Particular thanks and dedication here to Nash, Cheekybeak, Spiced Wine and others who made me think a little more deeply about Elrond, and stories of the First Age, and to Keiliss for making me think about Eregion /Imladris so much more deeply.
Notes
Coldagnir is Spiced Wine's magnificent creation, a balrog, and I have borrowed him as complicit in the killing of Fingon in this. Tindómion is also Spiced Wine's, the son of Maglor. His friends also call him Istelion.
**In her brilliant story, Magnificat of the Damned, he is offered a ring by Sauron to give to Gil Galad which he refuses and with the help of Glorfindel, destroys.
*Narmó - Narmófinion- Erestor's Quenyan (Fëanorian) name. He was the one entrusted with Elrond and Elros. He made that promise to Maedhros to keep them safe.
*The Doors of Night: In Fëanor's oath, he swore that if he and his sons did not recover the Silmarils, they would go into the Void, the Everlasting Dark, which is where Maedhros was in the last few chapters. Tindómion (Spiced Wine's OC) is the son of Maglor and although Maglor is not dead, according to canon, none know where he is.
Beta: My fabulous Anarithilien. As always, thank you my dear!
Titles from Corinthians 14: For if the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself to the battle?
Chapter 13: An Uncertain Sound.
Elrond stared unseeing at his son's pale face, still as alabaster and as white. He looked as if he had been bled, Elrond thought. Though his clinical brain catalogued the signs of Elladan's condition (pulse slow but erratic, tongue swollen but not discoloured, skin cold and clammy and his breathing shallow and strained), all his father's heart could think was that his son still breathed.
Eru, I beg you, do not take my child.
His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands and he dared not close his eyes for an instant, in case he missed a breath, a lot breath..No. He dared not think it.
I beg you, Lord of All. I will do anything. He fastened his eyes on the barely rising and fall-ing chest. He had told Elrohir he would have fallen on his knees before Morgoth if he thought it would heal Celebrián. It was no different now.
A drift of frost sparkled on the window, glittered in the moonlight that silvered the lawns and gardens of Imladris. Elrond stared at it unseeing, lost in thought.
How many lives would you give that he be spared?
That question shocked him.
A low groan came from Elladan and Elrond was torn from his reverie and leaned down over him, murmuring softly, stroking his hand over his child's brow. How many lives would he give? He could not give an honest answer.
There is a way that you need not sacrifice anyone.
He stilled. His hand stopped where it was, pressed against Elladan's forehead. After all, the Ring was here, beneath his own roof.
There is the power of all Arda locked within this simple gold band.
He knew that. He knew that Sauron had locked part of his own spirit, the spirit of a Maia, in that ring…as Celebrimbor had with the Three…And still there were secrets about Vilya that even after all this time, Elrond had not yet discovered.
But with Ash Nazg to help you with Vilya, how much more power you would wield? The power to heal Arda? To see into the Dark?
To have wisdom, to know things that were hidden was seductive and he had always leaned towards knowledge. A memory struck him; his foster father lying belly down on the wet ground with his red hair trailing in the mud, oblivious to all but a spider spinning its web. Maedhros had wanted to know how the web was so strong relative to the spider's size and had been writing mathematical calculations in the wet mud with his finger. He had pulled Elrond down to join him. Elrond found himself smiling at the memory. Athelas suffused the air, and lavender and camomile to soothe Elladan's troubled spirit, and Elrond breathed it in deeply, letting it soothe him too.
These herbs alone will not bring back your son.
No. He knew that; it was Vilya that had excoriated the dark fetid poison from Elladan's body. Vilya, now exhausted and her power flat and expended. Not Elrond alone, not healing alone, but enhanced…He looked down at the dark blue stone of Vilya, smoky and deep, the patterns chased into the gold. How much more could Vilya do?
And Elrohir? How will you bring him back? He has great power as yet unrecognised.
Yes. Elrohir. Elrond knew that he had used his other son mercilessly, drank deeply of his power, but the rawness, the energy of his red swirling power was a complete surprise to his own father. Perhaps he could use Elrohir's power as well, to supplement his own? How great their power together would be!
You forced him to bend to your will and he did not resist.
Elrond let his head fall back against the chair in which he sat, from which he had not moved since he was helped there by his orderlies.
Yes, it was true that Elrohir had yielded to his father's demands, but Elrond knew that was only because it was Elladan lying there at the Door of Mandos. Or the Door of Night, wherever it was that Men went when they died.
Elrond did not know where Elros had gone after Death. It never stopped hurting. And Arwen had chosen that same path.
Elrond clenched his fists, dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands as if his own suffering might change something, anything. Elladan had not yet made a Choice. Had he died this day, none of them would know if they would one day find him in Valinor, or if they waited in endless futility.
It struck him with new force so sharp he clutched his chest with one hand and the other fell weakly onto his lap. His robe was still damp where Elrohir had knelt beside him and pressed his face into his father's lap, weeping.
A cry escaped his lips before he could stifle it. His children! Arwen would die, Elladan lay here and Elrohir?…Elrohir was beyond reach as well. In the flood of power that Vilya had milked from Elrohir, Elrond had seen into his son's heart. He wished he had not. There was such anguish. Guilt tore at Elrohir, gnawed at his fëa to the point where it was distorted, stretched upon a rack and it almost seemed that little pieces broke away and drifted off into the night. And there had been quicksilver glimpses of dim images; blood smeared over pale skin, firelight flickering over a flat belly and lean hips.
Without Elladan, Elrohir will burn, he thought. He will take the Way of Men and follow Arwen; it had always been in Elrond's thoughts. For a while he had thought that Celebrián's departure over the Sea would lure Elrohir to the elven path, for they had always been closest. But if anything, he seemed more determined to destruction since she left, more wedded to the path of Men. There were long disappearances when he rode with Men, and they were not always Dunédain. There were dark rumours of wolfsheads, outlaws. His returns were full of silence and brooding. Sometimes he had gone to Lothlorien although Elrond knew not the reason for Elrohir would not be ruled by Galadriel.
You could harness Elrohir's power to Vilya. Heal Elladan. Understand Elrohir…Cleanse him of all that is impure.
Elrond's eyes were heavy. He wanted to sleep but tried not to.
Impure? He wondered what that meant.
It would be easy to take the Ring. He could see it now on his hand, next to Vilya. A band of simple gold. He could see Elladan restored, his kind face turned towards Elrond, and Elrohir bowing his proud head, his heart pure and clean. Arwen at his side, smiling. All choosing the way of Elves. Safe. Safe…In his Valley. In his power.
In your power. All safe.
All safe. All of them. How many times had his sons returned to him thus, sick or bleeding or injured? And how many more times? Until one, or both did not return at all.
He did not know if he could bear it.
Perhaps I should sail, he thought. Perhaps I should scoop them all up and head for Mithlond. Arwen would be safe.
The heresy was not new to him and he let himself think it for a moment. But Arwen would not go. He would have to compel her and she would never forgive him. A child does not forgive their parents for making choices that are rightfully theirs. He had never forgiven Maedhros for forcing Maglor to abandon them. Elrond had been dreaming of the past, of them often of late. Had it not been for Narmó's* quiet care when they heard of Maedhros' death, Gil-Galad would have cast Elros out to sea for his angry brawling and told them to find whichever family they wanted.
You could find him too, that last one. Lost and wandering.
Elrond stared into space, the light reflecting off glass, off mirrors and glass painted with fabulous creatures and swooping patterns favoured in Imladris. He wondered, for a moment, if the Ring could really find Maglor…Sometimes he thought he heard a drift of Song, but it was only ever a dream. Or he caught a glimpse of a warrior, long hair pulled tightly back in a horsetail as Maglor had favoured, bronze inlaid armour that he still had in spite of all the long defeat. Sharp cheekbones, grey haunted eyes and a mouth that could thin in displeasure or curl in a smile so sweet it took your breath for wanting to please the man. There had been reports, long ago, that a warrior, a ghost from the First Age had been sighted on the Hithaeglir. It sounded like Maglor but Elrond refused to believe he was a ghost.
Why is it the Valar hate your House so, inflict such misery and damage? Every one of your House has been doomed in some way.
He could not answer Ash Nazg that one, but it made him blink for there was a curiosity in the question that he had not heard before, almost compassion. And he found himself standing suddenly by the door, his hand already on the handle and ready to open it.
Where was he going?
He glanced around the room lit by flickering firelight and the warm glow of the lamps. Golden light fell upon Elladan's still face and he blinked. He had been going to see Frodo Baggins.
And suddenly he came to himself. There was only one reason why he would go to see Frodo.
Begone, he simply said to Ash Nazg and felt the curl of its lip against his thoughts. Begone foulness. You will not succeed with me.
It was silent then. For now. Silent but it had not gone, he could feel it on the edge of his thoughts, it wanted was not the first time the Ring had sought him out and he had allowed it to lead him where he did not wish to go. Each time it grew stronger.
He went and stood by the open window, letting the cold air refresh him. Ash Nazg had left him, for the moment, but he knew it merely cast its attentions elsewhere. Ever since Frodo had arrived the inhabitants of the Valley had become increasingly agitated, scratchy with each other and Elrond had to work hard to keep high the generosity that made Imladris the Last Homely House. He guarded Vilya, kept her fires banked low so she could charge her power again. Stars scattered across the sky, bright and clear and the mountains were etched, darker masses against the darkness of the night.
He did not know how long he stood there before there was a light tapping on the door, hesitant as if it did not wish to awaken him should he sleep. He guessed it was Erestor for he had been often to ask after Elladan. So he was no longer shocked by his erstwhile guardian and oldest friend's gaunt appearance as Erestor eased around the edge of the door. He stood in the pool of light that came from the hallway behind him. Wearily, Elrond lifted his eyes to his old friend and mentor.
'How does he fare?' Erestor came to stand beside Elladan. Erestor's long, lustrous hair was pulled back into a severe horsetail and that emphasised the gauntness of his face, cheekbones like knives and his mouth was pressed into a thin line.
Elrond dropped his gaze and fixed upon his son's closed eyes, the barely moving chest, his pale skin. He could not speak.
'I will leave if you wish.' Erestor said in a low, humble voice. And then he burst out in anguish, 'I do not know how you can bear to have me near him.'
Elrond tutted. 'I have already heard what happened,' he said. 'You have stood between my sons and death many times. As you stood between Elros and me, and danger. You have always protected us.' He reached out, touched a hand on Erestor's arm, let Vilya soak him with love but Erestor seemed smaller, like he had shrunk. 'There is nothing to forgive.'
Rough spun material prickled against his fingers as he brushed against Erestor's tunic. 'Sackcloth?' he asked, quirking an eyebrow despite himself and he sat upon the edge of Elladan's bed, so carefully, not daring to disturb his sleeping child. 'Erestor, this does not become you.' He fingered the rough cloth and flicked his eyes up to Erestor's face which was haggard and drawn and his narrow amber eyes were sunken. 'I do not think it will help Elladan either.'
'Not sackcloth. Just less fine than usual.' Erestor's tone was caustic. He shook his head at something only he knew. Anger at himself, thought Elrond wryly. He recognised the harsh lines of anger on his friend's face; he was punishing himself for some imagined failure.
He considered Erestor thoughtfully. 'I have only twice before known you like this,' he observed gently and remembering; once at the end of the First Age at the news of his beloved lord's suicide, and then at the end of the Last Alliance when they had borne Gil's poor body back to Mithlond.
'Well…'
Elrond took his arm and gently steered him to the chair that Elrond himself had occupied before. Erestor resisted at first but Elrond stroked a finger over Vilya. Just a little of your strength, he asked her and there was a flicker of power. Just enough.
Erestor sank into the chair, but he leaned forwards so he could still watch Elladan. Through the soft candle light and firelight, Elrond could see that Erestor had beseeched Eru in the same way as he had himself only moments before. Those strange amber eyes were haunted and forsaken, Erestor had no faith. It would have cost him dear to pray.
'Elrohir has told me what happened,' Elrond said quielty. 'And he holds you in no way to blame. So nor do I and nor should you heap this…guilt upon yourself.' He left it open for there was still much, he knew instinctively, that they had not told him. Perhaps to spare him, he guessed. He was grateful for he could not spare a thought for anything else while Elladan lay so still.
Erestor made a dismissive gesture, irritated with only himself. 'I should have guessed what was happening. I should have stopped him. I should have…' He shook his head in disgust with himself and rubbed his hand over his eyes.
If only you had not been there, if you had seen what was happening! If Glorfindel had not looked away…If only Elladan had been elsewhere…Elrond wanted to say, but he did not. Instead he drew upon Vilya, let her peace settle upon his tender nerves and watched Elladan take a shallow breath. And another. And each one was a a blessing.
0o0o
Elrohir awoke suddenly, breathing heavily and sweating. He had dreamed.
In this dream he was in a dry place of stone and dust. Ahead of him lay a black horse, its eyes rolled and it panted. It was mortally injured he knew and although it was not his sweet Barakhir, he knew the horse and loved it. Its eyes were fixed upon him and he rose to his feet, sword in hand and approached the poor beast.
Everything was too slow but he looked above him to see huge serrated wings slicing the wind as they sped towards him, swooping low. It recognised the ugly, blunt-headed creature he had killed at Phellanthir. Its huge talons were outstretched towards to black horse and suddenly Elrohir threw himself forwards onto his knees in the dust and cradled the horse's head. 'Hush my friend. It will not have you,' he murmured in distress and tried to soothe the frightened, mortally crippled horse. His hands stroked its glossy neck and carefully sought the jugular vein. 'Forgive me,' he whispered as he cut once, swiftly and deep. It was instant. Blood spurted warm over his hands and the horse's eyes glazed, still fixed upon him and there was no time then for a hand reached down to him. Elladan.
Elladan!
He swung up onto the grey horse behind his brother and they leaned low over the horse's neck and galloped. Hard. With the Nazgûl screaming after them
'Elladan!'
The cry broke from his lips and he could not bear it. He threw the covers from his bed and leapt to his feet. He was sweating but already the dream was fading and though he reached for it, it slipped through his fingers and the only image left was of Elladan leaning down from a horse, catching his hand and pulling Elrohir up behind him, being pursued.
It was ever thus.
How many times had Elladan saved him and been saved in turn? Life without Elladan was unthinkable and for a moment he wondered how Elrond had borne Elros' Choice, his death.
The long casement windows were wide open where Tindómion had thrown them open the night before, declaring that the room was stuffy, had been left closed up for too long. The cold air laden with snow breezed into his room and the moonlight silvered the lawns below the terrace. He stood and leaned his head against the cold glass, the thin glaze of ice on the glass melted from his touch.
Let him live, he pleaded to some unseen presence. Let him live and take me instead. I will do anything!
There was silence. The moonlight silvered the lawns and roses, and in the sky above the distant stars glittered coldly.
Take me instead! he repeated earnestly. But there was nothing. He clenched his fists and teeth until they cracked. He knew to whom he spoke now. Sauron. Take me instead!
Silence. He thought he did not really expect to be heard for Barad-dûr was far away and Vilya shrouded the Valley in secrecy and silence.
But there was a way he could bring Elladan back. There was something here in the Valley…the Ring.
You are already so tainted. So impure. It is barely a whisper more than you already are and you can save him.
No! he cried to himself. I will not become as you, Angmar. I will not go into the shadow!
Not even for your brother?
He whirled around. On a chair someone had laid clean clothes and without thinking, he pulled on the fine linen shirt and soft breeches, barely noticing, barely thinking and barefoot, he threw open his own door and took the three strides to Tindómion's closed door and pounded on it.
'Istel!' he cried and leaned his forehead against the door, one hand on the door jamb. Please be here, he thought desperately, Temptation was too much. He needed to be kept from It.
It was a moment before he heard his friend within.
'Istelion!' he cried again in despair.
He was almost aware of quiet voices but did not register it quite until Tindómion opened the door. His long bronze hair was loose and his shirt open, hastily tucked into his breeches. His silver-grey eyes were slightly dazed and the pupils dilated, his lips were slightly swollen but Elrohir barely noticed in his distress. He bowed his head and leaned it against Tindómion's shoulder.
'I cannot bear this, Istel. I should have stopped him.'
A strong, comforting arm was thrown around his shoulder and Tindómion leaned his own head against Elrohir's. 'I have someone here,' he murmured in a low voice. Elrohir started and pulled back, suddenly realising why his friend's shirt was half undone, untucked. An apology on his lips he backed away mortified but Tindómion pulled him close and lowered his voice, speaking into his hair like he was a child. 'He will understand. Let me ask him to
leave. He will not mind.'
'Ah, forgive me, Istel!' Elrohir cried softly. That it was a man in Tindómion's rooms was no surprise to Elrohir. Tindómion was unashamed of his preferences, and discrete because he wished to be, not out of respect for Elrond or any other. It was his own business. 'I did not mean to disturb you. But I do not think I can …' His voice broke in a sob. 'He is so still and cold!'
'Elrohir, stay. I cannot allow you to leave like this. You are too… vulnerable.' Tindómion's grey eyes were concerned. 'You know of what I speak,' he said emphatically, holding Elrohir's gaze. 'We will talk in a moment but when I have explained to.' Tindómion drew Elrohir after him, one hand on his arm so Elrohir could not have pulled away without immense discourtesy to one he knew loved him.
There was movement in the shadows. An Elf pushed himself away from the wall where he had been leaning, his movements sensuous and languorous. Elrohir had opened his mouth to apologise for the intrusion but no words came. He stared. The Elf was barefoot and his white linen shirt gaped wide, and in the soft lamplight his pale skin gleamed. His shirt had slipped off one shoulder and Elrohir saw the outlandish colour and swirling patterns inked on his skin beneath the shirt. Pale gold hair fell loosely and unbound over his broad shoulders and straight down as far as his lean hips. It was Legolas Thranduillion. Barefoot and his long green eyes were dazed with lust. When he saw it was Elrohir he blinked slowly and his mouth, warm and wanton, opened in a gasp.
Elrohir's heart leapt in his chest and something emerged from the darkness of his thoughts, an image…
Fiery light, torches in sconces gleaming on the rocky wall, lighting up a body hanging, stretched to its limits, from shackles, from chains disappearing into the dark. Long, pale gold hair …Ah! Eru… Lust flared and ignited in his loins and shame blazed in his heart…Flat-bellied, lean hipped. Pale skin already marked with blood, a wild whirl of colour and abstract… The sound of a lash against flesh, a muffled cry and he jerked and pulsed with lust.
'Your yôzaira.'
He knew his lip curled in disgust at himself, but Legolas saw it and his own mouth pressed thinly in an answering, unspoken challenge. Their eyes met like clashing blades and slid off each other. It made Elrohir want to dominate and subdue! Legolas was here for sex. He could smell it in the air. Desire charged into his belly, churned in his balls and he stiffened. His face flushed and his voice stuck in his throat, he could not speak. I am not this! he railed against himself. But he was. And he knew it.
'I think I had best leave.' Legolas was cold and stiff. He was angry, thought Elrohir.
Tindómion's arm about Elrohir sagged slightly. He was disappointed, Elrohir recognised. But Tindómion only said, 'Yes, probably for the best.…'
Legolas inclined his head slightly towards him and there was no mistaking the slight curl of anger and arrogance on Legolas' lips, Elrohir thought. He wanted to wipe that arrogance from the Woodelf's mouth.
'Elladan is…' Tindómion began but Elrohir stopped him.
'Do not speak of this now, Istel.' He did not want Legolas Thranduillion, who hated him with such intensity, to see his pain, his vulnerability, but even as he spoke, he could hear the anguish in his own voice and cringed.
But Legolas said nothing at all, he did not even glance at Elrohir. He merely inclined his head at first Tindómion and then Elrohir, but more coldly, and then reached to scoop up his boots which had been thrown carelessly onto the floor. His tunic and shirt fell open again wantonly as he leaned over and Elrohir could see those strange markings inked onto his skin, and those erotic images stirred in his head again: firelight glowing redly on pale skin, inked with sinuous markings, writhing in an ecstatic anguish.
Straight backed and with a cold glance at Elrohir, he stalked past them with not even a look or a touch at Tindómion to show he understood. The door clicked shut behind him and Tindómion smiled regretfully at the closed door.
The swagger in his departure antagonised Elrohir unreasonably and he felt a stirring at the Woodelf's sheer arrogance, as if Elrohir were a mere inconvenience to his seduction of Tindómion. He felt like reaching out and dragging the Woodelf back, shoving him hard against the wall. But Tindómion's hand was gentle upon his arm, holding him carefully and the furious lust became indignation on his friend's behalf.
'Why do you waste your time with him?' he demanded, convinced now that Thranduillion merely toyed with Tindómion, used him.
His friend's silver-grey eyes widened and he tilted his head slightly, to look at Elrohir better. 'Come now, Elrohir. You have seen him,' Tindómion exclaimed. 'He is exciting and unpredictable. He is an archer of some note, everyone says. And he is fair, and noble. He fought well beside you and he did not abandon Rhawion. I heard that he brought Rhawion's body from the Tower in spite of the Nazgû is much to commend him and he has much that reminds me of you.' There was curiosity in his voice and bemusement. 'I heard how you healed him of the lhach-rhaw. Do you regret that?'
Elrohir did not hesitate. 'Of course not.'
Tindómion did not pause. 'Then why is he a waste of my time if he was not a waste of yours?'
Elrohir looked away and found his gaze drifted unthinkingly to the door through which Legolas had left. 'I never regret healing anyone. Even the least of our folk.'
'And he is the least of our folk?' Tindómion was amused now and smiling.
A comfortable chair was set at an angle to the hearth though there was no fire and on a small table set within easy reach of the chair, was a half drunk goblet of white wine and scrolls piled up haphazardly. Some had fallen from the table onto the floor and had unrolled. Letters, Elrohir could see. They were old and clearly Tindómion had been re-reading them. On some of those letters there was the broken seal of the last High King, Gil-Galad.
Elrohir suddenly understood how Tindómion had become seduced by an easy encounter with Legolas Thranduillion.
He turned away discretely to look out of the long casement windows which were thrown open to the ever present low roar of the river. This end of the House was close to the deep gorge of the Bruinen where the river chased itself and poured endlessly over a high waterfall. Here the lawns and roses were always misted.
In spite of Elrohir's discretion, Tindómion made no attempt to hide the letters or to tidy them away. Merely he pulled the chair around to face the bed and grabbed the half empty goblet of white wine in one hand and drained it as he threw open a cupboard with his free hand. Rummaging around in the cupboard he drew out a second glass and a half empty bottle of the white wine he favoured. He quickly pulled the cork from the bottle and poured wine into the second glass, pushed it into Elrohir's hand.
'You are overwrought,' he said as if that explained everything, and then sat on the edge of his bed. Pulling his long bronze hair back in one hand, he quickly secured it with a leather thong that had been dropped onto a bedside table upon which were scattered various bits and pieces. A flint, a tinderbox, a wooden comb. 'Why do you dislike him so?'
Elrohir sipped the wine. It was sweet as Tindómion sometimes liked it, too sweet for Elrohir and he made a face as he drank it. He glanced up at Tindómion's expectant face and said, 'He is arrogant, wild and promiscuous.'
Tindómion laughed and swung his feet up onto his bed, stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle. Then he put his hand behind his head and looked at Elrohir in amusement. 'If he is arrogant, then there must be many you dislike in Imladris. Saeldir for one, Erestor, me. You.' He grinned relentlessly. 'It is often said that we dislike in others what we dislike in ourselves. And I was rather hoping to find out if the latter were true,' he added unrepentantly.
Elrohir half closed his eyes for the shock of dark lust that uncoiled in his belly. It raised his head and he could almost see its tongue flicker over its lips at the images that had forced themselves upon him earlier; the taut stretched body, twisting in chains, in anguished ecstasy, erotic charge.
But chasing that image was another of cornsilk hair and feverish blue eyes staring up, unrecognising, fingers scrabbling at the black orcish blade cast from a dead Orc's hand. Mother! Horror seized him then and he squeezed closed his eyes, clenched his fists. Bile flooded his mouth and he seized the goblet and gulped it.
'He denied me.' Elrohir said bitterly, crushing the memory. Instead he forced himself to remember the journey with Legolas in the company of Aragorn and Glorfindel. Rhawion had been there too and the memory slewed him with unexpected pain. 'We slew many orcs along the Bruinen and impaled one as a warning as is our custom,' he said, remembering. 'Legolas Thranduillion did not like that it kept him awake and took it upon himself to despatch it.'
Tindómion sobered. 'That is more serious,' he admitted. 'I have heard some of the soldiers speak of it. Amron was telling a small group. He was unsure whether it was a crime or mercy.' He drank his own wine and savoured it for a moment, his eyes distant. 'The silvans have a fierce enough reputation themselves. I do not think it is in him to spare orcs…but perhaps it was the cruelty of it he disliked.' He held up a hand quickly to forestall Elrohir's outburst. 'I know as well as anyone that orcs spare none themselves. I know as well as you how they enjoy pain of others, that they take great joy in it.' His own face was dark as he spoke. 'I merely seek a reason behind Legolas' actions.
Elrohir took a deep breath and let the anger leach from him. 'He abandoned his watch to do so. No one could have shot the Orc from that distance and in the dark.'
'Difficult I admit. But Amron and Saeldir have seen him shoot. They say he could shoot a bat's eye in the dark.'
'I found him with Berensul but two days after he arrived. In the gardens.'
Tindómion turned his face towards Elrohir and raised an eyebrow but he was amused, Elrohir could see. 'In the gardens? I am sure the whole of Imladris was shocked and outraged. But Berensul is most prolific in his seductions. Anyone new is not safe,' he said dismissively. 'And he spies for Erestor so it hardly counts against Legolas. He was new, didn't know anyone, very far from home and from what I hear from Glorfindel, had some news that he could not have looked forward to giving. And then is forced to do in a council full of the likes of Elrond, Gandalf, Glorfindel, Erestor and the ever cheerful Galdor. It could not have been easy.'
Elrohir considered this. 'Perhaps then it is because Elladan healed him and yet lies on the brink of death and Legolas has not asked one word of him.'
'You are not jealous then that he is chosen for the Elves? Your father decided that of all of us dwelling here in imladris, it is Legolas Thranduillion who is the most worthy to accompany the Ringbearer.' He gave Elrohir a sharp look but Elrohir had fallen back against the chair as if wounded. Legolas would go to Mordor.
Although news of the Ring and the Quest to destroy it had been the sole reason for his and Elladan's journey to Lorien, his brother's injury had given him no room to think of anything else. He had thought Frodo would not be leaving for weeks yet, until the snows had melted in the high passes but he realised suddenly that it was Yule already and that if they were to leave in secret, they could not wait. Legolas was going with them. He thought he would be pleased the Woodelf would be gone, but he could not find any relief in his heart. Instead a heaviness settled in his belly that he recognised as fear.
Tindómion tilted his head to regard Elrohir curiously. 'Elrond did not decide until very recently,' he said. 'We thought he waited for Glorfindel's return, or your own. But Power calls to Power, and the Ring tempts us all.' He reached over to the bottle and poured more wine into his glass. 'Imagine if it succeeded in luring me. Or you. Or Glorfindel.' He reached out to pick up the goblet from the small table beside the bed. He took a long draught then set down the goblet. 'It promised me so much.' He smiled thinly, his silver-grey eyes hard for a moment. 'It whispers of my House, of the glory we once had. Promises me the heirlooms of my House; the Three, Galadriel's mirror, the Palantri….'
Elrohir was aghast for a moment. The implications of the Ring's promise to Tindómion meant Elrond's death; there had been those precious moments of understanding, of truce between Elrohir and his father as they stood watch over Elladan and it had changed things. For now at least.
But this was Tindómion, whom Elrohir had known for most of his life, with whom he had ridden countless times and fought back to back. He had saved Elrohir's life, Elladan's and be saved in turn. 'I would trust you with my life,' he said firmly.
Tindómion glanced at him and smiled . 'I told it to deliver me the Silmarils so I could release my House from the Oath.' He stared up at the ceiling. 'I thought that would silence it for it speaks to me endlessly of things that cannot be…It tells me of those I would seek…It speaks to me of the Doors of Night.*'
Elrohir looked down into the depths of the golden wine in his goblet. Candlelight deepened its glow. He thought how the Ring had tempted him, how it used what he already was. For Tindómion, there must have been unbearable pain as the Ring unpicked his life, his loss. 'How do you bear it?' he asked quietly.
'I do not know.' Tindómion rolled onto his side and cradled his head under his bent arm. His silver-grey eyes were fixed upon Elrohir. Tilting his head slightly so the burnished plume of his long hair slid down one shoulder as he considered Elrohir. 'How do you?'
Elrohir could not look at him. 'I do not bear it,' he said harshly. I am already enslaved, he thought. I am already known. My blood is tainted and corrupt. How can I be allowed to stay here? Almost he spoke. How he wanted to tell Tindómion how Angmar had touched him, had reached into him and showed him what he truly was: a man who had stood and watched his mother's rape, who had been roused. But how could he ever speak of this to Tindómion, a child born of rape himself? How would he accept what Elrohir was, his dark desire, his terrible crime when Tindómion had resisted Annatar?**
He shoved himself to his feet suddenly. 'I need to be doing something,' he said. 'I cannot sit here whilst Elladan is sick, or whilst Orcs ravage our borders. How can Elrond allow it!' He found himself pacing again, pushing his hands through his hair, turning the ring on his fingers that caught the light in its red glow.
Tindómion did not move but his eyes followed Elrohir's restless pacing. 'Do not tell me that you have not heard the Ring. I see in your eyes that you have, ' he said relentlessly, ignoring Elrohir's words. 'What has it promised you?'
Elrohir stopped. He breathed hard.
''It has promised you Elladan of course,' Tindómion said at last. He swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Elrohir turned to him. The heavy plume of Tindómion's hair pooled on the bed. 'It has promised you dominion.' He paused and took a breath. Then he said, 'Has it told you you can bring back Celebrián, that with the One Ring you can heal her?'
Elrohir bowed his head as if for punishment. Less than he deserved.
'It will want you, Elrohir.' Tindómion said earnestly. He leaned forwards as he spoke. 'If it has not already promised you that, it will…And anything else you have ever wanted. Even things you did not know you wanted.' Tindómion stood now and grasped Elrohir's shoulder. 'I know you well.' He lowered his voice and pulled Elrohir's head towards him. 'It will lure you with violence, with the promise of revenge of those who would oppose you. It knows what you desire more than anything.' He spoke emphatically, each word punctuated. 'Elrohir, you are too dangerous. Too great a prize!' He cupped Elrohir's head and pulled him to rest his forehead against Tindómion's shoulder. 'How Sauron wants you! The Ring would invest great energy into luring you to it. I know of what I speak! And I could not bear to see that, my friend.'
Elrohir felt like he had been punched. But it was still less than he deserved. 'I have heard it,' he confessed, wanting someone to know, so he could be pulled back from the brink. 'It knows me. The Nazgûl….'
'The Nazgûl? Angmar was it not?' Tindómion straightened and almost as if he noticed for the first time, his gaze strayed to the letters on his desk and the look he gave them was like a caress. 'Angmar knows what your heart desires the most. It is the gift of his Ring.' He murmured almost to himself. 'He offers you the inmost secret of your heart. But beware, Elrohir.' He suddenly turned his hot gaze back to Elrohir. 'He will pollute whatever he finds there, send it back to you in some twisted form of its true self so that you recognise it as yours but there are shadows where before there were none. There is darkness in your motive were your heart before was pure. He corrupts your thoughts and twists them into evil. Do not be beguiled by him.'
His fingers lingered over one letter in particular, so it became a caress. 'I wish I had kept that ring,' Tindómion said very quietly and Elrohir stared at him. 'It will not be long before Ash Nazg discovers this although I kept it secret in my heart until now. But I know that I cannot take the Ring to Mordor.' He looked up and met Elrohir's astonished gaze with such honesty and courage that Elrohir thought he could indeed tell Tindómion how he was tempted.
'I have to tell someone, Istel,' he said and even as he began to speak relief flooded over him. 'Angmar did confront me…'
Suddenly there was forked lightning scattered over Imladris and there were heavy, black thunderheads rolling over the Valley. Thunder cracked. And again, like the mountains themselves were breaking, cracking stone. A sudden wind blasted around the Valley and the House itself seemed to shake. Blue lightning flashed in the sky, a bolt directly over them. And another. Red this time. A blue spike of lightning seemed to pierce the sky from the house itself and it seemed to wrestle with the bolts from above. Blue light and red twirled, curled, lit, ignited together and suddenly pulsed. The silver-blue light bled into the air. And suddenly it was quiet….
Elrohir and Tindómion looked at each other in horror.
'That is no natural storm,' Tindómion said and Elrohir shook his head.
'Some weapon of the Enemy. He knows the Ring is here.'
'He will come.'
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tbc