Chapter 50: The Key

Chapter Text

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Chapter 50: The Key

Chapter 50:

Elrond still sat on the warm stone bench where he had sat with Legolas. It was quiet here and he wanted to think. His own heart was full of misgivings. Galadriel's plan weighed upon him. The thought of his beloved father, Maedhros, trapped in the Dark was unbearable, but to turn back Time itself? To unravel all that which had happened? Was that really what he was prepared to do?

He spread his fingers and contemplated Vilya. The Ring gleamed in the sunlight, radiant brilliance ignited in a kind of elation at being with Nenya and Narya, but it was an emotion that was not human. She, they, wanted Elrond to act. They called to him, appealing to his blood, and the love he held for Maedhros. A memory was pulled out and displayed to him:

It was the year of the coldest winter and sparse provision. It was three months after they had been snatched from the burning ruins and blood of Sirion. Elrond was hungry and his little belly rumbled. He stared down at his empty bowl but did not dare speak. Elros had told him they were only being fed so the Red Demon could feed them to his hell hounds.

The Red Demon himself sat on the bench nearby. He stirred the thin broth with a spoon in his one hand, which Elros had said had fallen off when the blood of their grandfather had spurted over it (Elros had always had a lurid imagination). The demon said nothing. His stern grey eyes glanced towards Elrond when his belly rumbled again and Elrond pressed his hand hard over it trying to silence it.

Suddenly, without speaking, Maedhros spooned half his meal into Elrond's empty bowl and tipped the other half into Elros'.

'You'd better eat all of that or you will be riding behind me tomorrow,' he had said grimly.

Elrond had felt like he was betraying his mother, his kin when he gobbled up the soup hungrily and didn't care about the gristle.

Of course when he did ride behind Maedhros, and slid his little skinny arms about that hard lean waist, the strong, steady heartbeat was always there when he pressed his cheek against Maedhros' back.

He heard it in his sleep, even now sometimes.

White gulls cried in the air above him and he looked up. Soon he would sail, leaving behind his sweet Arwen. But he could not leave Maedhros in the Dark alone and Maglor still lost. He could more easily cut the throats of his children than simply turn away and leave.

Vilya sang and one memory after another opened up, the precious moments of his childhood that had never been so happy as when he and Elros were with their kidnappers, who became so beloved.

Fondly now, he remembered Maedhros explaining the variation in calina and energy to the brothers by using a rope which he shortened and lengthened in turn to demonstrate how quickly or slowly light moved. They had looked at magnetic fields with iron filings, and drawn star maps in the frost on windows. Maedhros had let Elros scramble around in the mud in a frenzied moment of creativity, determined to 'make pots' that just sank slowly back into the puddles. But Maedhros never told him it wouldn't work, and never laughed or told him not to get dirty, and never discouraged him.

Elrond and Elros had never had such freedom, or been so stimulated and challenged…They had never, by the end, been so loved, or so betrayed.

His foster-father had terrified him at first, and then he had come to love him more than he could ever love his own parents, for Elwing and Eärendil had been distant, so preoccupied with the Sea, with each other, with the stolen Silmaril. He and Elros had been incidental, forgotten, left behind and sacrificed for the Silmaril… And that was why it had hurt so bitterly to be left behind with Erestor by their fathers at the very end. He could not bear to think of the last time he had seen Maedhros, the desperation in his eyes, the panic. It had been a more loving, careful abandonment than that of their mother. How gently had the last two sons of Fëanor bid the sons of Elwing farewell…

Twice abandoned for the Silmarils.

Shaking his head, Elrond shoved away the bitter memory for even now it was unbearable. He breathed deeply.

If Galadriel was right and her plan meant that not only could he release Maedhros, but that Elrond lived that time again, what would he do differently?

He would keep Celebrían safe, and protect Elrohir from all the guilt and anguish that had wracked him since. He could keep Arwen safe, that was true. Silently and alone he grieved, for Arwen was most precious to him, his beloved daughter, closest to him in all things. More precious than gold. An ache settled in his heart for he knew that he could not bear to see her grow old and die, as Elros had done. Would he keep Arwen in a gilded cage so she never met Estel? Could he truly deny Arwen her heart, to condemn her to a loveless life, deny the children she would bear, his grandchildren whom he would never see anyway?

Vilya softly called, a siren, and wound about him, caressing, loving.

Unravel Time. Push back the Threads. Undo all the terrible damage…

And what then?

Elrond closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Free them all. Let their souls fly free.

He leaned into Vilya, listened to the Song she sang; of unravelling the threads of Time, unpicking the warf and weft of the History so that Celebrían returned to Imladris whole and unsullied, laughing, scooping up her children as she made her way to him? Her hair unbound, floating on the wind, her eyes soft with love. It was what Galadriel wanted too, for she was an Exile, cursed thrice and never to return.

And in exchange for Vilya's help, Galadriel had promised to free Maedhros from the prison of the Dark, where Erestor and Glorfindel had found him.

Vilya glowed softly on his hand, and he did not know it but her light suffused the garden and the birds stopped singing in wonder.

Free them. Unlock the Door to the Night and set him free.

But what else was in there? What else might be released?

There is a way. Hidden and Secret. Only Ontanë knew the Way…he gave it to Us, the Hyellë-vírin.

It was not Vilya, he realised, but the Three, speaking together. This was their purpose.

Ontanë made you, made the Mirrors, to find his kin? Elrond asked.

He felt their triumphant acclaim. You are the Key that unlocks the Way?

Yes. We are the Key. We are made for you. We are the key that has been put into your hand. Ontanë wanted to be the one to unlock the door, but if it could not be him, he wanted us to be with you.

Not her?

Not her.

For me?

Yes. For you…. Or Maglor.

Maglor.

Elrond pondered upon this; he knew in his heart that Maglor must have gone to Phellanthir. He would not have been able to resist.

Elrond sat silently for a very long time in contemplation.

0o0o

Gimli clung like a burr to Legolas, as he had learned to over the weeks of galloping over the plains of Rohan and Gondor. It felt bouncier than on Arod, he thought grumpily for this horse was bigger than Arod, long-legged and more spirited. It shied at nothing at all and jogged the whole time instead of walking sensibly. But Legolas had no sympathy with Gimli's grumpiness and just laughed at his complaints.

But the sound of Legolas' laughter, carefree and joyful, lifted Gimli so he cared less about his own comfort than he may have done, and he grumbled only because it was expected and in his heart he sang the Dírz-glamêsh to Mahal in gratitude for his dear friend's relief.

Cirya was the horse's name. Gimli called it The Silly Beast because when it wasn't shying at sticks and strange logs and butterflies, it clopped along quite happily in rhythm to the little songs that Legolas kept singing to it, its ears flickering back and forth attentively. Once a leaf falling caused it to prop sharply and canter sideways, dumping Gimli on the hard ground where he had sworn very loudly in khuzdûl. The horse had stared at him as if surprised at what the Dwarf was doing there.

But at least Gimli could enjoy the scenery, for when they had passed through Lebinnin before they had had the army of the Dead at their backs, and Gimli had not enjoyed that at all. This felt more of an adventure and less perilous.

'These are the Ered Nimrais,' Legolas told him as if he didn't know.

'I have read the maps too, Legolas,' Gimli responded but without rancour for they had fallen into the easy pattern of banter once again and Gimli enjoyed it. 'And we will approach the river Erui where I believe we will find the King's herds,' he added for good measure.

'I cannot wait to see Arod,' Legolas declared, and Gimli did not say it, but he looked forward to seeing the little Rohan horse too. There was an apple in his pocket he was saving.

'Orrible beast,' he muttered. Legolas smiled sweetly and said nothing.

It seemed the herds had drifted more towards the River Celos and so they camped by the Erui on the first night, under the stars, hard and bright in the soft summer night. Gimli made the fire and Legolas prepared a duck he had brought down with the new bow from Elrohir, although Gimli did not mention that it took him two shots where before it would have taken one. And too, Legolas had cried out the first time he drew the heavy bow. But especially, Gimli did not mention that it was the first time Legolas had killed an animal or eaten meat. He did not want to stir those dark memories again.

Now with the fire crackling, Gimli stuffed his pipe and sucked on the stem until a blissfully fragrant, hot smoke filled his mouth. He savoured it well and blew out a stream into the clear night air. Legolas was staring at the fire, eyes wide and pupils blown as if deep in thought. But he looked calm enough and so Gimli did not disturb him. Cirya chewed thoughtfully and watched them both with a faintly puzzled interest, and then went back to tearing up grass and weeds and flowers indiscriminately until he stopped for a while and resting one back hoof, stared contemplatively into the middle distance.

Later as the stars came out one by one, Legolas whittled a piece of wood and blew on it. Gimli watched though his own hands itched to take it from the Elf and reveal the little otter that lurked within. Legolas cast him a quick, amused glance as if he knew as much, but he did not stop.

'I wonder what the Hobbits are doing,' Gimli said. 'Do you think they are on supper, dinner or tea?'

'Oh, I think they will be at supper by now,' Legolas said mildly. 'Pippin will be making tea and toast and Sam will be feeding Glaurung the cream for tomorrow's scones and jam.'

Gimli smiled and blew out a thin stream of smoke. 'Aragorn will be wondering where his wife has got to and be looking for her in all the wrong places.'

'Do you think he has realised yet that Arwen is in charge and he is merely decoration?' Legolas said smiling. A long curl of wood hung down from his short knife. 'Aradhel says they are building an aqueduct. Are you part of this feat of engineering?'

Gimli nodded. 'It is fine work, but there are not the skills here to make such a dream come true. I will bring some dwarves with me on our return. I have someone in mind. She is the finest engineer in all of Erebor.'

He became aware of Legolas' regard, like a prickling. 'What?' he said looking up crossly. But Legolas' eyes were bright and curious and Gimli cursed his unguarded tongue. 'What?' he said again, more crossly.

'You.'

'I what?' he demanded.

'Nothing.' Legolas looked back down at the little otter whose head was slowly emerging from the wood. The Elf's eyes were very bright though and he had a pleased smile on his face.

'What do you mean, nothing?' Gimli demanded. He had seen the little self-satisfied smirk. It meant that Legolas thought he knew something and he most decidedly did not.

'Exactly that. Nothing.'

'What sort of nothing is it though? Is it, nothing as in there is nothing to be suspicious about or is it nothing as in, it is nothing I am interested in.' Gimli wriggled so he sat up straighter, indignant. If Legolas thought he was going to get anything at all out of Gimli, he was very, very wrong. 'I don't have to tell you every little thing about myself you know. I am allowed to have a life that exists beyond you, before you, even after you.'

'Of course you are.' Legolas was amused, not offended or hurt.

'After all, I am not going to be your luggage for the rest of my life, or your guard to make sure those little pointy ears are still on your head and your…' Gimli stopped. Cursing himself. 'I am sorry, sorry, Legolas. Forgive me for being a crusty of dwarf who cannot stop his tongue.'

Legolas shook his head. 'I am not so fragile that you must stop being you, Gimli. I am not offended or hurt. The opposite. I am reassured that you have not changed towards me. You are the same and you think of me as the same. Not as some wilting victim. I am not. I am Legolas Thranduillion. Elrond, and Erestor made me see that. I will not let Bearos define me. Or Angmar.'

He rummaged in the saddle bags and pulled out a flask, pulled the stopper and lifted it. 'To my friend, a Dwarf of Erebor.' He drank heartily and passed it to Gimli.

'To my friend, an Elf of the Greenwood.'

Gimli grinned widely and drank more than Legolas. On purpose. Showing off. And later he wished he had not. He should have known that dwarves were not made for wine. It went straight to his head and he ended up not only giggling like Pippin but telling Legolas all sorts of things he shouldn't about Erebor, about Khazâd, about his family, about himself…. And Legolas kept drinking, passing him the flask again, asking questions. All the time, long legs stretched out and leaning back on one elbow, watching, smiling, eyes bright with curiosity and mirth. Concern.

'And you, Legolas,' Gimli asked after telling Legolas all about the Arkenstone and everything he had ever heard of it. 'What of you and Elrohir, hm? Are you hammer and forge again?'

Legolas smiled. 'Yes, indeed. Like ivy and oak.' He leaned right back now and clasped his hands under his head, looking up at the brightness of the stars.

'I thought you would want him to come with us,' Gimli said conversationally. 'In fact, I'm surprised he let you go given his protectiveness. Did you ask him?'

Legolas wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 'I did, but I did not push.'

He passed the flask back to Gimli. 'Is it my company you want all to yourself then, laddie?'

Legolas barked a laugh. 'Of course, khazâd-velui. You are all I want.'

They settled into quiet companionship. At first Gimli thought that Legolas had fallen asleep for he slept with his eyes open in the Houses of Healing, although in the House of the Fellowship, he had returned to deep sleep. But he blinked slowly. He did not speak and Gimli sighed and settled down, pulling his cloak up around his ears. He was almost asleep when he heard Legolas' voice, so quiet he barely heard him, singing softly.

Gimli closed his eyes and breathed deeply. There… a rich, deep sound… hammers chiming on rock far, far below ground, a plink of a drop of water on lakes undisturbed for centuries, slow, slow shifting creak of the Earth, the flare and roar of the furnace, of fire, deep chanting under far mountains, the strike of metal on stone…Gimli dreamed of the deep places of the mountains, of still lakes and the palaces of stone, pillars and stalagmites, the pastel colours of the stone, and the streams of ore that ran through.

0o0o

In the darkness of his own rooms, locked and shuttered against all so that none knew he was here, Elrohir stared down at his own hand in horror and disgust; the old gold, worn thin clasped his finger in an unrelenting grip. He could not get it off, no matter what he tried and he knew now that this was Khamûl. How had he been so easily fooled? He recalled in perfect detail the moment he had pulled the ring from his finger and hurled it towards the Glass that raged and stormed within the cell. It HAD been Khamûl. He had sworn so to Erestor when he had come asking and questioning.

But here was his mother's ring, returned by Aragorn. Unquestionably. And here on his finger already, was Khamûl. Its red eye winked in the moonlight.

A knife was on the table beside him. Blood gleamed on the blade, smeared over the handle, but it had merely glanced off his flesh, slicing his skin but going no deeper. As if he could not control his own actions.

And indeed, he knew now that he could not.

In despair he sat on the bed, staring at his bloody hand.

He knew. He had already suspected, he admitted to himself. The knowledge had been slowly emerging, even the night of Aragorn and Arwen's wedding when Legolas had gone into the bath chamber and Elrohir could hear the running water, sloshing of water into the basin and a slap of soap on skin.

He had thought that Legolas seemed more bothered, more anxious to be clean than he used to be, but he had told himself then that it was the awful experience Legolas had suffered. But now he knew that somehow Legolas had known, under his skin, that Khamûl was here. It was what Legolas had pulled back from, afraid of Elrohir himself, not some memory or ghost, but he must have known that Elrohir was tainted and so deep in shadow himself that he was as good as the Ghoul itself.

He remembered how that night Legolas had come out of the bathing room, a towel slung low around his hips. Even then Elrohir had watched him with a heavy heart. Over Legolas' skin, there were cuts and little slashes from where the Ghoul had cut him, where the Nazgul had fed.

Even then, Elrohir had felt the faint stirring, a quivering of lust.

It is inevitable, the quiet voice within had murmured and he had thought it his own. But he knew now it was Khamûl curling about him, tightening about his lust.

Look…..

It showed him Legolas again, in the cell and stretched in chains, head back, lips parted, eyes closed as if in lust, hair streaming down his back. A hand smoothed over his hip, smeared blood over his skin.

'No.' Elrohir's voice was a rasp, hoarse, cracked.

Yôzaîra.

Again, he saw Legolas: arms stretched above his head, the wild colour swirled over Legolas' shoulder so the dragon inked upon his skin peered slyly at Elrohir, snaked about the lean and muscled torso, and slid down over his hips, his thigh.

Elrohir felt himself swell. Dark lust flared through him. And now, even with Legolas far away, Khamûl suggested an image, showing how Elrohir himself might have pulled Legolas down to the bed and shoved him backwards, tugged the towel away from him aggressively.

'Again? So soon?' Legolas might ask, tentatively, looking up at Elrohir. There would be the slightest tremor of fear in his eyes.

The dark lust poured through Elrohir.

Suddenly Elrohir rolled to his feet and strode over to the window, pushing his hair back from his face, leaning against the cold stone, wanting it to cool his skin. He tried again to wrench the cursed ring from his finger. It was slippery with his own blood where he had tried to dig the ring off with the knife but he succeeded only in smearing his own blood over the ring and watched in bitter misery as Khamûll absorbed it, seemed to suck it into the gold itself.

Elrohir was suddenly afraid. What might he do with Legolas when he returned and lay on that very bed, a little afraid, a little aroused?

'I will make him leave me.' Elrohir said aloud and breathed hard. Khamûl laughed and twisted about his gut, squeezing.

You will not want him to go. You will want him. Look. He will want you too. He will not mind if you are rough.

It showed him again, Legolas twisting in his chains but his head was tipped back in desire and Elrohir saw the Ghoul squatting in front of him, lapping at his thigh, blood on its mouth. It looked up and grinned at Elrohir as if he were there, in the cell whilst it was happening.

Look how he enjoyed it. Khamûl laughed again, a deep, throaty laugh that came from his belly.

Elrohir leaned his hands on the stone windowsill and pressed his head against the cold glass. He felt sick.

You should take him. He wants it. He likes it. You have called him whore.

Elrohir gave a bitter laugh.

Make him afraid. Subdue him. Make him yield to you.

Elrohir shuddered. Khamûl uncurled and slid about Elrohir, pored around his feet, the thick coils repulsive.

The thin tongue flickered over his lipless mouth. You have accepted my fealty. My lord. And now, we will destroy the Glass and make sure that the Brethren do not return, that the Master does not return…And close that Gate forever.

Elrohir paused. If I help you do that, will you leave me?

Oh no, Khamûl smiled thinly. You are mine now.

0o0o

Notes

calina -rays of light/wavelengths. Feanor would absolutely have understood physics, energy, light, wavelengths, etc..