down, deeper into the miasma of the morgul blade's unmaking… felt and shared his fear that the morgul blade had truly set loose Elladan's spirit so it wandered and could not return; houseless.

'It still resides in him,' Elrond said and Elrohir started; could his father hear his thoughts as he could sense his? The idea terrified him and he almost pulled away but Elrond said quickly, 'He is strong, though he needs your strength too, Elrohir. Do not leave! I need your power to force this poison from him, to break the hold of this spell. Let your anger flow, my fiery heart, let it unleash and give me your pain! I will use it.'

Elrohir stared at him.

For a horrible moment, Elrond met Elrohir' s gaze and it seemed to Elrohir that his father knew everything: the terrible stench of the Orc dens, the panting, breathless grunts of the Orc, the gurgle of its death and the whimper as his own hand reached down, pulled back the long cornsilk hair and …oh Eru, help me!

Did Elrond know? Had he seen that dreadful secret that Elrohir harboured in his breast, hid from everyone and until recently, even himself? The delicate thread that had connected him with his father snapped and Elrohir felt panicked guilt and furious anger surge in his chest; how dared Elrond look within? How dare Galadriel seek to peer into his soul? And how dare Legolas Thranduillion deprive him of his revenge!

A charge of power suddenly broke from Vilya. Like white lightning it cracked and struck him, rushed and broke over him like a storm at sea, snatching his own crimson guilt and love. He was rocked on his knees like the earth itself trembled and he was thrown to the floor. He felt the huge force of Vilya like an avalanche, beyond control, filling the chamber with purity and light, stained bloody by Elrohir's crimson power. It was then that Elrond seized the bloody light that was Vilya like it was a sword and wielded it, forced it to his will, shaped it, sculpted it and plunged it deep into Elladan.

Elladan's eyes snapped open, like a blind man looking about wildly and not knowing he could not see. He thrashed violently and cried out. Elrohir scrambled to his feet and threw himself over his brother pinning him down. Elladan bucked and thrashed against Elrohir's hold. Then horribly he opened his mouth wide and shrieked like a wraith, which was more terrifying for the beloved mouth that uttered it.

Elrohir was dimly aware of voices, that Aragorn was there somewhere and perhaps Glorfindel. Another joined them and he thought it was Gandalf. He was aware too that Elrond was shouting something and suddenly a charge of power broke again from Vilya, cracked white lightning, and a tide of power rushed over them all; Elrohir felt it surge and break over him, dragging power from him like a riptide but he clung to his brother like they were shipwrecked. He pressed his hands against Elladan's, pouring his love, his brilliant ferocity into that turbulent pool of purple and yellow that was Elladan's fëa, into the darkness that sought to suffocate him, to swallow him up.

Elrond thrust Vilya again into Elladan's wound, her bloody white light blistered and burned and dug deep. There was a writhing purple backlash from the morgul spell, a ripple of black spread over the white lightning as it fought back. Exploding darkness suffocated Vilya's blinding brightness for a moment and then Elrond drew himself up, a lord of Power, his eyes dark with terrible fury as he hurled Vilya again into battle, lashed the wave of darkness that surged around Elladan.

There was a moment when the poison, the morgul unmaking seized Elladan in a terrible vice and he cried out, but his voice was distorted and sounded animalistic, a bestial wail, and Elrohir pressed his hands over his father's and only then knew for sure that Gandalf too was there.

With Narya and Elrohir joining her, Vilya burst through the darkness and excoriated it, burned it so it seemed to catch fire and the dark became blood-red, crimson…deep… Narya lent Vilya strength, hope…but Elrohir heard a voice whispering somewhere in the darkness of his mind.

There is no hope for one such as you. How will you tell your father that you stood and watched? How will you tell your pure brother? They will not understand your unclean thoughts, your dark lust.

He did not cease his outpouring of love and power though he was exhausted and spent. But he did bow his head in horror and shame; Angmar had claimed him. He had sworn. He was utterly evil. Ridden with guilt and betrayal as his father had never been: though Elrond might well feel guilt over Celebrián, he had certainly never sworn to serve the Dark. How can I be his son? Elrohir thought bitterly. Elrond may well say he would have done anything, but the truth was, he had not. He had the One Ring within these walls, but he had not once entertained a single thought of betrayal. He stayed firmly on the side of what was right.

And yet, I have fallen at the first battle, Elrohir thought in agony. Angmar's spell insinuated itself more deeply between his guilt and self-loathing, and dug its claws, sank its teeth more deeply.

The fiery light of torches in sconces gleamed on the rocky wall. He found himself moving forwards, silently easing through the oily dark that clung to him, and the shadows with their horrid skulls and sharp little teeth slipped along in his wake. Ahead of him the torchlight lit up a body that hung, stretched to its limits, from shackles, from chains that disappeared into the dark. Long, pale gold hair streamed down around it…Ah! Eru…He almost cried out for the lust that flared and ignited in his loins and the shame that blazed in his heart…But this flat-bellied, lean hipped figure was absolutely male and around the pale skin that was already marked with blood, a wild whirl of colour and abstract was inked in gold and green… The sound of a lash against flesh cracked and a muffled cry made him jerk and pulse with desire.

'Your yôzaira.'

A dreadful flare of lust and furious pain charged through him, stiffened him so he wanted…oh Eru, how he wanted…

Suddenly Elrohir felt his father falter; Vilya shimmered and rippled. As if Elrond knew his lust, had sensed his guilt and horror at what he had done.

Guilt flared inside him and he crushed the sorrow and focused his brilliant ferocity on the morgul wound, forcing his own crimson Power alongside Vilya though it felt paltry and sordid beside her noble magnificence; Vilya was healing. He felt her power to knit anew, to create and counter the unmaking and he merely lent her his boundless, swirling energy to direct and use and draw upon. His depraved and unspent lust gave him that surge of power and Vilya responded, flaring her brightness and suddenly the darkness was gone.

Vilya was slowly drawn back and Elrohir felt his own crimson power sink back into his own body, trembling and utterly drained. He realised he was shaking, even though he was still on his knees and there was an arm around his shoulders, keeping him upright; it was one of the healers, but he could not even remember the man's name right now. He gazed down at Elladan to see how still he was, how blanched, and though he breathed, it was not the breath of one who merely slept and Elrohir thought how he had failed everyone.

He turned his head to see that his father had collapsed and was being eased into a chair, his face drawn and white.

'Ada!' he cried, sudden fear leapt through him and he found the strength to push himself to his father's side and crouched beside him. Elrond turned his head slowly, blinking, and weakly he lifted his hand and rested it upon Elrohir's head.

'Do not weep,' Elrond said and his voice was so quiet. 'He is not going to leave us now. I think …I hope…we have done enough. But for now I am simply exhausted my dear. You need to rest too.'

But Elrohir felt then a gentle soothing, as if a hand stroked his head. Vilya. Even now Elrond sought to heal him. He felt his face wet with tears; Vilya delicately wound about his own trembling fëa he supposed, for he was suffused with a violet light that was soothing and cool. He let her smooth over his nerves and sore heart, felt her stroke against his furious sense of loss and a sob broke from him.

'Hush, my dear,' Elrond whispered and Elrohir let his head drop against his father's knee.

Vilya's violet light dimmed more to a soft lavender and soaked into him. Like a healing balm she soothed him, smoothed over the knot of guilt and loss and it began to unravel…to loosen and untangle….

On his knees, his head buried in his father's robes, with the familiar scent of athelas and allheal. Vilya smoothed out the tangled threads of his pain and he saw, as if from a distance the darkness of the Orc dens…

A stifled scream tore through the dark as he eased open the heavy barred door. Inside the cell an Orc stood pushing up against a pile of rags and filthy matted hair, a shapeless huddle that whimpered and cried. A pale breast showed through the torn fabric already filthy and stained, ripped into shreds, and he stared, though his sword glinted in the torchlight. The Orc was panting, thrusting itself into the shapeless form, which moved and protesting hands clawed at the Orc. Elrohir held his sword before him and paused, watching the Orc thrusting, its mouth wide in lust and the whimpering form hanging loosely from its grip, pushed against the stone wall….The Orc turned suddenly and seeing the Elf standing there, roared with rage. It dropped the ragged form and turned, dragging its iron sword from the sheath as it turned to confront the intruder. Elrohir simply, elatedly, lustfully slashed the Orc's throat so its blood burbled from the gash and it fell to the ground. The stink of its release filled the cell, horrible and familiar.

The ragged shape that stank of blood and semen now crawled away from him, mumbling and weeping. Still sunk in the bloodlust and violence of killing, he had grasped its hair, thinking at first it was some female Orc or some creature corrupted by darkness and Shadow for it seemed shrivelled and wizened. And then…a long pale hand had scrabbled towards the Orc's fallen sword, scrambling to hold it and the rough voice whispered brokenly.

Tangled filthy hair dropped around her face… and her eyes, unfocused and bright with defiance and tears had made him see her. His eyes widened in terror when he realized the full horror of what he discovered.

'No,' he cried out suddenly and shoved himself away from his father. He staggered to his feet in horror that Elrond might have glimpsed those bestial, depraved images in his head, his memories. 'Please…I cannot bear it.'

Elrond's knuckles were white on the arms of his chair and his face full of pain. He reached out to Elrohir, in disgust and hatred, thought Elrohir despairingly, and he threw himself from the room in abject misery and self-hatred.

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