I know, and I'm so sorry for making you wait that long! But finally, I made it. Thank you for your patience, to all of you who are still here!

A HUGE THANK YOU to Windsurfbabe who has gone over this chapter more times than one until it was fixed so that it could work.

Enough

The sword at his side was heavy with the blood it had drunk. But still it thirsted for more. Its lust surged and swelled with every kill, endlessly.

After so many years, the image of his mother in the orcs' den still flared. In these moments, it stung mercilessly. Hate seemed the only way to withstand it. To repel it. It roared inside Elrohir like an intoxicating thrill, claiming hold of his heart, of his mind, of his body...

More slaughter, more death. – Revenge! – More blood for his thirsting weapon.

They had killed masses of orcs, trolls and other fell beasts, as well as men fighting on the side of the enemy. The latter ones had brought no satisfaction, but in the furore of battle, Elrohir dismissed them as casualties Fate would not spare either way.

The smoke and fog lifted slowly from the battlefield, to be carried away by the wind. Elladan rode beside him, impassive, eyes hard. His rain-washed armour gleamed in the evening sun, reflecting the now-clear sky. The wind pulled his hair back and it streamed thick and black behind him.

For a fleeting breath, the sight of his brother, whom he knew so gentle in caring and healing, hit Elrohir. Elladan was terrifying in his beauty of unyielding sharpness. Realization struck Elrohir that he must be looking much the same. But instead of shocking him, the recognition spurred him with even more intemperate power.

He chased alongside his twin after the desperate, fleeing men of the South and the East, who had fought for the enemy and lost. They were running towards the ships in the harbour, hoping to escape. But what they did not know, was that the ships were in the custody of freed slaves now guarding their former captors as prisoners. The fugitives would soon meet death, or join the surviving Corsairs in captivity.

Those men were running for their lives, shooting fearful glances over their shoulders, their eyes filled with dread. Shouts were coming from the ships. Arrows flew from the river and blades glittered. Many of the fleeing threw their weapons down and, without ceasing to run, lifted their hands in surrender. Many, but by far not all. Those who did not yield, Elrohir thought, might soon meet certain death. His brother beside him slowed his mount, and it seemed only natural to follow his motions as they moved flank to flank.

The men on the ships took over, and there was no need for more chasing or bloodshed. His heart still pounded hard from the fury released in battle, his horse snorted and danced nervously between his thighs. With the sudden decline of urgency and of adrenaline that followed, an emptiness overcame Elrohir. A gaping void spread in his breast that desperately longed to be filled. It was then that he heard, from deep within, the calm rush of the sea – as if from the hollow of an empty shell – soft and distant, and enveloped in quiet, sweet sadness. The last image of his mother, her long hair whipping in the breeze, and her pale face with long-suffering eyes appeared, looking back at him, and then slowly blurred as the ship left the shore, gliding away into the distance.

Elrohir patted his stallion's neck comfortingly, feeling his warm, fuming coat against his hand. The caress soothed him. Somewhere at his side, he heard Elladan giving orders, having dismounted. Elrohir's blood calmed. He unbuckled his armour and peeled it from his shoulders.

Enough killing, enough hatred!

He could not tend to the wounded in that state. Yet, as he strapped the gleaming metal to his faithful horse's saddle, Elrohir knew he would soon need it again; but for the time being, he would lay it down, and get rid of that too-familiar weight.

Everything in its time.

This was a time for healing. He did not want to shoulder that burden while tending to the wounded. He would give of himself without any shield.

Thus, Elrohir went and searched between the dead for the flutter of a pulse under his fingers. No matter whether a man was friend or foe, no matter the colour of the skin under his touch. Every heartbeat he found meant hope, a chance for life to endure. Bleeding wounds could still be staunched, and so he worked tirelessly, stabilizing many a wounded for transport, or closing glazed eyes in respect and prayer when there was nothing more to be done.

He did as much for a young man whose last breath he had just witnessed, three arrows of Dúnadan making protruding from his chest. His skin was of a pale brown, so unblemished that Elrohir thought he must have been very young. Black curls were plastered to his forehead with the sweat of his suffering. Elrohir paused, moved by the sight, then closed his own eyes and breathed deeply into the pain. As he opened them again, he let his gaze sweep over the plain; in the distance, a lone horse galloped madly to who knew where. Dusk had claimed the colours of the world and dulled the field of death to shades of grey. Further away, he spotted a man limping miserably. The harrowed figure then swayed and fell. Elrohir blinked and watched how the man heaved himself up with a limp weight in his arms, just to fall again after another, tortured step.

Elrohir leapt up and ran. The man lifted his head, and slowly, shakingly rose. He was a man of strong build, muscled and hardy. He took another heavy step, but then, as soon as he saw Elrohir, his last strength seemed to leave him and he all but crashed to the ground, holding the weight of the body he carried tight against him, twisting himself to protect it from the impact of his fall.

The dwarf's new friend. The one from the ship! – Elrohir realized in shock. The one who had glared at him, holding his stare, standing protectively before the youngling on the Corsairs' deck.

Now he held the motionless body of that same boy in his arms over him.

The respect for the man grew strong roots into Elrohir's heart. He remembered his name.

"Wali!" Elrohir called out, speaking the man's name for the first time, as he ran towards him.

Wali looked up with eyes still flickering with determination, even though he was miserably struggling, and failing, to rise.

Elrohir bent, reaching for his unmoving burden, and lifted it from Wali's arms. The man did not resist, slumping back to the ground as soon as he was relieved of the weight. There was despair in his eyes, but Elrohir thought there was something else also; stubbornness…and trust! The man was entrusting Elrohir with the one so precious to him.

Elrohir hesitated, holding the young man to his chest. He reached out his free hand to Wali, who seized the offered hand, trying to push himself up. But it was futile and Wali surrendered, collapsing with a scream that died down to a groan. Elrohir noticed how the limb was now bent at an awkward angle. The fall must have injured him further. It was clear that in this state there was no chance for him to walk nor get up again. How Wali had managed but a step, just before, Elrohir could not fathom. The man lay helplessly on his side, protecting his belly where the fabric of his shirt was lashed open. Elrohir winced at the sight. Wali's clothes were soaked with fresh blood, and Elrohir suspected that the leg may be the least grievous of his injuries. As Wali lifted his head from his frustrated slump, his face was ashen. "Go!" His voice was raw. "Save him. Go!"

Elrohir startled at the plea. He hugged the still form closer while the man's eyes stared at him, resolute and full of despair. Elrohir became intensely aware of the precious weight in his arms, of the bond tying those two humans together. He swallowed the sorrow rising in his throat.

"Leave me! Go!" Wali urged. It was a hoarse scream by now.

With a last glance to the man and a wordless nod, Elrohir started to run. He could feel the distance growing between them, could sense it with every fibre of his body. It was like his heart was tearing apart.

The boy was warm against him. Too warm. Elrohir surmised, from his long practice of the healing skills, that he was dealing with a severe concussion, and that the blade that had sliced into the boy's side had not been a clean one. Already, infection was setting in. The young man's head was lolling back as Elrohir ran. He increased his grip around him, cradling his head protectively against his chest.

Somewhere on his way, a group of Rohirrim were searching for life between the fallen – an unlucky task, for survivors were scarce, and the dead too many. Between them, Elrohir made out his brother on his knees providing first aid to a soldier on the ground. Some of those rangers capable in healing were with him. They noticed Elrohir at once as he neared.

"Two of you! Quick! Back there on the way to the harbour, I found one still living. Broken leg. Abdominal wound. Major blood loss. Bring him to the infirmary!"

Elrohir was rattling out orders. His voice was harsh, he knew, as all looked up from their search. As if in practised accord, Dímalagos and Cemmon shot up at once at his command. Elrohir was glad for these two who had travelled with him, and that they were still alive after the massacre.

Pain. The first sensation hitting him. The next was that of being jostled this and that way, and with every motion, his head pounded heavily. He could not move. It was as if spikes stabbed into his side. But then he sensed he was held against something warm. A strong hand clasped his head pressing it cautiously against a tight warmness. A steady deep sound thrummed against his ear, his cheek. And constant rushing of wind came from the same depth. A strong, living energy cradled him, surrounded him. He relaxed into it. His breath slowed, evened and smothered the pain a bit. There Leyth realized that arms were around him, hugging him firmly against a taut body. He realized that the rushing sound was not the wind, but breath that came in strong rhythmical pushes. And he was nestled against the vibrations of a beating heart.

But then he was overwhelmed again.

Sensation faded….

…Surging from the depths of oblivion, Leyth blinked, trying to focus on the sharp, bright face above him. He could not keep his eyes open for long, for the throbbing beneath his temples made everything difficult. Especially thinking.

Above him was…the elf.

For a moment, Leyth stopped breathing.

That elf!

It was as though he glowed. The torment swept far away, becoming a constant but distant pulsation and, transfixed, Leyth perceived the elf's words in a voice that was deep and sonorous.

"One day, he will see his mother again."

He said it with a vehemence such that it was as if he intended to make sure of it, as if anything else would shatter the proud being. His face was serious, determined, his lips perfectly shaped but Leyth noticed that they were quivering ever so slightly as he spoke. In his eyes, there was the sharp glimmer of an unreadable emotion.

Another harsh wave rushed in like the tide, struck him again. Leyth lost focus and everything blurred. But the glow was still there and radiated warmth. Leyth felt firm, gentle hands upon him. He squinted from under his heavy lids. Other faces appeared. More hands joined, shifting him, relieving him of his clothes, holding his head. His head was hurting and his side was sore, a heavy tightness that peaked into a stabbing within his chest every time he inhaled or exhaled. Breathing burned, and it was too much to even try and follow what was happening.

But the elf was there, and his light was powerful, the sound of his voice profound and soft. And Leyth remembered the deep-sounding breath, and the pounding of the elf's heart against him. Was this the same being who had assailed the crew on the ship? The one who had killed Bashir, and barely restrained his fury against Wali and himself? From mere sight, he could have as well been his twin, whose quiet, steady voice had called him back to consciousness. The gentle healer whose calm, strong hands had eased the spasms when the breath had returned to his lungs, who had cared for him when he had lain soaked in a puddle on the wooden planks of the ship. The being with the quiet, strong energy. Though Leyth knew from the forcefulness with which he was held, from the ardent gleam in the eyes of the elf, from the intense heat of the spirit he sensed, that this was not the one who had tended to him back then.

In his memory flickered a battle. He and Wali in the midst of it. This very elf fighting alongside his twin, as savage as a furious beast, with his thirstily gleaming sword bringing death to any enemy crossing blades with him.

Wali! Dear Wali! Where was he?!

Leyth moaned. He could not speak. He could not remember. He focused again on the halo surrounding the elf and on his full lips moving softly, hushing him. There was a painful tightness in his throat that among all the hurts, now was the most torturing. He parted his lips to speak, but no words came.

He tried again and this time, a sob tore from his throat and from it broke a whisper.

"I…m sorry."

Such effort it took to release it! Leyth closed his eyes. He was exhausted. A warm hand came to his cheek, a gentle caress of strong, calloused fingers. His breath eased with the touch.

There was a flapping of canvas, as urgent voices burst in. Then Leyth heard his name from a voice so familiar, so loved and from that voice a moan long retained, escaped with the relief of a sore, hitching breath.

Wali! Dear Wali!

The urgency of the voices grew. Leyth heard the elf above him speak a few elvish words in a tight tone. Another voice, less clipped, answered. The different tongues muddled in Leyth's mind as he tried to grip onto consciousness. But some words in Westron still reached him, slicing deeper than his wounds ever could, as despite his jumbled awareness he still made out their gravity.

Wali! No! Wali! Please live!

Anguish swamped him. There were new hands on his side, on his face. All of him was sore and the touches no longer brought relief. The warmth and the glow were gone, and so Leyth welcomed the darkness that ended his plight.

The healing tents were crowded already, and still more wounded men were carried in. Elrohir followed the instructions of the healer in charge of triage at the edge of the camp, directing the rescue parties returning full-handed to the best-suited tents. He strode through the flaps of one closest to him and lay Leyth down on a mat that was still empty.

One of the healers in presence, a Gondorian with dark hair and grey eyes, followed by a young man who must be his apprentice, hurried over to him. He spoke up as soon as he reached them. "He is a Southron. We treat the ones who fought on the other side in the tent of the prisoners, Sir."

"He is no prisoner, and will be treated here," Elrohir snapped. "Look at him! What threat could he possibly pose, in the state he is?"

The healer gave a curt nod, swallowing, and lowered his eyes in obedience. Without another word, he set to help Elrohir with the inspection of the boy's wounds.

"The head injury worries me," Elrohir commented, "and his side must get cleaned before being stitched, lest it festers. Southron or no, I would have him live." He pierced the two men with an emphasizing stare, so that they both nodded gravely. They would not try to challenge him again.

Leyth looked strikingly young as he lay there, stirring restlessly in his feverish torment. Elrohir was caught by the sight of his slight body when they cut off his clothes. This was a mere boy, and surely not a soldier fit to fight in a battle like the one they just came from. Elrohir swallowed, and his heart lurched.

"One day, he will see his mother again." Those words came from the very depths of his soul.

He had killed in madness for centuries, as if the spurting black blood of the orcs could fill the emptiness left by the loss of his own mother, blind hate bursting from him. He had slaughtered men without a second thought, mere casualties in his outburst. But their deaths only filled the hollow with more despair. Never before had Elrohir realized with such intensity how the void left by his mother had grown into a gaping pit, a desperation swallowing him. This young man, once on the side of the enemy, a young soul, naïve and fiery, and hurt...Elrohir had pressed him close to him, cradled him to his heart.

The care he felt was overwhelming.

The tent flap swatted aside as Dímalagos and Cemmon strode in, carrying a wounded man between them. Their voices kept low for the sake of the patients, they conversed among themselves, dismayed by the dwindling health of their ward.

Wali!

Elrohir startled at the state of the man, wondering how he could still hold onto consciousness. Wali's eyes were wide open, scouring the tent and, as he saw Elrohir, he set his eyes on the boy he was tending to.

"Leyth!" he cried out, and sagged with relief before his body went limp.

"We need a healer, quickly! The blood loss is threatening, and the extent of internal damage is yet unclear." Dímalagos' voice was as stern and controlled as ever despite the urgency. Once again, Elrohir was grateful for having tasked him with retrieving Wali, of all people. Dímalagos might be no healer, but his lifetime as a ranger had taught him more about wounds and their treatment than any teacher or book.

"How he could hold on that long is a puzzle to me." Young Cemmon let out a hitching sigh full of empathy. "Does he even have a chance of making it still?"

Elrohir refused to answer the question. "Lay him down and remove his armour!" he ordered, the clarity of his words contrasting the state of his mind.

With that, he looked down at his young charge, Leyth, and wished he could split himself in two. But he could not, and thus the heavy choice of whom to help first settled upon his shoulders. Elrohir made a quick calculation, tallying the wounds with long-practised detachment.

Cemmon's question was justified; a blood loss must be staunched first and foremost.

"I shall see to him. You two, I leave the boy in your care." Thus, Elrohir entrusted Leyth to the Gondorian healer and his apprentice, certain that if anything else, they knew now full well of the worth of his life.

Nevertheless, it almost tore him apart to leave him as he rushed over to Wali's side, and set to examining the grisly injury that had previously been hidden under fabric and armour. He felt Dímalagos' and Cemmon's expectant eyes on him. He was grateful for the unconsciousness that had claimed the man, for as he took in the open, displaced fracture of his tibia, a hiss escaped him. For all its ugliness, that one had to wait, for the swelling tissues had all but clamped the wound shut. All around him, the tent was quickly filling up, empty cots being claimed and swarmed by harried healers. Elrohir lifted his gaze to the two Dúnedain who still lingered by Wali's bed, regarding each in the eyes, considering how better to use their eager, if unskilled hands. They did not waver in returning his stare, Dímalagos his usual, reliable and calm presence, while young Cemmon had learnt much from his mentor. These two were a good team, and in these circumstances the best he could wish to assist him.

From behind the separation canvas of the surgery area came a commotion of feet and low-kept voices. One much like his own gave out orders about what had to be done with a case of a nearly-severed limb. – Elladan! – His voice was so welcome and familiar, that Elrohir's heart gave a strong, joyous thump at knowing his brother close. But he did not look up from his task as he went on giving further instructions to the two men at his side. No words were needed, for Elladan knew he was close as his soul reached out and entwined with Elrohir's. Elladan's calm power had always managed to placate the agitated twirls of his own mind and smoothed out the wild edges for Elrohir to unfold his potential. His hands, which had been on the verge of trembling moments before, calmed and worked with newfound efficiency. Both hope and grief settled in his heart and in his mind, guiding him in his vehement battle.

This man, who had so much love for a son who was not his…what had brought him onto that ship? What was his story, the burden he carried?

Elrohir cared, and he had so much to give. He fought with the same fury as the one he had shown on the battlefield, for the lives of these men, as if by saving them he would make up for all the slaughter. He knew he could not, and that it would still be a long way towards healing, but at that moment his heart was filled with the worry he held for their lives, and it fuelled him.

They were on a straight and purposeful stride towards the field healing tents. Gimli knew that Aragorn was looking for his brothers and that he intended to take Legolas to the infirmary for an examination. Despite his victorious outcome under nearly impossible odds, his elven friend bore some scratches and cuts which needed treating.

As they reached the field camp, Aragorn exchanged a few words with the triage healer and then headed towards one of the closest tents.

"My brothers are here," he explained. "Please give me directions as to where I can find them."

They passed an area where healers were tending to the more lightly wounded outside, on the very ground, while more tents were still being raised all around them. Gimli concentrated on his friends as he stumped behind them.

"It is nothing!" Legolas was insisting, as Aragorn held up his arm, examining a nasty, bleeding cut to the inside, more tender part, of his biceps, even as they were hurrying along. "Some water and bandage will suffice to fix myself up just enough to join the helpers."

"I heard this from you way too often. I would rather not be forced to join a healer fighting for your life like when you last pretended you were fine." Aragorn retorted.

It was difficult not to look at the wounded milling about the entrance of the camp. To ignore the healers' unending combat, too few as they were in comparison to the numbers of the injured, unable to ease the screams or the silent suffering of the dying in favour of saving the ones who still had a chance to survive.

Aragorn slowed his stride, and then briefly squeezed Legolas' shoulder. Legolas regarded him reassuringly, as he always did. "Go, you are needed." he firmly said, with a tender undertone to his voice. Aragorn nodded and then broke away from his friends. Some paces away two limping soldiers were struggling to carry the weight of an unconscious man to a tent.

"Legolas must get checked for poison!" Aragorn threw over his shoulder. His gaze as he looked back at Gimli was stern, ignoring Legolas' protest. But Gimli, who knew him well, saw guilt and fear flicker in that steely glare.

"I will make sure of that," Gimli grumbled under his breath, intent on supporting Aragorn with all his tenacity. He saw the Dúnadan nodding his head, releasing a deep breath, his eyes filled with trust, before he picked up his pace and ran towards the struggling, injured men.

Gimli turned to continue on their way, but Legolas was taking exaggerated long strides, so Gimli was scurrying, trying to keep up while pointedly looking ahead at the elf, who neither answered nor looked back.