A Far Distant Shore
Chapter Eleven

Rating: R
Category: Humour, Drama, AU
Pairing(s): Erestor/Glorfindel, Haldir/Rabbit, Orophin/Elladan, Elrond/Rumil, Legolas/Gimli, Elrohir/Frost, Mauburz/Rhimlan, Amaris/Ilinuil, and others
Warnings: Slash (means: two male Elves in love), Mpreg (lots and lots), Violence, Angst, Whiplash-inducing plot twists
Summary: Vairë admires her husband, Erestor finds a surprise, Maglor finds something in the kitchen, Gimli and Legolas are hungover, Red and Fin discuss family, Erestor and Rúmil gossip, something’s not right with Rabbit, and Elrond makes comparisons while Elrohir teaches a class and Lindir makes a hard choice.
Notes: Meadbunny Rating 7 (Hic!)
Beta’d by Priestess Vesta, Mirien & the Pointy-Eared Bow Twanger.
For SkyFire. Happy birthday, love.
The part of the fish is played by Pointy-Eared Bow Twanger.
Portions of this chapter co-written with the lovely Mirien Isilion.

YEARS ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I worked briefly as an actor and an extra. I showed up for an audition one day, and saw three tall, beautiful men with ice white flesh, clad in black. Very lovely. I asked my agent who they were.

“Death,” he says.

I looked at the pretty men. They looked down their noses at me. They had no choice; they were at least a foot and a half taller than I. And from behind me, another actor said; “But death’s not black and white. Death comes in all forms and colours. Sometimes it is controversial and hideous, and sometimes it comes in a huge swath of crimson. Sometimes it is just a soft shadow, and sometimes it is catastrophic and vicious.”

The blond ‘death’ said nothing, but went out and came back in a half hour clad in the most amazing outfit; it looked like flame splashed with blood. We applauded, and he got the job. But what that guy in the waiting room said always stuck with me. That’s why I had Námo appear to Elrond in the garb he does. Death is not black and white.

This chapter has an accompanying illustration by Lazra.

“There's somethin' happenin' here.
What it is ain't exactly clear…”
- ‘For What It's Worth’ - Buffalo Springfield

Vairë the weaver studied her tapestry and sighed at the mess Aulë had unwittingly wrought. She knew he had a good heart, but there were times when she could swear that, if the wind was just right, she could hear a faint whistling sound coming from betwixt his ears. She took a silver tool and tried to remove the thread, but it was of no use. The time when she could have altered the course of the pattern was past.

She smiled wryly as she heard the sounds of preening coming from across the room, and she looked up. She did not know how the Elves, or Men, or indeed any of the races of Arda saw Námo, but she saw him as he was. And he was stunning.

‘The problem with that,’ she thought wryly, crossing her arms, ‘is he knows it.’

Námo certainly did know he was lovely. He even knew he was vain, and bore teasing from his wife with good humour. He was currently using her scented hair oil on his long, gleaming black hair. It shone almost mirror-like, and hung down to his thighs. He oiled it daily, then carefully braided it back. Next he would carefully and artfully borrow of her cosmetics, accenting his dark eyes, white skin, arched cheekbones, and red lips. Then he would dress, choosing robes that made him look every inch the Vala of Death. He would top the entire process off by accenting the outfit with jewelry, then redoing his make up. Last but not least came roughly fifteen minutes of poses and sultry, smoldering looks at himself.

Another, perhaps, would have grown heartily sick of his love affair with himself, but Vairë bore his preening and posing with good nature. No matter how in love Námo was with his own beauty, his love for his wife was greater. And, she had to admit, she derived an immense amount of pleasure parading about with him on her arm. There were worse things than a stunningly lovely husband.

She lowered her eyes to the tapestry, and tried one last time to pick the thread, to no avail. The events it foretold were already in action. She squeezed her small fists in frustration, then thumped the tool down onto the weighty, intricate hanging. Námo turned to look at her, his dark-lined eyes concerned.

“Does something trouble you, my beautiful one?”

Vairë smiled. “I believe that you are the beautiful one. And yes, something does trouble me.”

He approached her in a rustle of silks and exotic fragrances, seating himself beside her. He took her hand. “And what is it?”

“Aulë.”

“Ah. Well he has no fashion sense, smells like brimstone and carries himself like a sack of potatoes, but other than that what bothers you about him?”

She kissed his face, then showed him the tiny flaw in the tapestry. He looked, his black hair sliding over one shoulder. He pushed it back with an elegant hand.

“Well I see it, but I do not know what it means.”

Vairë pointed out the winding silver thread, all the way to the flaw. Námo shook his head. “I still do not understand.”

“See, look. Here. He was supposed to meet a lady, and wed her, and have a daughter with her. But look…” Vairë traced the delicate lines and threads in the weave. “She died here, and he never had a chance to meet her. He fell in love with another, and his life continued. The thread I pulled was that of the daughter. But Aulë put it back. That means she was called back to Arda, to manifest as a child. But her intended mother is dead, so she has manifested in the only other place: in her father.”

Námo looked at his wife. “Then what vexes you? ‘T is as easy for a Plains Elf to be a Sia as an Aie.”

“Oh indeed it is. But this is no Plains Elf.”

“Oops,” said Námo.

“Yes, ‘oops’ indeed! Manwë will have a fit! This child was destined for a life of quiet, and so was her father! Now those around them will see this as a portent or a sign, or worse! The lives of father and daughter will be utter chaos! And where is she to develop? How will she be born? I have tried to pick out the thread, but she is already inside of him!” She felt her eyes grow wet with tears of frustration and anger. “This mess is NOT my doing and I shall not take the blame for it!”

Námo kissed her face, then reached up to stroke away her tears. “Take heart, my beloved. I shall speak to Manwë about this matter. There is always a chance that Aulë’s error was part of some greater plan.”

“Aye that or he’s more of an air-head than we suspected.” She kissed him on his aristocratic cheek.

Námo smiled. “Bit of both, I suspect. Continue with your weaving, and I shall talk to Manwë about the matter.”

He kissed his wife, then departed, his silky hair blowing out behind him. He left their home, crossing the wide stone courtyard towards the great hall that Manwë called home, unaware that he was being watched.

Not far aware, Lórien watched Námo gracefully move in a flutter of black silk, like an exotic bird. Pretty, pretty Námo, Vala of Death, Herald of Manwë, and beloved husband of Vairë. Lórien watched as he made his way quickly up the steps, silk flowing behind him, flowing in the wind, his black hair moving like a living thing. He was so beautiful. Lórien felt a great weight in his heart as his gaze followed the beautiful Vala into the building and out of sight. Beautiful, fortunate Námo. He did not know how lucky he was to have a wife to love him.

Lórien looked over his shoulder at the gate that led to his garden. Never before had it been locked to him, but locked now it certainly was. He looked from the gate to the flowers he held. Evening Roses, they were called, from far away. They were black, and spread their fair silken petals only for an hour every evening, and would fill the air with the most wondrous fragrances. There were four of them, bound with a silver ribbon. Once again Lórien looked at the gate, then walked away.

He went to Námo’s home, creeping inside. He could hear Vairë in the back room, weaving, singing quietly to herself as she did so. Lórien found a vase, and put the fragrant black roses in it. Then he left the house again, walking quietly away.

***---***

Erestor awoke, and lay, listening to the sounds of the household around him. He could hear the children playing in the next room, the workers setting up for the third night of Elrond’s party, and the comfortable sound of Fin beside him, snoring in a mead-scented heap. He rolled over and put an arm around his husband, and smiled. Soon he would have to get up, but not right now. For the moment, it was just he and Fin. He placed his head on the large Elf’s back, stroking his white hair, and basking in the wonderful feeling of being with his husband.

The sensation began small – like an odd sloshing in his belly, as though his stomach was too full of liquid. Then it became a definite feeling of not being well. Suddenly Erestor flung back the covers and made his way to the washroom, barely getting the lid up on the toilet before vomiting. He spewed fluid until nothing came up but bile, then stared with trepidation at the mess.

“No,” he said. “No no no no no no NO! No I can’t be, I FORBID it! This is NOT HAPPENING!”

“Sia?” said Silivren in her small baby voice, instantly parroted by Estorel’s slightly less articulate; “See-ya?”

Erestor sank down onto the floor and looked at his two children. He loved them dearly, more than he had known he could love any living being. But both were little more than babies. He did NOT need another, not right now.

“Sia is a little sick,” he said quietly. “You go sit with Ada, and I will be right there.”

The children did as they were asked. Erestor struggled to his feet and got himself cleaned up. Then he tidied up the bathroom and returned to the bedroom. Fin was still a snoring mead-scented heap. In a fit of unreasoning anger, Erestor yanked back the sheets and slapped the bare backside. Fin sat up abruptly, the entire interaction watched by Estorel and Silivren.

Glorfindel looked around, sleep-addled and confused, then looked at Erestor, shoving his hair back. “Darling, what did I do to deserve that?”

Erestor fought an urge to haul off and hit him. “I’m pregnant.”

Glorfindel blinked, and looked utterly stunned. “You’re what?”

“PREGNANT. I am pregnant.”

Glorfindel shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. “What? No, you can’t be pregnant, you haven’t had a cycle!”

“Well I seem to have conceived Estorel just fine without one!”

“That’s right, you did,” said Glorfindel. He shook his head, trying to clear the dust-bunnies caused by a night of drinking. Then he gently drew Erestor against his chest, holding him as he began to weep.

“There, there love, it will be all right.”

“It won’t!” sobbed Erestor. “I can’t do this! I have two babies, and my duties to Lord Elrond, and I simply do not have the strength for one more baby! Fin what am I going to do?”

Glorfindel held his distraught husband, his own face showing concern. Erestor was right; he did not have the strength for this. Estorel was two, Silivren was not quite one, and a third baby in as many years seemed to be fine with the Plains Elves, but for Erestor it was too much. Unless…

Glorfindel kissed Erestor, stroking his hair. “You lie down and have a nap.”

“But I…”

Glorfindel shook his head. “No. You have a nap. I am going to speak to Lord Elrond, and Estorel and Silivren are going to visit with Mauburz for the morning. I have some things to arrange. When I get back, I will bring you breakfast, and we will talk, all right?”

Erestor nodded, his eyes red and wet.

“Sia you all right?” asked Silivren, her eyes full of concern for her mother.

“Sia is just fine,” said Glorfindel softly. “We are going to have a new brother or sister soon, okay? So you and Estorel and Ada are going to have to do a few things to help.”

She nodded, but did not look entirely certain as to what was going on, other than her Sia was upset. Fin got Erestor settled in bed once more, kissing him softly. Then he took his children to stay with Mauburz a few hours.

***---***

Maglor did not rise until late in the morning. He was exhausted, and hung over, and his entire body screamed for rest. But he could not sleep any longer. His heart and his head were sick within him, filled with an overwhelming pain, and rage. He wanted to scream, to inflict pain. To make someone hurt as badly as he hurt. But all the rage in the world would do him no good.

He threw back the covers on the narrow healing room bed, and began making his way down the hall, passing the room where Maedhros now held vigil with Fingon. He paused outside the door and listened, hearing nothing. He snorted, and kept walking. Fingon, pregnant. How could that little fool Elrohir make such a gross mistake? Of course, he was getting rather large around the middle, and then there was the fainting and vomiting. On top of it there was a big barking pack of bloody carnivorous Elves parked out on the cliff that seemed to breed rather well without women.

Maybe Fingon was pregnant. Maglor stopped short as a thought struck him.

If Fingon was pregnant, then maybe he could get pregnant as well. Maglor sighed heavily and made a quiet noise of distress. With his luck, he was, and it was quintuplets. His life just seemed to work that way.

He left the healing wing, and made his way to the kitchen. He stepped into the large, airy room, smelling fresh bread baking. There was another Elf in the room, and he stopped, abruptly, his jaw dropping and his eyes bulging. He was unable to say anything as the tall Elf, smelling of smoke, his hands burned and black with soot, ran to him and embraced him.

“Maglor, thank the Valar! Some fool burned our house down, I thought you were in it!”

Maglor felt a surge of utter confusion. “Maeglin?”

“Yes of course it’s me, whom did you expect, Lórien? Maglor, our home…!”

Maglor gently pushed back the Elf and looked at him. It was Maeglin all right. Maglor pulled opened his tunic, and Maeglin permitted him. He looked at the lean, slim body, and found him whole and unscarred. He almost grabbed for his breeches but stopped himself.

“I don’t understand. You’re… not burned.”

“Yes I am, look at my hands! I singed them black moving timbers, looking for you. Maglor, what happened to the keep?”

Maglor stared at the tall Elf before him, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. “I burned it down after you tried to rape Ilinuil.”

Maeglin blinked, and shook his head as though he had been slapped. “WHAT!? I did no such thing! Maglor I worked long and hard at my redemption, why would I do something so utterly foolhardy as that? Not to mention that if I did try something so bloody stupid he’d turn me into an ice sculpture…”

“But you did! I spoke to you! You were covered in blackened ice-burns, and… part of your penis was gone. You said you did not love me, that you had never loved me. It was a nightmare!”

Maeglin pulled Maglor close to his chest, holding him in a fierce embrace. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No! I did no such thing. You saved me and gave me a chance when none would, and rightfully so! Maglor I did not do this thing.”

Maglor held his lover of many years tightly, and knew what he was saying was true. “Then who… who attacked Ilinuil? Maeglin I spoke to him, it was you. Or at least, it certainly seemed to be.”

Maeglin shook his head, and kissed Maglor. “It was not me, and I assure you, I am unburned and intact, and I’ll stand naked before all Valinor to prove it. I did not do this.” His head snapped up and his eyes grew big. “My froggies!”

Maglor laughed. If nothing else assured him this was his husband, then that did. “Your blasted little peep-frogs are well, I would not burn a little frog alive. I put them in the fountain outside Maedhros’ keep.” He stroked the long, dark hair with its touches of red, and kissed him. “Maeglin I was sick inside. To hear you say you did not love me, and that I was nothing more than a…”

Maeglin kissed him, a gesture of love and reassurance. “I do love you. Without you, I would have surely died as I had lived, as a spoiled and selfish little brat, intent only on my own wants. I would not turn on you. And I will be willing to go to Ilinuil and offer apologies, and show him ‘t was not I who harmed him.”

Maglor nodded, holding his lover tightly. “That would be wise,” he whispered. Then he groaned. “Maeglin, I burned our house down…”

Maeglin winced slightly at the thought. “It’s all right, lover. The wallpaper was ugly anyway.”

“I chopped up your favorite chair with an axe.”

“You were angry, it’s understandable.”

“I gave your parrot to a pirate.”

Crackers flew in the window and landed on Maeglin’s shoulder. Maglor sighed. “Well, I tried to give him away.” He held Maeglin tightly, closing his eyes. “Oh I am so glad this nightmare is over. But where were you? You did leave the party with Ilinuil.”

“Yes I did. He and I went down the cliff path to the beach. He walked with me for a while, then said he heard Amaris calling him and had to leave. In truth I did not hear him, but as I do not have Ilinuil’s unique bloodlines, I assumed I was simply not as quick of hearing. I gathered gems on the beach, and then came home to leave a note telling you I was going to see Nana. It’s her birthday. I left the note in your study.”

Maglor groaned. “I did not see it. Though in truth, I would have thought it a ruse.” He stepped back and looked at Maeglin. He reached out to touch his hair. “I am so glad it was not you, but now we have another question.”

Maeglin nodded. “Aye, just who was it?”

Maglor nodded, then took Maeglin’s hand. “Come, we have much to clear up.”

***---***

Erestor sat in bed, picking at his lunch, feeling depressed. Pregnant again. That was three times in three years. His hair was already like dead straw and his waist like bread dough, what more did Fin want? To rival Fëanor in offspring? If Fin wanted any more children after this one then they were going to need their own house, staff, and a nanny. There was no way on earth Erestor was raising three babies and working as Chief Advisor without some sort of assistance.

There was a tap at the door, and Rúmil peered in. Erestor smiled wearily.

“Hello, Rúmil.”

Rúmil smiled and stepped inside, carrying a large wicker basket in which lay his twins. “I heard you’re expecting.”

“Did you also hear I am planning on having my husband castrated?”

“No, Fin left that part out.” Rúmil set the weighty basket onto the bed. “But he’s told most of the camp. He’s gone off to find you a nanny.”

Erestor blinked. “Has he? I did not know.” He looked into the basket at the small babies, and smiled. “They are lovely, Rúmil. Have you named them yet?”

“I have,” said Rúmil, tucking in the tiny, sleeping forms. “Or rather, Elrond and I have. This is Eölthrim, and this big handsome boy…” Rúmil cleared his throat, “is Ereinion.”

“Looks just like his father,” commented Erestor dryly.

“Yes, well, there is little point in hiding the fact. I mean I am not going to announce it to all and sundry, but… well…”

“He rather announces himself,” said Erestor. “Does Elrond know?”

“He ought to. Let’s just say… it was a sharing relationship.”

Erestor chuckled quietly. “I wonder if Fin would let me ‘share’ Ecthelion.”

Rúmil grinned. “He is lovely, isn’t he? One night you and I ought to drug Fin and Elrond and go have our wicked way with him.”

Erestor laughed. “Yes the ensuing explosion will be MOST amusing, I am sure.”

“Oh I am not serious,” said Rúmil. “But as Men are wont to say; ‘We are married, not dead.’ Now, if you had a free night to be with whomever you like, who would it be with?”

“My husband.”

“You are so dull. Shameful. If I could have any Elf in the house for one night…. Not sure. Oh! The door!”

Erestor watched as Rúmil went to open the door, smiling as he saw Mauburz walk in with a huge tray full of snacks. She still seemed strange to him, in her Elven body, but there was no doubt it was Mauburz. She was dark skinned, broad shouldered and muscular, and still had her primitive Uruk tattoos over her shoulders and collarbone. But other than that, it was hard to believe it was the same person.

“Me here, party can start now.” She set down the tray on a small table and peered into the basket at Rúmil’s babies. “Why that kid look like Gil-galad?”

Rúmil rolled his eyes, then went to get the door again as someone else knocked. Erestor had the feeling that Rúmil had decided to throw him a “Congratulations, you’re pregnant!” party. The door opened to reveal Anna, the apple-woman, whom he had not seen in months. She had her daughter Polly with her, and was rather large with child.

“I see you and Amrun have been busy,” said Rúmil.

She smiled. “My mother says it will come out dressed in black and riding a goat. I suspect she does not approve of my husband.”

“Oh how could anyone not like Amrun?” said Erestor. “He’s one of the sweetest Elves I know.”

“I know,” said Anna with a sigh. “He’s so gentle and sooooo very beautiful. I must admit, when I walked back into my village for the last time to gather my things prior to leaving, the look on the faces of all those nasty judgmental old biddies who made my life so hard was the best thing I ever saw.”

“What do you mean?” asked Rúmil.

“Well,” said Anna, seating herself, “years ago I was a rather wild child. However the rumours of my misdeeds far exceeded the truth. Nothing I did could convince them I was not a bad person. The rumours stuck. I was a harlot, a poisoner, a baby killer, you name it. That’s why I walked all the way to Imladris to sell my apples. No one else would buy them. Well, the day I left for good, I went into the village to settle a debt with the blacksmith who would shoe my pony. I told Amrun to wait, and he did. But I think he heard what was being said to me by the blacksmith’s wife, and a few other old biddies who had followed me to the shop to make sure I wasn’t stealing anvils or some such nonsense.”

She smiled at the memory, but her expression was sad. “They never liked me. Anyway, I told them I was leaving, and they decided that, since I was going, it was a good time to tell me what a whore I was. They would not let me go, and they were saying the most awful things. I was crying; I just wanted to leave. And then, they all just… stopped. I looked, and there was Amrun, and five other Elves under his command, all just standing there in full armor and armed to the teeth. They said nothing. Not a word. It was the eeriest thing I ever saw. I mean I knew them and I was afraid. They just stood, and stared. They were utterly still. I gave the smith the money I owed him, and walked back to Amrun, passing him to go to the path. He turned his men and followed after me, and that was the last time I saw that village.” She laughed. “Nothing like a half-dozen heavily armed Elves coming to your defense for a sense of vindication!”

“I should say not!” said Rúmil.

The door opened again, and Bramble dragged in Rabbit. The huge Plains Elf climbed onto the bed and settled, looking like a mildly annoyed werewolf. Bramble announced happily to Master Erestor; “I made Sia come to your party.”

“You certainly did,” agreed Erestor. Rabbit huffed, fondly recalling the days when everyone was terrified of him. Erestor stroked his hair wild, tangled hair. “Poor Rabbit. I’ll wager you’re wondering what made you come live with all these mad folk. Now, what party is this?”

“A very exclusive one,” said Anna. “You can only be here if you are pregnant, have been pregnant, or are under the age of majority.”

Rabbit made some sort of inexplicable noise, not really a huff and not really a growl.

“Articulate as ever,” said Anna.

“Hrrrrrrrrmpfffffffffffffff.”

“And yet he gets his point across,” said Rúmil. “SO!” He raised a glass of wine. Erestor noted wryly that he himself was only permitted tea, but raised his glass anyway. “To Master Erestor, mother of his own growing army.”

“Wait!” said Erestor. “We have an intruder. If this party is for pregos and mothers only, then Mauburz has to go.”

Mauburz snorted and poured herself some tea. “No me don’t. Me not going no place. Pass pie.”

***---***

Gimli stirred, and opened one eye to glare blearily at the late morning light. It was far too sharp and brilliant, and the trill of small birds was like a vibrating knife blade in his skull. In the next room, he could hear Legolas throwing up and vowing in Elvish to never drink again. He had made the same vow the previous morning.

He heard Legolas heave for a little while, then finally drag himself off the floor. He washed, brushed his teeth, then slogged back to bed, looking like one of the undead. His skin was pale, his eyes blackened, and his hair, normally soft and glossy, was lank and hanging. He flopped into bed beside his husband, pulling the covers over his head.

“Gimli… I’m sick…”

Gimli chuckled. “I’m not surprised. That’s what happens when you mix glug with beer and rum.”

Legolas whimpered. Gimli pulled him close and kissed him. “Poor baby.”

Legolas emerged to return the kiss, and smiled at his husband. “I think tonight I shall mind my alcohol intake.”

Gimli stroked his hands over Legolas’ face, and kissed his nose. “That might be advisable.”

Legolas edged closer, kissing his husband, sliding his arms around him. “I hear Dwarfs have curative powers when kissed, is it true?”

Gimli chuckled. “Very true. The more you kiss us, the better you feel.”

Legolas trailed the tips of his fingers down Gimli’s broad chest, over his flat stomach, and finally came to rest on the head of a very large penis, already stiffening. The Elf raised an eyebrow. “It does not seem to be doing you any harm, either.”

They made love quietly, almost cautiously, considering both were hung over. Legolas gasped, uttering soft sounds, whispering in his lover’s ear, his arms slung across the broad, powerful back. Normally they were a little more adventurous in their lovemaking, but today, this seemed much nicer. Pounding heads and displeased stomachs were not conducive to wild coupling.

Legolas uttered a quiet cry, and said something in his own tongue, his grip on the Dwarf tightening as he climaxed, his semen flowing hot and wet across his own belly. Gimli was not far behind, thrusting harder, his breath hot against Legolas’ shoulder as he spilled his seed deep inside his lover. He shivered, then sighed, and both relaxed, lying together, just holding one another. A soft breeze blew gently over them, cooling their heated bodies. Then Legolas kissed Gimli.

“Gimli?” he said softly.

“Hmm?” responded the Dwarf, his eyes closed, his softening member still inside the Elf.

“I’m going to be sick.”

Gimli abruptly moved off him, and the Elf fled for the bathroom once more. Gimli sighed, and chuckled, settling into the warm bed.

***---***

Rabbit stayed a little over two hours with Erestor, but then had to get on with his day. He knew some people would be surprised to hear it, but as Clan Warrior he did have duties other than hunting for the ill and acting irritable. In fact, Haldir was quite amazed at all Rabbit had to do. He was not only the hunter for the ill and infirm, he was also required to keep an eye on any situations within the Clan. He had to know if there were any problems between Clan members, and if there was a potential for blood shed. Plains Elves were, by nature, passive and timid beings, more likely to flee than fight. However, most Plains Elves had not been through what this group had. He left Bramble and Rivil with Anna, not wishing them to see any fights that may break out while he tried to settle an on-going situation with two Clan members.

The laws they had were few, and geared to keeping themselves safe from harm and illness. Elves like January Hare were forbidden from bearing or fathering children because they had illnesses that could be passed on. Other Elves, who had have been crippled by accident, did not face such restrictions. In either case, crippled Elves were not killed or cast from the Clan; they were left to function in it as best as they were able, and to be tended should they need it. Unfortunately, there was one in the Clan who had recently developed an unreasoning loathing of his crippled brethren, and the cause was right before him.

Grey Mouse sat in the long grass with his new baby and seven other children, none older than ten years of age. He and Warrior Moon had lived a long and fruitful life, and both had born children over the centuries. Most had lived, a few had died, and there was virtually no one in the Clan who was not in some way related to the pair. Always had they, in their own way, been a sort of anchor for the group.

Until the night of Flying Hawk’s death.

Flying Hawk had been Mouse’s current eldest, and had been beloved by his Sia. He had a grace more commonly found in one of the Golden Elves than his own kind, and his delicate beauty made him highly sought. He had been spoiled by the Clan, and the Clan had been happy to let him get away with much. Then, during the time of his first cycle, he picked the prettiest Elf he could find to father his pretty offspring. Though offspring of unbound young Elves was discouraged, Hawk would not be told no. He found an archer of Lord Elrond’s guard who suited him, and lay with him. The archer likely never knew he had fathered a child, and Hawk was not of a mind to tell him. After all, he wanted a baby, not a husband.

Warrior had hit the roof when his beloved Hawk came home after a week, looking like a stray cat and smug in his early pregnancy. Bad enough he was young, with a child on the way and no therlu, but the father was a Glaur-Iyre. On top of everything else, the archer in question had recently lost an arm through an accident, and no child of his was going to go mate like a stray dog with an unworthy cripple. Mouse, of course, defended his baby, but it was the first rift in their joining.

Hawk’s death had been the second.

Time had passed, but Warrior had not mellowed. He had grown to hate the Golden Elves, whom he felt could have saved his child, but instead drove him into the path of a troll. Mouse tried numerous times to explain that had not been their intention, but Warrior would hear none of it. Then he began to hate the cripples in his Clan, those who were too weak and sickly to care for themselves, but seemed to think they were due handouts by over-worked Clan members with their own babies to feed. He seemed to over-run with hate for everyone and everything. Then it had all cumulated when Mouse’s latest child was born – white-blond, and with only one arm.

White-blond Plains Elves were rare, but they were by no means unheard of. As for the arm, it was a simple misfortune. The cord had wrapped about the arm and cut off the blood flow while the child was in the womb, so the limb withered. But the implications were not lost on Mouse, who firmly believed this baby to be the offspring of his deceased child and the blond archer, born through him. Mouse named the new baby after both parents; Dawn Hawk.

He had been lying in the birthing hut with three other new Sias, and were enjoying the customary ribbing of one another over the looks of each other’s children. In the hut also were Foxfire and Firespark, who were both coming of an age when they may wish to take a therlu, and it was traditional for the youngsters to observe the mystery of birth before undergoing it themselves. All gathered noted the arm, but were not worried. A birth defect such as this did not mean the babe would not grow up to bear and father healthy children of his own. The four Sias finally agreed that each had the prettiest baby, and awaited the fathers to come take them home, as was traditional.

Warrior was the first to show, thrusting his massive head and shoulders into the hut. He smiled at his therlu, but froze as he saw the white child with his half-arm. Mouse for the first time felt nervous in his husband’s presence, but nudged the baby forward to toddle to his Aie, and prove how good and fit a baby he was. It was a customary for the new baby to meet his Aie under his own steam. However what Warrior did next was neither customary nor indeed even heard of among Plains Elves. He unslung his jaws and lunged to bite the child’s skull.

Mouse pulled his new baby back, and flinched as he heard the ghastly ‘clack!’ of Warrior’s jaw slamming back into place. Then he met his former therlu face-on, savaging him with his own lethal cutting teeth. The marriage was over, and Warrior retreated, bloodied and angry.

Rabbit loped up the cliff to the village, followed by Elrohir. Mouse had called forthem, and they would not ignore his plea. Since Warrior had snapped at the baby, he had been all but invisible, knowing he had attempted to do something too heinous for his fellows to overlook. But Mouse was not so sure that Warrior would leave the matter be, and had asked Rabbit to help him find a home near the Glaur-Iyre settlement. As Rabbit approached, he saw Mouse sitting in the short grass with his baby and other children, keeping an eye peeled for Warrior.

Rabbit paused to wait for Elrohir, letting the shorter Elf catch up, and both continued on to the cliff top, where the little village was. Elrohir grinned as he saw Legolas near Mouse, holding the baby. Alert and close by was Mouse, who seemed relieved to see Rabbit. Mouse approached Rabbit. He was plainly edgy and nervous.

“He is here, I am sure he is here. He removed his things from our hut earlier, and said he was going back to the Faery Realm, but I do not believe he did so. I wish… I wish to move into Lord Elrond’s great house for a while, if he will allow me. After all, eight children and their Sia is a lot to accommodate.”

“It certainly is,” said Elrohir, “but my father would not see small children at risk. I will help you gather your belongings.”

Rabbit slapped at a stinging sensation between his shoulders. Ai, the horseflies here were well named, one could nearly ride them. Mouse waved away another, then shook his head, his distress obvious. “I would like to get my babies into the house first, please.” He cast a nervous glance at the great structure. “I have never been in a place like that, but I will bear it for my children.”

Elrohir took his hand. “I know an area that will suit you. It is on the ground floor, and opens onto the gardens. You will not feel so closed in there.”

Mouse nodded. “I thank you. Now let us get inside before these flies carry us away.”

They helped to bring Mouse and his children into their chambers. It was a lovely set of rooms, meant more for Hobbits than Elves, but open, and accessible. Rabbit felt they were perhaps too accessible, but Mouse and his children were safer here than they were at the village. He did not stay too long, but instead went seeking Warrior.

He found him hunting on the beach. Rabbit noticed he was after shellfish. He liked oysters himself, and clams, but with Warrior it was a bad sign. It meant he no longer felt inclined to provide for his children or his former lover. He should be after larger prey.

“Would not a fish be better? Or a lobster?”

Warrior cracked an oyster on a rock, removing the flesh and eating it. “I do not require that much.”

“You have children.”

“No, Mouse has children. I have facial scars.”

“Is that to be wondered at, after what you attempted?”

Warrior snorted. “I tried to remove a wart. You insist on letting every cripple live here, the whole clan will soon be helpless and sickly.”

“It is NOT a wart. And I fail to see how Hare and one child count as a clanful.”

“I disagree. And I am not coming back.”

“As you wish, but know this; you are not welcome back. Your actions were disgraceful and disgusting.”

Warrior curled his lip. “If I was Clan Warrior, things would be very different.”

Rabbit did not like the threat. “You are not. And you will never be. Even if you defeated me, you would not be tolerated.”

“And who would stop me? Aia-Nen? Haldir?” He narrowed his eyes. “Bramble?”

Rabbit did not like the way this conversation was going. “You will be stopped.”

Warrior cracked another oyster. “Perhaps that locked cave you have been guarding so carefully needs investigating?”

“Why are you threatening my family? You are the one who has done wrong here. Go back to the Faery Realm, if Titania will have you, but do not show your face here anymore.”

Warrior lunged at him, but Rabbit was not surprised. He had been expecting such a move, and the clash was brief and bloody. Warrior loped off, bleeding heavily, and Rabbit tracked him to make certain he was indeed leaving. He followed him for a few miles, could have tracked him further, but he was starting to feel a little off. He halted on the sandy beach and looked up at the sun. It was a very warm day, and he had drunk a couple glasses of wine. Furthermore, he had not eaten yet that day. It was bound to make anyone feel a little off.

He turned and began heading for home, pausing along the way to snap up anything unwary enough to cross his path and was small enough to be a mouthful. However, food was not helping, and he began concentrating on merely getting home. Rabbit finally reached the top of the cliff, and began making his way to the cottage that he, Haldir and the children called home. He was glad to see it; he was feeling distinctly unwell.

He paused as he saw Elrohir, and smiled as a thought struck him. He waved him over, feeling nauseous and… terribly irritable all of a sudden. Biting irritable, as though he could snap this young Elf’s head off. But he had no reason to feel this way. He watched Elrohir as he approached, and said; “I require a small favour of you, Aia-Nen.”

Elrohir looked surprised. “If I can do it, you need but ask!”

“There is a Plains Elf in the cave that Gil-galad was using. I am not well. I was hoping you would go there this evening and chant the Third Prayer for one who has come over from the Realm.”

“Oh I should be delighted to! Who has come over?”

Elrohir’s voice was like metal on slate, and he wanted to snap again. Rabbit looked at up the sun. It was too hot, and the light was too sharp. It was making his eyes hurt, and his head was starting to pound. He flinched from the light, and seemed to forget about Elrohir. He just wanted to get someplace cool and dark. He left the young Elf standing on the grass and loped towards his home, entering the cottage and its cool seclusion gratefully.

***---***

Glorfindel quietly pushed open the door and stepped into the healing room, looking around. He saw Maedhros staring back at him, eyes cold and suspicious. On the bed was Fëanor, either asleep or unconscious, Faramir beside him. Glorfindel stepped into the room, and bowed politely to Maedhros. The huge Elf eyed him warily, but rose and crossed the room, motioning Glorfindel to step into the hall. He followed after him, closing the door quietly.

“Lord Glorfindel, what may I do for you?”

Glorfindel smiled and said, “Well this may sound odd, but… do you know any nannies?”

Maedhros stared at Fin in utter confusion, jaw falling. He had been asked many questions in his life, but never this one.

“The reason I ask,” said Glorfindel, “is your parents did have seven sons. And I just thought an Elf with that many children must have had a nanny, and who would be a better judge of that nanny than the child she or he helped to raise?”

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. “You do realize whom you are asking.”

Fin waved one hand. “Well just because you kids turned out so bad can’t be all the fault of one person, I mean at least some of that must be dietary.”

Maedhros stared at him, green eyes hard. “Right,” he said dryly. “Lack of dairy products.”

“Or too much red meat.”

“My Lord, do not take this wrong I pray but… are you suicidal, or merely an idiot?”

Fin shrugged. “A little of column A and a little of column B. So, have you any suggestions?”

Maedhros stared at Fin, who blinked back. Then he sighed, looking over his shoulder at the room in which his father lay. A walk would do him no harm; it had been a stressful few days.

”I may know a worthy person. So, does this mean your Master Erestor is..?”

“Pregnant,” said Fin. “Yes.”

Maedhros nodded. He began walking, Glorfindel at his side, a thoughtful expression on his face. The two walked together, leaving the house, stepping into the beautiful daylight. He blinked at the sun, running a large hand through his tangled hair. He shook his head, his heavy mane of coppery hair glinting. They began making their way towards a tiny village in the distance, saying nothing. Finally Maedhros spoke.

“Lord Glorfindel, may I ask you something rather… personal? And I shall understand if you are unwilling to answer.”

“If I can. And you may call me Fin.”

Maedhros smiled. “Very well, Fin it is. You… know of course that… Elladan and Elrohir suspect Fingon is…”

Glorfindel shrugged. “Well that means little. For the past few years they have been dealing with Plains Elves. They see black hair and green eyes and check for the obvious. I have to say that, from the way he is acting, I would assume so myself.”

Maedhros bristled, but said nothing for a time. Then he spoke again.

“Your husband is… half Plains Elf?”

Fin shook his head. “More like a throwback. His great-grandfather was a Plains Elf, but no one else in his family was. It means he’s virtually full-blooded… well… mutt I suppose. A little Vaynar, some Sindar, with a touch of Noldo thrown in for good measure.”

“But he does have Plains Elf in him.”

“Oh certainly, and I’ve got the children to prove it.”

Maedhros smiled wryly. “Well what I am trying to ask is, are there any… differences?”

Fin rolled his eyes. “Maedhros, are you attempting to ask if my husband has a vagina?”

Fin watched with amusement as the former High King turned varying shades. “Well I would not have done so in such a direct manner!”

“He has the required physical parts for conceiving and bearing children.”

Maedhros almost sagged with relief. “Ah, then Fingon is not pregnant.”

“Would it be so bad if he was?”

Maedhros looked sad, and torn. “Yes and no. I mean we are cousins, and our law does not condone our relationship. I suspect if one of us were female, there would be more resistance to our union. A child born of cousins would certainly cause a furor, and one born of we two in particular I suspect would draw an especially noisy outcry. But, he is not of the blood of the Plains Elves.” He laughed quietly. “Good thing, too. There are descendants enough of the houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin. Can you imagine myself, Maglor and my Atar pregnant? The Valar would not permit it.”

“Your Atar is too slight to carry a child anyway,” said Fin. “He’d look like an apple on a stick.”

Maedhros smiled fondly as he thought of his father. “You may laugh to hear this, but he was a good father. He loved us. Yes, he is obsessed and he is strange and the Valar know he has his habits. But never once did any of his children fear him. Not until… well. You can read about that.”

Fin nodded, and said: “So where are we going?”

“To yon little village. If luck is with us, I can introduce you to my nanny. He was a great Elf, with a heart as large as he. We all adored him, Atar especially. I have no proof but I suspect they had a brief and bittersweet affair after Naneth left. Atar will not speak of it. His name is Valaríamrûn.”

“Ai, that is quite the name!”

“He deserves every inch of it. He is a natural healer, wise even for one of the First Born. Kind, with an inner beauty, and a gentleness that shines. I recall Curufin once having a tantrum and throwing scalding soup on him. A lesser being would have paddled his backside, and rightly so. Not Val. He just picked him up, and, without a word, sat him in a corner. And let me tell you, the little bugger STAYED. Kind or not, we all knew when we had pushed our luck.”

Glorfindel laughed. “Sounds perfect.” He stopped abruptly as he heard his name called. He turned, and saw Elladan waving him back. Fin sighed.

“What now? What I would not give for a week’s rest.”

“You go back,” said Maedhros. “I will try to find Valaríamrûn and see if he is available for hire.”

Fin nodded. “Thank you.” Then he ran to Elrohir.

***---***

Elrond walked into the bedroom where Fëanor lay, quietly closing the door behind himself. The room had a silence he was familiar with; a silence that meant the occupant was unlikely to get better.

Beside Fëanor lay Faramir; exhausted and deeply asleep, unaware he was lying in his lover’s blood. Fëanor had been hemorrhaging most of the night, the small amount of blood his body was able to create simply oozing out of his nose and mouth as a thin, runny pinkish substance that stained the pillows and bedding. He had grown worse as the hours passed. His body was riddled with infections and the stink of rot. Elrond wondered how Faramir could stand it.

He looked towards the back of the room, sighing quietly as he saw Fireblood. The great black horse stamped a hoof in warning, but Elrond ignored him. Still, he could not help but notice the floor was clean, meaning someone was either mopping up after the beast, or Fëanor had taught it to go outside. As he had noted earlier that the door to the herb gardens flanking the healing rooms had been left open, he suspected the latter.

He made a mental note to go check his herb garden.

He walked over to Fëanor, who was lying on his stomach. He was buried as far into the covers as he could be, his slight body nearly lost in the quilts, his black hair covering his face. Elrond seated himself on the bed, reaching out to pull back the lank black hair, wincing as he saw the crusted matter around his closed eyes. He felt his throat for a pulse, and felt something that would have been better suited to a humming bird – very weak and rapid. Fëanor was not getting better. In fact he was deteriorating rapidly. Soon, perhaps, he may even begin to deteriorate literally if Elrond could not get the infections under control.

Elrond stroked the long dirty hair, feeling a sympathy for the Elf on the bed he had rarely felt for any, no matter how ill. Fëanor had put up with much over the centuries, even keeping his mouth closed regarding the matter of the kinslaying, taking the full brunt of the blame instead of laying it where it belonged, all for the sake of a son who despised him. Elrond shook his head and sighed, and considered his duty as a healer to this Elf.

Elrond had seen death many times over the course of his life, and he knew when it was time to fight, and when it was time to let a patient go. He had even made the hard choice on a few occasions to assist death in cases where the patient was in shameful misery. In his opinion, Fëanor’s condition counted. He was not going to get well. Indeed he was going to rot where he lay; infection and gangrene were already making themselves at home in his flesh. The poison of the Ungoliath was beyond even his skills.

Elrond reached into his robe and took out a small black case and set it on his lap, then opened it. The little case was lined in white linen, and held a single hypodermic, made of Mithril and glass. He picked it up and looked at the device, and at the fluid it held: a lethal mix of opiates and belladonna. Fëanor would not go quickly, but he would go peacefully, and without pain. Elrond took a steadying breath, despising this necessary deed. He pulled back the black hair, and prepared the push the needle into the jugular.

“That will do no good,” said a silken voice.

Elrond did not have to look to know who it was. As a healer who possessed one of the three Elven Rings of Power, he had met Námo several times before. He turned to look at the Vala of Death in all his terrible glory, his robes of scarlet and black and many other hues; too many to name, reflecting all the ways life could end. His long raven hair hung past his shoulders, framing his delicate white face and the large, expressive eyes.

“That will do no good,” he repeated.

Elrond put the needle away. “I suspected as much, but what else can I do for him? He is neither living nor dead, and his flesh already is attacked by more illnesses than I have skill to heal. Is it the will of the Valar to see him turn into a wraith, or worse?”

“No,” said Námo softly. “It is our will that he be given a gift he has long been denied. Fëanor has borne much slander and hate over the years, and many have turned their backs on him. It is our will that he come to understand he, too, is worth fighting for.”

“This is beyond my skill! Look at him! His blood runs out like tears, he is little more than stinking meat. Infections eat him alive, I can even see rot setting in. My lord…” Elrond shook his head, “I would fight for him but… I need a living patient in order to save him.”

Námo smiled at Elrond, his eyes soft. “He does live, healer. This task is not beyond you.”

Elrond sighed heavily, and watched Námo fade away. He looked towards Fëanor.

“They are going to make you survive this, my friend,” he said softly. “I do not agree with it, but I must abide by it.”

He reached across Fëanor to awaken Faramir. The man sat up, blinking, exhausted. He noticed the pinkish stains on the sheets, and shook his head, knowing what it meant.

“I am sorry to awaken you,” said Elrond.

Faramir shook his head again. The Man was so tired he was in nervous tears, but he got up and began helping Elrond to clean the bedding, then perform the hopeless task of disinfecting the wounds.

“If only we could stop the bleeding,” said Faramir, “maybe this would not be so hopeless.”

Elrond nodded, then looked up as Rúmil opened the door and peered into the room.

“You’re not supposed to be out of bed!” hissed Elrond. “You are certainly not supposed to be in here!”

“I know,” said Rúmil. “But there is a great commotion going on in Haldir’s cottage. Something is desperately wrong with Rabbit. Elladan said to bring your crossbow, the one with the darts.”

Elrond sighed heavily and left Faramir to clean up the bedchamber, Rúmil accompanying his husband. Elrond grabbed a crossbow and some darts for each of them.

“There are times,” said Elrond as he passed Rúmil a crossbow, “when I swear I have had a headache since the day Gil died.”

***---***

Haldir entered the cottage that he and Rabbit now called home. They had built it themselves, with the aid of the local Dwarfs. It was constructed of fieldstones and timbers, and a roof of thatch. It had shuttered windows, and a large hearth, tiled with painted ceramic squares. The floor was of flat slate, and the windows were of stained glass, filling the interior of the house with a green/gold light. Bramble and Rivil each had their own rooms upstairs, and Rabbit and Haldir had a cozy, private chamber just off the sitting room. It was larger than the average cottage, but Dwarfs had a hard time with the concept: “SMALL”. Haldir did not mind. If he and Rabbit had any more children, they would have room enough.

Haldir walked over to the counter and deposited two plump pheasant onto the stone surface, then paused. He thought he heard a sound, but, as he looked around the cozy chamber, he saw nothing. He shrugged, and removed his bow and quiver, setting them aside. Then he began building up the fire under the kettle to boil water with which to pluck the birds.

He heard the sound again, and this time there was no mistaking it. Something was growling. He turned and looked for the cause of the noise, but could not see anything. He froze as the sound resonated in the cottage. Whatever was making the noise was big – larger than a wolf. He thought it was coming from his bedchamber. Picking up his hunting knife, he slowly advanced.

He stepped carefully to the doorway of the bedroom, peering into the darkened chamber. The low, constant snarl became louder, more threatening. Haldir went cold as he saw what was making the sound.

Rabbit lay on the bed, his stance like that of a reclining hound. He was lying with his body partly twisted, so that his upper body was propped up on his elbows, his lower half turned to let him rest on his left hip. He was huddled miserably in this position, shivering. His hair was lank and damp, his huge body running with sweat. His eyes were crusted almost shut with some sort of noxious green matter. His lips were drawn back, and as he growled, slow frothing strings of saliva dripped down. He was plainly not well. In fact… he looked rabid. Haldir lowered his hunting knife and took a step closer.

“Rabbit? What is wrong?”

Rabbit lunged. Haldir had never in his life been on the receiving end of one of Rabbit’s attacks, and it seemed to come in slow motion. He watched the eyes roll back, showing white, and the jaw unslung to expose the killing teeth. Haldir knew those jaws, and what they could do. He even knew how they worked. They were connected with huge tendons, and would open wide to catch flesh and bone between the upper and lower cutting blades. Then they would snap shut like a rat-trap, crushing what they did not merely sever.

Haldir snatched up a wooden carving and held it before himself. Rabbit hit hard, biting down on it, and Haldir heard the wood splinter and crush. He was thrown onto his back, hitting the floor hard, and saw Rabbit fling his head the toss aside the broken shards of the carving. Then he lunged for Haldir again. Haldir tried to fend him off.

“Rabbit stop! It’s me!”

Rabbit did not seem to know his husband. He lunged for his face, teeth missing his flesh by millimeters, saliva spraying onto his skin. Haldir struggled to push him away, but there was no fighting him off; he was far too powerful. Rabbit went once more for his face, but Haldir blocked him with his arm, and screamed in agony as the jaws clamped down, cutting flesh and snapping the bone. Rabbit shook his head, whipping Haldir back and forth like a rag doll. There was a ghastly ripping, snapping noise, and the wet sound of cartilage parting, then Haldir was flung several feet across the room. He landed in a motionless heap. Moments later the door flew open.

Rabbit dropped Haldir’s arm and lunged for him again, but this time Ecthelion was there to interfere. He grabbed Rabbit by the hair and tried to pull him off, only to have the huge Plains Elf turn on him. Rabbit threw Ecthelion to the ground and went for his throat, but the warrior rolled and blocked it. Enraged, Rabbit got his jaws into Ecthelion’s shoulder and tore out a mouthful of flesh. Ecthelion screamed, while Haldir tried to drag himself up, but could not. He collapsed, dizzy and ill, listening to the fight.

“Don’t kill him,” he whispered, lying on the cold floor in a growing pool of his own blood.

He could hear some additional commotion, and screaming. Then there came the sound of crossbows being fired. The battle slowed, then, after a few moments, it stopped. Haldir heard Lord Elrond speak.

“Nice shot, my love.”

“Thank you,” said Rúmil.

Haldir coughed, and forced his eyes open. Rabbit lay like a dire wolf on the floor, motionless, though still growling faintly. Haldir watched as Ecthelion dragged himself off the floor.

“Don’t kill him!” pleaded Haldir.

“We will not kill him,” said Elrond. “But what in all Arda and Valinor has happened here?!”

Haldir shook his head, and managed to choke out the words. “He attacked me!”

More Elves were showing up. Haldir felt Orophin lift him up, and began carrying him out of the cottage.

“Orophin, do not let the children see this mess.”

Orophin shook his head. “They will not, rest assured.”

“What will they do with Rabbit?”

“Lock him up, then hold a council about what to do with him I expect.”

“Orophin he’s sick. I do not know what is wrong with him but he is ill.”

“I know, Haldir. I know. Just… be still. I will make sure he is not harmed. But he will be locked up, and he will be chained. Elladan and I will take Bramble and Rivil.”

They reached the healing rooms, and Haldir felt himself laid on the bed. Elrond was not far behind, and Haldir heard him begin directing Orophin. He was fading, and the room was going dark. The last thing he heard before he fell into darkness was Rúmil asking Elrond where he should put his arm.

***---***

“It was an accident!” stated Aulë, arms crossed. “Nothing more! It was not my intent to cause harm!”

“I know,” said Manwë softly, his low voice gentle, his silver eyes staring seemingly to nowhere. Even in his kindest moods, he was most daunting. “And I am not so certain harm has been done. The… mother? Sia, I believe, is the word the Thrayre-Iyre use. The Sia is resourceful and wise, his lover is also, and the pair is bound. They shall make most suitable parents. They have loved each other ere the first day they laid eyes upon one another, though there are those who would not approve of their union.”

“But neither is of the blood of the Thrayre-Iyre,” said Vairë.

“I did not say there will be no strife,” said Manwë. “Only that the child shall be loved. As for the parents both being male, that will require some looking after, for, as Vairë correctly assumed, both the pairing and the gender shall be cause for discomfort and fear among some. I will send one among them whom they know, and who shall be able to look after this matter.” Manwë smiled. “I daresay he shall find it a far less daunting task than some he has faced. Fear not my children, this is but a small matter. Handled well, it need not become a cause for alarm. I shall do my best to see it does not come to that.”

Vairë and Aulë both bowed to Manwë, accepting his judgment before turning to depart. Manwë smiled, but pretended not to notice as Vairë gave Aulë a punch in the arm. However his smile faded as his gaze fell upon Lórien, standing outside the closed gate to his garden. He could not recall the Vala of Dreams ever being barred from his garden, and he called his name.

“Lórien. Come to me, child, and speak with me.”

Lórien did, moving slowly, casting glances over his shoulder at the locked gate. Finally he stood before the throne of Manwë.

“You call, and I answer, my Lord.”

“Your garden seems to be locked. I see your flowers fading, and a darkness taking hold there. What has happened, my child?”

Lórien shook his head, eyes becoming wet. “I have been betrayed, and my gardens taken from me.”

“Betrayed? By whom?”

“Estë! I do not know why – she simply says she is weary of my company. Daily she would ask me to bring her flowers, and gladly I would, traveling distances that are great even for ones such as us. Then she asked for Evening Roses. Well you know how rare they are, and how far their native lands. It was no easy trek, but I found four! Triumphant, I returned home, to find she had taken what few treasures she held dear and locked herself in my gardens, barring them to me. And she is not alone, Yavanna is with her, though I suspect Aulë has yet to notice her absence.”

Varda sat forward with a soft rustle of the finest silk. Lórien flinched and closed his eyes; he had ever been uncomfortable looking upon Manwë’s dearest companion. “That is not all, is it, Irmo? Estë said one other thing to you, ere she slammed the gate.”

He nodded. “She said… that she and Yavanna had wearied of their long neglect, and decided to keep each other company, and that as rest was her concern, my filling the sleep she gave with frivolous images was needless, and she did not need one who did naught but paint silly pictures.” He raised his head and stared at Varda and Manwë. “I know not if my dreams are of any use, but I did not neglect my wife! I love her! Aulë can make no such claim, he did neglect Yavanna. But I love Estë! How...?”

Varda raised a hand, and he fell silent. “You speak the truth, you did not neglect her, nor did you cause her grief. She blames you for her own feelings. When Ilúvatar paired us all, he did so according to our strengths. With some, the binding worked. Estë has no complaint with you. Her complaint is in having a husband she did not choose. I shall speak to her.” She smiled at him. “And you do not paint silly pictures, Lórien. Without you, the bards would be without inspiration.”

“Lovely,” he muttered. “I am the amuser of songwriters.”

“You are far more than that. None of Ilúvatar’s children are useless. Create yourself a new garden, and be content there. I shall speak to Estë.”

He nodded, and walked away. Varda watched him depart. “He is not merely hurt,” she said. “He is angry at this betrayal. Deeply angry. I fear he shall cause some mischief.”

“Let him be angry,” said Manwë. “He has much to be angry about. Should he cause any real hurt, I will deal with him. He wields more power than he knows. He will learn that, though I have my doubts he shall find love again. His options are few.”

Varda smiled. “Thee and I shall look after him. He may yet find happiness with another. But I fear what damage he may cause if he lets his anger spill forth.”

***---***

The sun set. Despite the events of the day, party-goers began to arrive for the third night of Lord Elrond’s party. Elves and Dwarfs arrived, as well as Bilbo and Frodo. Boromir was there as well, drinking with the Hobbits. Bramble and Rivil were with Mauburz, uncertain as to where their parents were. They had been told they were ill and they could not see them, which was true enough. They just had not been told the nature of the illness.

Orophin made his way to a small area at the back of Elrond’s great house, searching for Elladan. He had heard that he had gone to look in on Rabbit, and Orophin very much wanted some news for his brother’s children. He still did not know how Haldir was, but he could at least check on Rabbit.

The area where Rabbit was currently housed was a small set of dungeons, constructed in the event they may be needed. So far they had held nothing more ominous than a family of sick sheep. As Orophin approached the dungeons, he noticed a quickly painted sign on the door. The word SILENCE was written upon it in large black letters in six languages. He recognized Elladan’s handwriting. He grasped the door handle and pulled gently, making as little sound as possible. He stepped through the door, then quietly closed it behind himself. He walked lightly down the hall to the cell at the far end, and froze, terror gripping his heart.

Currently, Rabbit was in a small cell that had been meant to hold the occasional pirate. It was little more than a cage; flanked on three sides with stone, the front a heavy iron grill. Attached to the back wall was a weighty chain, bolted to the stone. At the other end was an iron collar, which was normally bare metal, but which some considerate person had lined hastily with sheepskin to prevent it causing discomfort to the wearer. Presently, it was about Rabbit’s neck. The floor was deep with hay, and covered with quilts, forming what was essentially a gigantic bed.

He lay on the floor, semi curled up, his stance once more like that of a reclining hound. He seemed reluctant to move out of that position, as though his back hurt him. His lips were drawn back in a silent snarl, streaming pinkish saliva. His eyes were stuck shut with some disgusting crusted matter. Sitting beside him on the floor was Elladan. He looked up sharply as Orophin approached and made an abrupt gesture for silence as Rabbit began making a hellish sound. Orophin held absolutely still, his heart in his throat as he watched his young lover work on something between Rabbit’s shoulder blades. The huge Plains Elf growled for a little while, but then the sound stopped. Elladan kept working. Orophin said in his softest voice: “Elladan?”

Rabbit made a half lunge and snarled. He could not see what had made the noise, but he had a fairly good idea from whence it came. Elladan made a gesture for Orophin to be silent. Eventually, Rabbit settled and fell silent once more. Elladan removed something from his back, and slowly, silently, got up and crept out of the cell. He quietly closed the iron door behind himself, and dragged his husband out of the dungeon. Once they were passed the door with the ‘SILENCE!’ sign, he looked at Orophin.

“Were you trying to get me killed in there? When I ask for silence I mean silence.”

“I could well ask you if you were trying to get yourself killed! What were you doing in his cell?”

“Well I can’t treat him if I don’t know what’s wrong with him. And I think I have my answer.” He showed Orophin something that looked like a large blue thorn with some sort of tiny bladder attached to the bottom. Orophin took it and examined it.

“What’s this?”

Elladan led him into his father’s lab, and over to a small container holding seawater, with some sand in the bottom. In there also was a short fat little fish with a blunt nose. In the middle of his back was a single spine, which looked a great deal like a large blue thorn. Orophin looked from the thing he held to the fish.

“Hey this is a spine from a little fish like that one.”

Elladan nodded. “They call it a Tower Fish, because of the blue spine. It is an absolutely harmless little fellow, and very friendly, because he knows if you try to eat him he can fill you with enough venom to do serious damage. If you were a Man or a Hobbit, you would just die. But, if you are an Elf, you develop agonizing back pains, extreme sensitivity to light and sound, eye infections, gum infections, and a whopping case of temporary insanity.”

Orophin touched the small fish’s nose, smiling as it sucked on his finger. He looked up at Elladan.

“Well that explains why Rabbit went off like that. But how did the spine get between his shoulder blades? Shouldn’t it be in his foot? I mean this little guy does not appear to be able to fly.”

“I thought about that too. Mouse mentioned to me that when he was out with Rabbit earlier, there were horseflies biting. I think one of the ‘flies’ that bit Rabbit was this spine, fired from some sort of blowgun.”

Orophin’s eyes grew large. “You mean someone intentionally darted him. Someone wanted him to attack Haldir.”

“Or worse,” said Elladan. “But at least now we can fix him, and we have something to tell the children. We can sedate Rabbit into unconsciousness for five days, and let the venom run its course.”

“And what about Haldir?”

Elladan shook his head. “Ada said he thought he could reattach the limb, but it would take all of his skill, and that’s with his Ring.” Elladan looked at Orophin with soft eyes. “Can you imagine if it had been Bramble or Rivil who had gone in, instead of Haldir?”

“Would Rabbit not have realized..?”

“No. He’s in agony, horrible agony. If he curls up like a dog, and doesn’t move, the pain is only excruciating, but the moment he hears even a moderate noise… well… you saw the result. He was already snarling at you.”

“So all Haldir would have had to do was say ‘Hello darling’ I’m home’.”

Elladan nodded, and shuddered. “Oh I do not like to think of what would have happened if it had been the children.”

Orophin set down the bucket with the fish and gently pulled Elladan close, kissing him. “The children are safe.”

“I know but it could have been so horrible. He would have turned those babies to scrap.”

“Do not think about it,” urged Orophin gently. “Rivil and Bramble are well. Come. Let us sedate Rabbit and get him in a proper bed. The children want their Sia.”

Elladan nodded. “You are right.” He looked down at the fish, which was clinging to the side of the bucket, its small nose poking out of the water.

“The prisoner is demanding to be fed,” commented Orophin. Elladan laughed, though he was still shaken and teary. He passed Orophin the bucket.

“Here, you set this little fellow free, and I will drug Rabbit. When you get back, you can help me move him.”

Orophin looked at the little beast, smiling. “All right, but he looks rather fierce, he may just hop out of that bucket and give me a severe gumming.”

Elladan leaned forward and kissed Orophin. “Hurry back. After we move Rabbit, we can look in on Haldir.”

“Yes I would very much like to see him,” said Orophin.

“And if you see Rúmil in your travels, catch him. Ada is frantic, he can’t seem to make him understand he needs to rest.”

“He’s used to being a warrior, not a mother,” said Orophin, “but if I see him I shall certainly catch him. Having one brother ill is enough.”

He kissed Elladan and left, taking the fish with him. The sun was setting, and as he approached the cliff, he saw the sea had been turned to red and gold, the sky above fading to indigo. All around him the coloured lamps and bonfires of scented wood were being lit, and the music was starting up as the tables were laid, and great haunches of meat were roasting. Already party guests were drinking, making merry in celebration, most completely unaware of the tragic events of the last few days. Indeed why should they know? They had come to toast Lord Elrond, not to do battle or cause strife. Orophin looked down at the little fish.

“Someone put one of your friends to a very ill use, little fellow. I pray your spine stays where it is.”

He took the little fish down to the ocean and released it, watching as it scooted gratefully into the water. He rinsed out the bucket, and made his way back up the path, pausing as he saw Rúmil heading towards him, lugging his twins in a great basket. He looked absolutely grey.

“How is Haldir?” he asked as he approached Orophin.

“Lord Elrond says he thinks he can save the arm. Either way, Haldir will live. Rúmil you must come with me, you must rest!”

“I am fine.”

“You are not! And one ill brother is all I can bear at a time.” He took the basket, and watched as Rúmil grasped his belly and gasped. “You are bleeding again, aren’t you?”

“A little. But…”

“No buts! None! Frost faded of an illness of the uterus and it shall not happen to you. Now I am taking your silly ass to bed and I am making you stay there if I have to sit on you!” He took Rúmil by the arm and began leading him to the house. “By Eru, what is the matter with you?”

Rúmil allowed himself to be led along, saying nothing. He went with Orophin to his bedchamber, looking pained and sickly. He nearly burst into tears as he saw Elrond in the room, stripping off his bloody garb. Orophin took the babies to their cradles, settling them in their beds as Rúmil went to his husband. Elrond turned to see who had entered, then rushed to Rúmil, picking him up.

“Where have you been? Dammit, Rúmil I have asked you repeatedly to stay in bed!”

Rúmil said nothing, merely putting his arms around Elrond’s neck and burying his face in his long hair.

“How is Haldir?” asked Orophin.

“Weak,” said Elrond, carefully carrying Rúmil to the large bed and placing him on it. “But he will live. Has Elladan made any progress with Rabbit?”

“Aye,” said Orophin. “He was poisoned with the venom of the Tower Fish.”

Elrond nodded. “Then he will recover also. May the Valar grant their marriage survive as well. Now I must need only concern myself Fëanor.”

“My Lord,” said Orophin quietly, “I have seen Fëanor. Would it not be kinder to let him fade?”

“It would,” said Elrond, “but it is not permitted. Námo demands he be saved. But I do not know how to combat the venom of the Ungoliath.”

“Perhaps King Thranduil and Prince Legolas may be able to help.”

Elrond’s gaze snapped towards the young archer. “What makes you think that?”

“Well the great spiders of Mirkwood are the descendants of the Ungoliath, are they not? They must have some idea as to how to counter the venom of the great spiders.”

He nodded. “Go, and see if you can find them for me. I must speak with them.”

Orophin nodded, and went to find Legolas and Thranduil. Elrond, meanwhile, turned his attention to Rúmil. He lay down beside him on the bed and touched his face, his lands still stained with Haldir’s blood.

“Rúmil,” he said wearily, his expressive eyes warm with affection, “why are you determined to see my hair turn grey?”

Rúmil gazed back, his own eyes shimmering with tears. “I am afraid.”

Elrond gently kissed him. “Of what?” he asked, his voice a whisper.

“My life… has just changed so utterly, and without warning. In four days… I… Elrond I do not know who or what I am anymore! My father is not my father, I am not who and what I thought I was, I suddenly became the Sia of twins with NO warning…” He burst into tears. “I did not even get to say goodbye! I bore him a child and he never even saw him!”

Elrond lay down on his back and pulled Rúmil close. “I am so sorry, my dear, beautiful Rúmil. You who worked so hard to save me from my own despair, and now I do not know how to save you from yours.” He kissed the top of his head. “What can I do for you, my love?”

Rúmil shook his head. “I just… need time, I think, to adjust. I’m so afraid. I just… I just need you.”

“I am here for you, my dear Rúmil. And I always shall be. You are dearer to me than ever you could know. But please, rest. I beg you.”

Rúmil nodded. “I shall. But…” He looked out the window, then back at Elrond. “Will your guests notice if you spend one night of the celebration in bed with me? I have not had you to myself since I gave you your birthday presents.”

Elrond smiled, and stroked his face. “They may celebrate without me this eve. You and I shall spend tonight together, safely locked away.” He stroked his powerful hand over Rúmil’s middle. “Are you bleeding again?”

“Just a little.”

“A little is too much.” He kissed his brow. “I shall grant you some privacy to get yourself cleaned up, while I take a bath. I have not been so bloodied outside of a battlefield. Then we will have a quiet dinner, and spend an evening together.”

Rúmil nodded, then said; “Is it all right if I see Haldir?”

“No. I am afraid I must insist you do not. You may see him tomorrow after a full night’s rest. He is doing fine, and is quite heavily sedated anyway. He would not know if a herd of Oliphants ran through the room.”

Rúmil nodded. “Very well,” he said softly. “Then I will order dinner.”

Elrond kissed him. “I shall be back soon.”

He left the room, heading to the bathing chamber to scrub off the blood and stink of hours of grueling work. In truth he was so tired he had no idea what sort of company he would be for his husband. But he felt a little more hopeful than he had earlier. Haldir would be well again, and perhaps Thranduil could help him to cure Fëanor.

Elrond returned to his bedchamber, and smiled at the sight of Rúmil, clad in a simple white nightshirt, lying in bed with their twins. With his fair hair hanging loose, it was like looking into the past, and seeing Celebrian with Elladan and Elrohir. But no, it was not like that. This was different. It was real. The children were his own, and there was no deception. ‘Well,’ he reminded himself with a smile, ‘one of the children is mine. But there is still no deception.’

He walked over to the bed and lay upon it. Sliding beneath the covers, he looked down at the tiny befuddled faces, peering sleepily at him. “I see we are not the only ones who require dinner.”

“And a change,” said Rúmil. “And since I am currently forbidden to handle anything even remotely nasty…”

Elrond sighed, and got out of bed. “I shall fetch a bassinette of warm water and other things required for cleaning up tiny bottoms.”

“We need a new sheet, too.”

“One of them wee’d the bed, did he?”

“No, I… had an accident.”

Elrond rolled his eyes. Perhaps it was as it had been with Celebrian after all.

***---***

They ate dinner, and fed the babies. Then, as the infants slept, Elrond took advantage of the situation to hold his husband close. They kissed, flirting and touching as they lay side by side. Rúmil wanted in his heart to make love, but his body, as well as his husband, were both firmly against it. Rúmil knew Elrond was right, and physically he was in no shape for it, nor did he think he would even have the strength to get aroused. But he wanted him close; wanted the intimacy of the act. Elrond held him tightly, caressing his hand over his long back, kissing the gold hair. Rúmil fought sleep for a little while, then finally sank into a heavy slumber. Elrond breathed a sigh of relief, and kissed his brow.

“Sleep well, my dearest love.”

Rúmil slept like the dead, eyes closed, his breathing deep and regular as opposed to the usual waking dream of his kind. Elrond was on the verge of joining him in sleep when he heard a small noise. He opened an eye and cast his gaze towards the cradles. He observed a pair of pink feet and pink hands, waving. He sighed, hoping Erenion would doze off, but no. The infant was plainly not sleepy. Elrond slid out of bed, taking care not to disturb Rúmil. He walked over to the cradle, and looked at the babies. Eölthrim was asleep. Ereinion was bright-eyed and busy.

“As it always was,” said Elrond softly, smiling fondly. “You have a bottle and a clean set of clothes and are ready to go make merry. Doubtless I shall lose you to some fair young maid or lad the moment we leave this room too, am I right? Very well, let me dress, and I shall escort you.”

He dressed in his robes of purple, and found his circlet under some dirty linen. He dressed up Erenion in a tiny robe of pale blue, and swaddled him into a blanket of velvet. He then deposited baby, blanket and all into an Elfling sling and headed out to the party, leaving Rúmil to rest peacefully.

“A most formidable escort, my Lord!” said Ecthelion, his right arm around Ithilian, his left in a sling. Ithilian walked up to Elrond and promptly took the baby, showing him to his husband.

‘As I expected,’ thought Elrond, watching one of Arda’s most lethal warriors talk nonsense to an infant.

“Looks… just like you,” said Ithilian tactfully.

“No he doesn’t, he looks like Gil,” said Ecthelion. Ithilian nudged him.

“No, he is right,” said Elrond. He began walking towards the small pavilion set up for himself and Rúmil.

“And you do not mind that another has been planting flowers in Rúmil’s garden?” asked Ecthelion.

“Were it any other than Gil, I most certainly would have minded, and the consequences would have been most unpleasant, I assure you. But though the situation was… unconventional, no dishonour was done. Rúmil and I have chosen not to openly announce the parentage of our offspring, but I am not going to deny it, especially not when the first words out of the mouths of all we meet are ‘Why does this infant look like Gil?’ If any choose to take issue with it, I will be quick to remind them that I am not merely a healer and herald.”

“I do not think this situation is as unconventional as many would think,” said Ithilian. “Love comes in many, many forms, and sometimes it must appear quite strange to those looking upon it.”

“Speaking of strange loves,” said Ecthelion, “here come Legolas and Gimli.”

Elrond seated himself, and accepted a glass of wine passed to him by Ithilian. He noted that Legolas looked rather ragged, and grey. His eyes had a distant look, as though something was troubling him. He stopped and stood near Elrond’s chair, looking distracted.

“Legolas?” said Elrond.

The young Elf looked up. “Yes?”

“You do not look well.”

“That’s what I have been telling him!” said Gimli.

“There is nothing wrong with me, Lord Elrond. Save too much drink and merry making, and too little sleep. And my dreams have been strange of late. I dream of loud, rhythmic snorting sounds, like that of great swine, and the grinding of teeth. And this morning, I had a most ominous sign. A great reddish hair was in my tea. I swear it was five feet long.”

Gimli growled. Elrond chuckled. “I see. A most ominous sign, indeed! Well then, I shall not fret about you until after my party ceases. But you do not look well to me.”

“I thank you my Lord, but I am fine.”

Orophin and Elladan walked up, Elrohir and his two leggy black offspring with them. Elrohir seemed slightly drunk Elladan took baby Ereinion from Ecthelion and cuddled him.

“So how is fair Fingon?” asked Ecthelion, looking at Elladan. “Is he with child? For that matter, are you? You are getting a little round.”

“Aye and he was sick this morning,” said Orophin. Elladan nudged him.

“For the weight, I blame Mauburz’s cooking,” said Elladan. “As for the morning sickness, I was drunk last night. I suspect most everyone in this area was ill upon waking. And as for Fingon, he could be part armadillo for all I can tell. I cannot get passed Maedhros to look.”

“Ah, yes, First Age Noldor are a delight, are they not?” said Ecthelion. “I suspect they mated with Plains Elves, and that is from whence the latter gained their teeth.”

“Careful with that,” purred Elrond. Ecthelion smiled, and bowed in apology. Elrond sighed and said gently to his son; “I will look in on Fingon, though I suspect he is unlikely to be with child.”

“As do I,” said Elladan, “but I was taught to be thorough. And he does have the body and the colouring.”

“Ai, think of that and be afraid!” said Orophin. “The House of Fëanor mingled with the bloodlines of Plains Elves.”

“Well the House of Elrond is related to the House of Fëanor, though distantly at best,” said Elladan. “And since Plains Elf fathers Plains Elf, I should think you and I would know by now whether I was of that lineage, is that not so, Ada?”

Elrond looked at his beautiful young son, smiling as Elladan linked his arm with his husband’s. He hoped he never had to tell him that he had no idea who sired him.

“That is quite so,” he said gently.

“I am fascinated by them,” said Ithilian, looking at Fade. The tall Plains Elf was standing not far away, clad in a khiton of dark blue, speaking with Hare. “I should like to know how… they bite so. I mean the mechanics of it.”

“I can show you,” said Elrohir, weaving slightly. “Fade! May I borrow you and your jaw for a moment?”

Fade looked at Elrohir. “Are you going to use me as some wretched form of teaching device? And am I going to be embarrassed?”

“Yes, and I suspect so.”

“Well so long as you are truthful.”

The huge Plains Elf approached, followed by Hare, who seemed nervous, uncertain what Aia-Nen was going to do to his suitor. He spied Ereinion, and edged closer to the baby, flinching slightly when Elladan turned to let him look at the child. Hare stepped nearer, and looked at the tiny helpless pink thing, while Elrohir got Ithilian a box to stand on. Elrond never failed to be amazed at how utterly fearless his son was with his adopted Clan. A few more Elves gathered, anxious to see what madness Elrohir was up to. Elrohir cleared his throat.

“Good evening class, we are about to learn the mechanics of the killing bite of the Thrayre-Iyre. Are we all comfy? Comfy Ada?”

“Not until I am certain Fade shall not bite you on principle.”

“Nonsense, he adores me. Now…” He reached for the Elf’s jaw, and Fade growled. There were a few flinches from the crowd, but Elrohir was undaunted. He looked about at the blanching crowd as he took hold of Fade’s jaw.

“Tomorrow’s lesson is how to tell a serious growl from noise.” He opened the jaws and looked inside. “I have found the fourth Silmaril!” he cried.

Fade wrapped his jaws around Elrohir’s face. Elrond felt himself age.

“Just demonstrate, child, please!”

“Yes, Ada. Now, Ithilian, if you will put your hand here so you can feel what I am speaking of, before Fade decides he has had it with me…”

Ithilian touched the back of the powerful jaw, all too aware of how small his own bones were, and how Rabbit had not only torn off Haldir’s arm, but had utterly dislocated his shoulder and broken his clavicle. Fade could kill him without a thought.

“Now,” said Elrohir, having a swig of wine before taking hold of Fade’s lower jaw. “The bite comes in stages. First, as you can see, his mouth is no larger than thine or mine, and his teeth certainly do not look any sharper. But, the ones he does the damage with are hidden. Where you would have three molars, upper and lower, he has one long, high cutting blade. He has two of these blades on the bottom, and two on the top, and they fit together much the way well-made bone cutters do, or if Elves made scissors for the purposes of removing limbs. BUT! To use them, he has to get them into a position where he can get them on you. So, stage one of the bite – to unsling the jaw.”

Elrohir carefully pulled down and forward, and Ithilian felt both sickened and fascinated as he saw and felt the jaw slide out of its customary position and drop, exposing the white teeth. The cutting teeth were nearly an inch high at the front end, with a slight backwards-facing hook The back portion of the tooth formed a long slope leading to the back of the jaw, ending abruptly, and was roughly a quarter inch high.

“Now,” said Elrohir, “once his jaw gets to about… here… a series of tendons engage, rather like huge springs.” He moved Ithilian’s hand, and the little smith felt the cables, like the wires on a harp, engage, pulling tight. He was beginning to be heartily sorry he asked to see this.

“The purpose of the tendons is two-fold. One is to make certain the jaw ends up back where it belongs. The other purpose is to form a series of what are essentially very tight and powerful springs. You will also note that once his jaw gets this far out, his eyes roll back into his skull to protect his vision while you inconsiderately spray blood, meat and bone fragments into his face.”

Elrond felt his heart doing strange things in his chest, and he tensed as he watched the Plains Elf he had chatted pleasantly with on occasion turn into a ghoul worthy of the worst of Melkor’s abominations. Elrohir chatted on, cheerfully drunk and oblivious. The crowd of Elves was silent and nervous. Bilbo and Frodo had arrived to watch the demonstration along with Boromir. Bilbo was fascinated. Frodo and Boromir were positively grey. Elrohir asked Bilbo to pass him a soup bone. The old Hobbit did, returning with something that had once likely been the lower foreleg of a cow.

“So now we are at stage three. The jaw is down, teeth exposed, tendons engaged, eyes rolled back…stage four is fairly uncomplicated. The whole thing is now going to snap back like a trebuchet, with the following result.” Elrohir put the bone in Fade’s mouth, releasing his hold on the jaw. It snapped back with a shattering and splintering of bone. Many in the crowd winced. A few fled. As Fade spat the few bits of bone out his mouth, Elrohir bowed.

“And that concludes tonight’s demonstration.”

“I’m going to be ill,” said Legolas, turning sheet white.

“Am I done, headmaster?” asked Fade.

“You are,” said Elrohir. “Lemon drop?” He gave Fade a candy from a silver tray near Elrond’s chair. The large Elf accepted it, chewing while Elrohir gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Now I am off. I promised Rabbit I would sing a prayer on his behalf, and if I do not hurry I shall be late. If you see Rabbit, let him know I have gone to do as he asked. Ready to help Ada sing the prayer, my little shadows?”

Moonshadow and Nocturne leapt after their father, the trio running together for the cliff path, unaware of the stares following them.

“Does Elrohir not know what Rabbit has done, and where he is?” asked Orophin.

“Apparently not,” said Elladan. “Let us tell him later, why should his mood be spoiled. And if he has prayers to chant, then let him do it with a light heart.”

Thranduil approached just then, Balin following his Ada, toddling along on his short little legs, clutching something in his chubby hands. He toddled up to Elrond and presented him with a small, leather-covered box.

“And what is this, little one?” asked Elrond, taking the box and opening it.

“Med-sin!”

“Medicine, eh?” Elrond glanced up at Thranduil, who nodded.

“Aye, it is the anti-venom we use against the poison of the great spiders. May it be of some use to you.”

“Thank you, Thranduil.” He rose to his feet, then paused looking around for his baby. He sighed. Ereinion was gone. “Where is my infant? If I return home without him, Rúmil will be most displeased.”

Erestor walked up, Estorel on his hip, Silivren at his side. “He is fine, my Lord. Once he is tired and his nappy is full, he shall magically reappear. Trust me.”

Elrond smiled and kissed his brow. “I hear you are pregnant again.”
“Yes, it’s a bloody epidemic,” said Erestor. “I am pregnant, Anna is pregnant. Oh! And you may not know this, but our own dear Mauburz is with child as well.”

Elrond’s head snapped up and he looked towards the tall woman with the dark tattoos, who was currently roasting venison. “Mauburz! You’re pregnant?”

“No need tell me that, me know for days now.”

“But I did not know!”

“You s’posed be great healer, how you not know?”

Elrond laughed. “Diagnosing pregnancy through osmosis, I must have missed that class. Congratulations my friend.”

She smiled, looking terribly pleased with herself. Elrond shook his head. He was about to head for Fëanor’s room, when Frodo came forward, touching his arm.

“Lord Elrond? I have to ask you something. About Haldir.”

Gimli shot a glance towards Legolas. His lover was having a hard enough time keeping his lunch down. He dreaded the upcoming conversation.

“I will answer if I can,” said Elrond.

“Is… is he going to recover? I mean fully. I… I need to know what Rabbit did and how it will affect him. It’s true I have had little contact with him, but he was kind to me during the time of the Fellowship. I would like to know if he will get better.”

Gimli was not the only one who was noticing Legolas turning odd shades. Elrond studied him for a moment, then looked back to Frodo.

“He suffered what is known as a traumatic amputation.”

”So Rabbit bit his arm off?”

“No, not quite. Rabbit bit into the humerous, or upper arm bone, breaking it and cutting the bicep in half. That was bad enough, but with all the shaking and thrashing, he essentially tore the arm out of the socket and ripped it off, dislocating the shoulder blade and breaking the clavicle as he did so.”

Frodo turned grey. Legolas turned and fled, heading for a cliff to vomit. Moments after he did so, from the bottom of the cliff came faint cries of disgust. Frodo grasped Elrond’s arm. “Can you fix it?”

“I did, but I could not have done so without my Ring. It is the first time I have had to use its abilities to such an extent in a great while. And even with its use, I did not mend all. I managed to reattach the limb, but I cannot make him heal over night, nor can I assure you that he will be an archer when the healing is done. But he has two arms.”

Frodo nodded. “And… he will live?”

Elrond smiled, and nodded, squeezing Frodo’s shoulder comfortingly. “He will live. Now, I must go and give this to Fëanor, and pray he is saved as well.” He paused, then looked towards Elladan, holding his hand out to him. “And you and I, my child, shall solve this question regarding Fingon once and for all. If he is with child then we need to know.” He looked around. “Now, is anyone else pregnant?”

“Boromir,” said Bilbo. “It’s mine.”

Boromir stared daggers at the old Hobbit. Frodo looked at the large Man with expressive blue eyes.

“Boromir, have you been betraying me with my uncle?” he asked, his tone gently chiding.

“You are both horrid little warts,” said Boromir. “And it’s Glóin’s.”

Gimli chuckled. “Won’t he be surprised to hear it!”

“Especially since we are not sleeping together,” said Boromir. “Do you not think Legolas has vomited on enough people?”

“Yes,” said Elrond, “he has. Gimli, bring him. I will look at him after I see to Fëanor and Fingon. And if anyone else has a problem after that they can bleed to death, I am tired.”

Gimli went to get Legolas. Frodo laughed at Elrond’s remark, and even harder when he saw Gimli carrying Legolas. The Elf was protesting weakly, his feet dragging on the ground. Boromir went to Gimli and took Legolas from him.

“I shall carry your beloved, Master Dwarf. I doubt he would forgive you for a severe case of rump rash.”

“Very well. But if your hands stray I shall cut ye off at the kneecaps.”

Elrond and his son walked to the house, followed by Orophin, Gimli, and Boromir carrying Legolas. As they entered the house, Boromir and Gimli took Legolas to their own chambers, while Elrond went to Fëanor’s room, pausing as the stink of the infected injuries hit him. He sighed as he opened the door and saw Faramir. The Man was seated on the bed, looking exhausted.

“Faramir you must rest.”

He shook his head. “I cannot.”

“You can and you must. You will be of no use to him if you are dead of exhaustion.” Elrond seated himself on the bed and pulled out the drug Thranduil had given him, and began preparing a needle. He could only hope it had some effect as he injected it into the desperately ill Elf.

“Will that help?” asked Faramir.

Elrond shook his head. “I do not know.” He trailed a hand over Fëanor’s black hair. “With luck, it will.” He sighed, suddenly feeling painfully weary. He looked to Faramir. “Now get some sleep. I will be back in an hour to check on him, and if you are not asleep, I will drag you someplace and sedate you.”

Faramir nodded, and managed a small smile. “I will clean him up first.”

“Very well. But then you must rest.”

Elrond gave Fëanor a final reassuring caress, then left the room, feeling the stress of the day take hold at last. His labour over Haldir had been long and arduous, and he had forgotten how draining it was to use his Ring for so many hours. But without it, he would never have been able to connect Haldir’s arm to his body. He slogged his way to the room where Fingon now lay, and sighed as he saw Maedhros stationed before it like some huge red beast. Elladan gave his father a tired look. Elrond was not in the mood for First-Age posturing. He walked straight up to Red and stared at him fixedly.

“Move aside,” he said tersely, “and stop interfering.

Maedhros stared back; he was not intimidated by Elrond’s command. “And why, pray tell, should I do that?”

“Because if he dies as a result of your posturing, you will not forgive yourself. Now move.”

Maedhros seemed to think about that, then nodded, stepping aside. Elrond walked to the door of the room and opened it, entering the chamber and closing the door behind him. Maedhros looked highly displeased, but he said nothing.

“He will be fine,” said Elladan reassuringly. “Besides, would you not rather know?”

Maedhros curled his upper lip slightly, saying nothing. Moments later, Elrond emerged, looking irritable. Maedhros looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

“He is not pregnant.”

“Are you sure?” asked Elladan. “The vomiting, the fainting, the weight gain!”

“The vomiting and fainting are a result of an inner ear infection.”

“And the weight gain?”

Elrond’s facial expression did not change as he shoved the door open, revealing Fingon, sitting up in bed, reading a book, and all the while shoving chocolate-covered coffee beans into his face.

“That would do it,” agreed Maedhros.

Elrond handed him a bottle. “Sit on him and stick three drops of this into his ear every four hours, and get him to lay off the beans.”

“Easier said than done,” said Maedhros, “especially the part about taking away his beans.”

Elrond smiled, and went to the last room where his attention was required. He walked in, and saw Legolas lying on the bed, whimpering. Gimli stood beside him, holding his hand. Elrond walked over to the Elf and looked at him, smiling, stroking back the pale gold hair.

“Now what is wrong with you, young Elfling?”

Legolas shook his head, closing his eyes, plainly feeling hideous. "Something I ate?"

Gimli was not amused, and was starting to worry. He managed to hold his tongue while Elrond looked over Legolas.

"Well if that were true, then you would not be the only one being ill at my party." He stroked his hair. "What is wrong, child? What are you feeling?"

Legolas shook his head. He was beginning to sweat. He placed his hand over his angry stomach and looked to Gimli, then back to Elrond. "Sick, and worse in the mornings. There is an odd...feeling in my...all over. Ai, I do not know. I have not the strength to draw my bow properly, everything feels strained inside."

"Strained?" Elrond's brain was fuzzy. He had done little more than tend to the ill and injured all day, and his body was beginning to demand rest. He ran his hands over him, feeling for anything odd; a bone out of place, strains, sprains, breaks. He had once treated Gil-galad for a headache, only to discover the High King had been wandering around with a skull fracture and a broken leg. Very little stunned Elrond medically anymore.

"What do you mean by strained?" he asked gently, long fingers exploring the young Elf's belly.

Legolas winced, "Like I pulled something, but not the same, like something is...wrong. Out of place. Oh I am going to be sick.”

Gimli had heard that phrase more than a few times over the last few days, and abruptly stepped aside. Elrond handed him a basket, and asked Gimli what Legolas had eaten. Gimli shook his head.

"Nothing. Some meat earlier, a bit of lembas and vegetables yesterday, some beer. Nothing stayed down. So far as I can tell, he has not held a crumb of food in his stomach for over two days and only a half glass of beer stayed down." He made a gesture to Legolas. “There’s not even anything coming up, he just heaves.”

Legolas shook his head, panting, almost sobbing. “Do not mention food. Please do not. I just want to lie down and die.”

“No you don’t!” exclaimed Gimli, looking frantic as the Elf he loved flopped over sideways. He helped him to sit up. “Nae be talkin’ of dyin’ now!

“He is not dying,” said Elrond, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Legolas I will give you something to settle your stomach for now, and Gimli may stay with you. But tomorrow when I am not so tired and you are not quite so ill, I am going to give you a complete examination.”

Legolas closed his eyes and shook his head. “No.”

Elrond stared in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”

Legolas slowly sat up, looking ill, almost haunted. “No. I am not telling anyone what I think is wrong, and no one is examining me,” he whispered. “Ever. I have had too much to drink, too little sleep, and possibly some spoiled fish. Nothing more. I am not ill.”

“Ye damned well are!” exclaimed Gimli.

Elrond glanced at Gimli, who looked just as surprised as he felt at the odd outburst. Elrond finally decided he was too tired for this. He gave Legolas a draught to settle his stomach, and turned to Gimli.

“Master Dwarf, you are under strict orders to not let your husband out of bed, or out of your sight, until I have had twelve hours of sleep. If he wishes to eat, he may, but nothing to drink but water. Keep an eye on him, if he gets worse come wake me.”

Gimli nodded. “Aye, I shall do that.”

Elrond left the room, his mind going over a mental checklist. Fëanor was resting, Haldir was resting, Legolas was nauseous and likely suffering nothing more than the flu and a case of nervous melodrama, and Fingon was full of beans. All he had to do was find Ereinion and go to bed. Returning without the baby would not be a wise thing. But, as Erestor predicted, Ereinion was being returned to him by Ilinuil; eyes sleepy, belly empty, diaper full.

“He is all yours, my Lord.”

“You are most gracious.” Elrond took the baby, and was about to go inside when he saw a figure in white ride up on a shining white horse, nothing less than a Mearas. He watched as the figure gently guided the great horse to a halt, using no bridle or saddle to control it. Then he slid off the horse’s back, laughing as Bilbo and Frodo greeted him.

“Gandalf?” said Elrond quietly.

***---***

Fingon sat in his bed, reading a book. He frankly had been surprised to learn Glorfindel and Ecthelion had written a book on the last days of Gondolin, and had been most anxious to read it. However, despite the tragic events the book was concerned with, he could not help but frequently laugh out loud as he came across places where one had crossed out the other's work and corrected him, usually leading to some sort of literary disagreement. He glanced up as he heard the door to his sickroom open, and he smiled as he saw Red enter his chamber.

"I have been wondering where you were."

Maedhros walked over the bed and sat on it, mentally bracing himself. Fingon may be reasonable for a First Age Elf, but this was not going to be pretty. Maedhros kissed him, and then shamelessly prevaricated. "I was speaking with Elrond. What are you reading?"

Fingon smiled, and showed him the tome. "'The Fall of Gondolin', by Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, and Ecthelion of the Fountain. I had no idea warfare could be amusing." He kissed Maedhros, then reached out to take the small glass bottle from his lover’s hand. "And what is this?"

"Ear drops," Maedhros said, putting his arms around Fingon and looking at the book, grinning at a passage where Glorfindel had called Ecthelion an illiterate troll after a particularly lively discussion on who exactly saw the dark hordes approaching first. "Your fainting spells, my darling Elf, are as a result of an inner ear infection."

"Nonsense, Elves do not get inner ear infections."

"Nevertheless, that is what you have. Elrond knows what he is talking about. He also said you are not pregnant. There, ah, was some speculation about that while you were unconscious."

Fingon stared at his husband as though he had just suddenly announced he was having a torrid love affair with a troll. He set the book aside. "I beg your PARDON?!"

‘Here we go,’ Maedhros thought. "Fingon my love, you have been fainting like a maiden in a new corset. You have been feeling nauseous, and you have… ah… gained some weight. Elrohir wondered if we might have Plains Elf blood in the family from Grandfather Finwë. But we have not, and you are not, so all is settled in that regard." Maedhros crossed his fingers and waited.

Fingon was positively sputtering. "PLAINS Elf blood? From Grandfather Finwë? I'll STRANGLE the hairy little newt, how DARE he insult my family thusly!"

Maedhros shook his head. "You will not strangle him. He meant no disrespect, and there is no insult in truth. We do not know who Grandfather Finwë's parents were. Elrohir was only trying to help, so calm down, beloved. Anyway, as far as we know, there is no such blood in our family, and… you are not pregnant."

The last four words he spoke in a near-whisper, and his tone sounded slightly wistful. Maedhros was surprised to realize that, despite all the reasons why it would be VERY bad if Fingon had been pregnant, he had been hoping he was.

Fingon stared at him, still rather displeased, but guessing his lover’s thoughts. "And does that upset you, that I am not, and never shall be? Maedhros," he said, his tone softening, "you know as well as I what the consequences would be if one of us became with child. The last thing we need is for one of us to suddenly find out we are descended from Rabbit's people." He reached for his bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans.

Maedhros sighed, "Aye, I know, but I cannot help wishing sometimes for a child with your eyes and your smile. When this speculation started, there was a mad moment when I saw the possibility." He shook himself, and smoothly reached for the beans, removing them deftly from Fingon's grasp. "Elrond did however find the reason for your weight gain." He dangled the beans.

Fingon kissed him, deftly taking the beans back. His tone was soft, and gently teasing. "Possibility? And what did you see? Maedhros, the Well-Formed One, changing nappies? The former High-King giving bubble baths to infants, and reading 'Snuggly-Wuggly the Caterpillar Goes to Túna '?"

Maedhros deftly snatched the beans back. "Actually, yes. I helped raise my brothers when Naneth had too much to deal with. You of all people know I am not the cold-hearted bastard that legend and Elves who do not know any better paint me as. Is it not natural to want a child with one's beloved? But I had thought it not possible, which, it seems, is true." He put the beans to one side, out of Fingon's reach.

Fingon edged closer to Maedhros, kissing him, making a soft, purring seductive noises, easing himself down to the bed in a most inviting manner. Once he was in the right position, he grabbed the beans. "Red, my beloved, we can adopt. And why are you depriving me of my beans?"

Maedhros rolled his eyes, having fallen for the ruse. He grasped the beans, and, after a brief tussle, took them back again. Breathing a little raggedly and slightly peeved, he rose, opened the window and threw the beans out. Then he turned, folded his arms and fixed his husband with a stern glance.

"THAT is why you have gained weight. You are slower on the practice ground, and I know for a fact your armour does not fit properly. And yes, we could adopt. If you can tell me just who would give us a child? You, perhaps, but not me, most of them think I eat children."

Fingon stared at him coldly, and said in a slow, deliberate tone; "You tossed my beans. And things are not as they were. We have earned some measure of redemption, and forgiveness. And I had not noticed that even the most outrageous texts say you ate children. Though I would not put it past a few of your brothers. Go get my beans."

Maedhros did not move, remaining with his arms folded. "No. You need to give them up, and of course no one ever wrote it down, they are not that stupid." He sighed, "Anyway, I do not eat children, they get stuck in my teeth."

Fingon laughed quietly. "Well not if you boil them first." He smiled at his lover, green eyes adoring, yet sad. "I am sorry, my beautiful love."

Maedhros responded instantly, moving back to the bed and sitting on it, oddly hurt. "Do you regret it, Findekano? Do I cause you pain or shame? You cause me neither. I have spoken foolishly. I would once have wished for a child, aye, but I have you and you are all I need or have ever needed. It is no lack that we will never have children and it was not my intent to make you feel so. Forgive me, beloved, if it seemed so."

"Nay, I do not regret loving you, though there have been times I have regretted the small-mindedness of others. And you do not cause me pain or shame. Well, some pain, when you sing those 43-stanza lays in the bathtub and alter the words to suit yourself." He kissed him. "I just... recall how much joy you had at helping with your brothers when they were small. I would give you that again if I could."

Maedhros kissed him back. "I know you would, but we are realists, you and I, and we know it cannot be. Your willingness is a gift in itself. Let us forget this now, we are to be married at last, and we are happy. Naught else matters." He frowned, "And I do not alter the words, I know every line of those songs!"

"Oh indeed. And just when did Turgon fart down the walls of his own keep?"

Maedhros shrugged, "Perhaps I altered that one a little. But that was all. Besides, he could have, you know what he was ali..." He stopped. "Ai, please excuse me while I take my boot out of my mouth."

Fingon laughed quietly and passed him a pair of forceps. "Here you will need these." He smiled at him, eyes soft with love. "Take me home and make love to me, Nelyo. I wish to be in my own bed. With you."

Maedhros smiled back and moved to pick his husband up, a small part of him surprised the subject of the beans had not now been brought up again. He kissed him and whispered, "Think you are up to that? I need you, I will not deny it, but I do no wish to tire you."

Fingon put his arms around his neck. "You will not tire me, there is nothing wrong with me. But if you want to stick those drops in my ears I will require a suitable bribe. More beans will do." He looked towards the door, frowning as he heard Elrond's voice, speaking quietly to Faramir. Both Elves stilled to listen, then Fingon looked at Maedhros.

"We should go see what they are discussing. I suspect it has to do with your father."

Maedhros nodded and carried Fingon to the door. He set him on his feet and opened it, finding Faramir and Elrond just outside the room.

"Is there news of my father?" asked Maedhros.

Elrond glanced up at the two of them. Faramir was too exhausted to notice. The Man looked grey and old, and he trembled, weariness making him cold.

"Yes, there is news about Fëanor," said Elrond softly.

Maedhros nodded, feeling a coldness run down his spine. He moved closer to Faramir, wanting to comfort his father’s friend and lover. He looked towards Elrond. "You cannot save him, can you?" he asked softly.

Faramir dropped to the floor, overcome by emotion and exhaustion, not caring what sort of a figure he cut before the Elves around him. He sat on the floor and cried, strained beyond his limits. He had not been Fëanor’s friend long, but Fëanor was special to him; the first male he had ever lain with, as well as a living, breathing piece of history. For despite Faramir's statements to the contrary, he did indeed know whom Maedhros, Fingon, and Fëanor were. He simply had not wished the Elves to feel prejudged by the knowledge. He finally managed to get himself under control, and looked up at Maedhros.

"The medicine Thranduil gave us worked. We have, at last, stopped the bleeding."

Maedhros almost sagged, catching himself in time. He exhaled a sigh of relief. "Ai, thank Eru." He looked at the exhausted, forlorn figure of the Man, then, much to the surprise of all present, picked him up. "Come, you need to rest. I will return to you to my father and take over the watch for a while. You may sleep next to him, but you will sleep."

Faramir wrapped his arms about Maedhros' neck, suddenly wide-awake and afraid. It was a long way down, and no one had picked him up like this since he was six. Fingon laughed quietly, and Elrond managed a weary smile. He touched Faramir on the shoulder.

"I shall leave you in their capable hands." He looked at Fingon. "No more beans," Elrond said, touching Fingon’s nose with the tip of his finger. Then Elrond turned and walked away. Fingon flashed him a gesture, and Elrond, without so much as turning his head, said, "I saw that."

Maedhros burst out laughing, startling Faramir. "He knows you so well, my love!" He turned, carrying Faramir in the direction of Fëanor’s room, saying over his shoulder, "No more beans, and the practice yard three hours a day. I will not wed an Elf who does not fit his armour."

"I have bean deprived!" wailed Fingon, following Maedhros. "Ai, that I must suffer the slings and arrows of a faithless lover who puts me down for a mortal, and now takes my one solace. I have bean forsaken!"

Maedhros backtracked and kissed Fingon over Faramir's head with the kind of passion that would have felled a lesser Elf. "Oh shut up," he said fondly when they parted.

Faramir huddled in the arms of the huge Elf, watching the undersides of their jaws as they kissed. "I have not had a view such as this since I was four."

Maedhros grinned and bent his head, kissing Faramir, with less passion but thoroughly all the same. He grinned at the nervous, puzzled and rather suspicious look on the Man’s face.

"We would not want you to feel left out."

Faramir huddled in his arms and was silent. Perhaps the rumours he had heard about all of Fëanor’s sons being mad were true. Still, there were worse things than being held and kissed by an Elf. He glanced up at Maedhros and felt an urge to ask for a pony. He conquered it.

“Such a handsome son you have borne me my love,” said Maedhros to Fingon, as they resumed walking down the hall. “So very large and strong. What shall we name him?”

Fingon gave the Man a bemused smile, taking in the soft, wispy hair and trimmed beard, as well as the bit of reddish hair visible on his chest.

“Fluffy.”

“Fluffy it is.”

“I feel compelled to inform you that you are both mad,” said Faramir.

“His first sentence!” said Fingon. “Can you say ‘Nana’?”

“I can say ‘barking loony’.”

“Don’t call your mother a barking loony,” said Maedhros. “He very rarely barks anymore.”

“I feel I should point out that if your father and I wed, I shall be your Step-Atar.”

“That is fine. If Fingon and I are your parents, then that will mean you are marrying your grandfather. That suits me just fine, as it shall certainly detract from our being half-cousins.”

Faramir thought about that as they approached the door to Fëanor’s sick room. He said softly; "I must warn you.... there... is a smell."

Maedhros nodded. "I expect there is. I doubt it is any worse than some I have come across in my years." He reached Fëanor’s door and pushed it open.

The smell was indeed dreadful; like something one would encounter in a crypt. Fireblood raised his head and stomped a hoof in warning at the intruders. Suddenly a second figure leapt back from the bed. It was Lindir, and his eyes were large. He had clearly not expected anyone to arrive, certainly not Maedhros, Fingon, and Faramir. He tried not to be annoyed at the sight of Maedhros carrying Faramir, but the small fists clenched briefly.

Maedhros cast a warning glance at Lindir; the gesture not lost on him. Gently, he set Faramir on the bed beside Fëanor, and then leaned over him to kiss his father's brow. Faramir stripped down to his breeches and slipped under the covers; too tired to wonder why Lindir was there.

"Sleep," Maedhros commanded gently.

Faramir closed his eyes, mumbling "How can I disobey the former High-King of the Noldor?"

Maedhros raised a brow. "Oh so you do know who I am. We shall discuss that later, but let me say this. Few have tried, and none a second time. And there are three former High Kings here, so I suggest you be quiet and rest so you are there when my father needs you."

Faramir rolled over, disliking being spoken to like a child, but glad to be beside Fëanor once more, and to look at him and not see the slow trickle of his life fluid leaking away. He stroked the dirty black hair, thinking that when he awoke he would find a way to try and clean it for him. He moved close, placing an arm around him, then, abruptly and without intending to, he fell asleep. Maedhros watched as Faramir slipped into an exhausted sleep, then rose from the bed and took himself to a low couch, paying no heed to Lindir. Fingon settled beside him, and looked at Lindir, as though noticing him for the first time.

"And why are you here, young Bard?" asked Fingon.

Lindir shifted, looking guilty. "I wanted to talk to Mr. Fëanor, but... he's too sick to speak."

Maedhros slowly turned his head to look at Lindir; his expression much like a that of a wolf looking at a deer. When he spoke his voice was quiet.

"What did you wish to speak to my father about?"

Lindir did not want to discuss this, least of all with Maedhros, but he was not brave enough to deny one who had been King. Indeed, as Maedhros had pointed out, there were three former kings in the room. Lindir did not play cards, but even he knew that three kings beat a bard. He looked at Faramir, who was dead asleep, his arm about Fëanor. He returned his gaze to Maedhros, and said softly; "I was hoping I could convince him to stay away from Mr. Faramir."

Maedhros stared at him for a long time, green eyes focused and intense. “So are you saying that you love Faramir? Even more than your goose? Come here, young bard."

Lindir looked like he had just been invited to sit on the lap of Morgoth and tell him what he would like for Yule. The colour drained from his face, but his feet did as they were ordered. He stepped closer. He would never admit to fearing Maedhros, but he did. Maedhros pushed out a padded stool towards him.

"I do not bite, Lindir. Well, I do, but no one has yet died of it." He allowed Fingon to settle against him once again, and spoke quietly, but firmly. "What business does one who will not let go of his childhood have with adult thoughts and feelings? You love Faramir, that much is clear, but you cannot love as an adult and cling to the trappings of childhood."

Lindir had a feeling that Maedhros would turn out to be just as nasty as his father. He stared back at him, feeling his heart fill with rage and frustration, and perhaps even hate. Not hate for Maedhros in particular, just an overwhelming and nameless anger. This situation was not his fault, why did he have to fix it? If his Nana had not isolated him, locked him away, convinced him he was still a baby, he would be able to love as an adult. But he did not know what to do, nor even how to do it, and everything was being taken from him. Faramir was in bed with Fëanor, and had not even so much as greeted him. Lindir felt his guts churn with emotion, and finally drew a shuddering gasp and burst into tears. He was humiliated by the break, but could not seem to stop it. And that made it all the worse.

Maedhros watched him in silence, but he gave no sign of emotion. Then he leaned forward and put two fingers under his chin, tilting Lindir’s head back so he could look into his eyes.

"Let go of your childhood," he said softly. "You are a beautiful young Elf, your life is awaiting you. Why cling to what is gone? Confusion and fear are normal, these we have all faced when we grew up. But you are not alone. You have the courage to become the adult you really are if only you will it. Do you wish that, Lindir?"

Lindir was tired of telling those around him what he wished. It made no difference to state what he wanted if he had no idea of how to achieve it.

"It has nothing to do with will!" Lindir snapped.

Fingon raised his head, blinking sleepily at the outburst. Faramir remained a lump. Lindir continued his tirade.

"You do not know what this is like, no one knows what this is like! Were you punished for wishing to play with other children? Did your Ada have to sneak toys to you? Were you forbidden to play music? Were you beaten for simply being a growing child? It has nothing to do with will. I was not allowed to grow up, now... I do not know how." Lindir's outburst softened, and once more he became small and child-like, holding his goose. He looked down at her, and repeated quietly; "I do not know how."

Maedhros watched him, green eyes softening. "No,” he said quietly. “I had a loving childhood, and parents who allowed me to play and grow up normally. I do not patronize you, Lindir. But it has everything to do with will, for you especially. You can cling to what is familiar, or you can let those who love you guide you. Growing up is something you simply do, and it will happen to you naturally, if you will simply allow it." He considered the young Elf before him. "I would offer you a trade, if you would hear it?"

Lindir looked up, sniffling. "A trade?"

"My brother wishes to find someone of suitable talent to work with, an apprentice, if you will, to whom he may teach the old lays and ballads. Few now know more than a handful of them. As yet he has not found one suitable.”

Lindir’s blue eyes grew wide. “Oh I would like to be his apprentice,” he breathed. “Would you speak to him about me?”

“I would be happy to, young Lindir. But, in exchange, I want you to leave Miss Goose with me. You may see her whenever you like, but she must stay with me. I will look after her."

Lindir stared at Maedhros, jaw hanging. It would be a huge honour to work with Maglor, and learn under him. He would have an opportunity to become truly great, and to learn songs that had all but faded from memory. But... to part with Miss Goose? She had been his only friend through many, many lonely years, and his father had given her to him before he had faded. She was more important to him than he could put into words.

He looked at Miss Goose, then at Faramir, sleeping alongside Fëanor, an arm around the slender and desperately ill Elf. Fëanor had given him a year, and if there was one thing Lindir knew from history, it was that Fëanor did not make statements lightly. He looked at Miss Goose once more, deep in thought.

“I could see her whenever I wanted? And… you’ll take good care of her?”

“The best of care. You have my word.”

Lindir squirmed. Finally, reluctantly, he nodded. "Very well," he whispered.

Maedhros nodded, and gave a slight smile.

"You have taken the first step to your goal,” he said quietly. “And I will offer you something else, if you wish it. I offer my friendship. I will not patronize you, and I will expect you to listen when you ask for advice.”

“I will, Mr. Maedhros.”

“Lesson one. Adults address each other by their names or titles. You may call me Maedhros. This is Fingon. And how may we address you?”

“Lindir.” He dried his face with his hand, still sniffing a little. “Lindir is fine.”

“Very well, Lindir it is. And now, because no one is awake but us, I will tell you a secret.”

“A secret?” Lindir looked a little wary. “It’s not a nasty secret, is it?”

Maedhros stared at the young Elf. He was beginning to suspect he knew why Elrond had so many headaches. He was Lord of a madhouse.

“No, Lindir, it is not a nasty one. In fact I have no nasty secrets at all. All of my nastiness is available in any library.” He smiled, his fierce countenance softening as he gazed at the child-like Elf. “All I was going to say, child, is that sometimes even the most powerful of us needs a hug.”

Lindir was rooted to his seat with shock. His knowledge of this family was most limited, and limited mostly to the bloody aspects. He, as many others, did not know the warmer side to the Fëanorians; indeed even the heated, passionate side. They were a family that was not afraid to share feelings, and usually loudly enough to cause windows to close in the valley. The offering of a hug was astonishing to Lindir, but not the worst offer he had all day. He moved to the couch, sitting beside the very large Elf, and moving into his arms, allowing Maedhros to hug him. He felt decidedly strange about the whole situation, but once again Lindir felt the warm and comforting feeling of being held. He realized he had missed this sort of physical contact a great deal as a child, and to be cradled against the broad chest and held in the strong arms was like being a baby again, soothed by his Ada.

He closed his eyes and relished the safe, warm feeling, knowing no one would believe him if he said he had spent the evening cuddling with the local kinslayer. Maedhros was not generally viewed as the cuddly type by any save Fingon. Lindir opened his eyes and looked at Fingon, wanting to touch the silky black hair. Lindir had often thought he would like black hair. Instead he looked at Maedhros.

"So is Mr.... I mean.... is Fingon… going to have a baby?"

Maedhros laughed quietly, but his eyes were sad as he looked towards the lover he had cherished for so long.

"No, Lindir, he is not. Elrond has told us what is wrong with him, and we will now put it right, but there will be no baby." He looked back to Lindir. "I will tell you one day of how I fell in love with him, and when. It may help you, I think." He looked at Fingon once more, smiling at the sleeping Elf. "You see, Lindir,” he said as he reached out to stroke the black hair, “one of the good things about growing up is that you are able to love Elves as beautiful as this, and have them love you in return. Is that not worth it?"

"If they love you back," he muttered, glancing to Faramir. The man began to snore quietly, and Lindir sighed, looking once more at Fingon. He dared to reach across Maedhros to touch the heavy waves of enticingly soft black hair. "Fëanor gave me a year," he pouted. "Then he says he's gonna ask Faramir to marry him.”

"So, you have a year. That is not an impossible task. My father is fair; many Elves would not have given you even that. You must fight for what you love, take responsibility for it. That too, is part of being an adult."

Maedhros carefully unbraided one of Fingon's braids, removing one of the gold threads woven into it, watching it glint in his hand. He gazed at it for a moment, then passed it to Lindir.

"Take this, for when you are missing Miss Goose, and Faramir seems out of your reach. Call it a symbol, if you will. Findekano is the most beautiful Elf I know, and there were times it seemed our love was doomed. Hold onto that for when things seem difficult, as proof that not all that seems far away is actually out of reach."

Fingon opened an eye, pleased his husband thought so highly of him, but less excited about him making a gift of his favorite jewelry. Lindir took it, staring at the gold thread with its tiny diamond studs. He looked up at Maedhros, and suddenly blurted out; "Can I live with you? I mean... you want a kid and I'm sort of a kid and maybe I'll grow up faster with you." He blushed explosively.

Maedhros laughed quietly. "I have a better idea. There are small cottages in the grounds of my keep, and I know of one spare. Take that, and you may take your meals with us if you wish, but it is time you had more than just your own room. You are NOT a child." He kissed Lindir's cheek, "But thank you for your offer. I would have been proud of a son such as you."

Fingon yawned. "And thank Eru I did not have to birth him, not at that size!"

Maedhros laughed quietly, and leaned over to kiss him, then turned to Lindir once more.

"So, what do you think? You can move in whenever you wish, and you will have your own front door. And.... when you are ready, your own bed to share."

Lindir blushed, unused to being so frank, but still feeling the flutter in his heart from the kisses he had shared with Feronil the night before, and the mystery of what lay beyond the kisses. He was so afraid, but Maedhros was right. He could not be a child and a lover.

"I think I will do that tonight," he whispered. He looked at Miss Goose, hoping Maedhros would care for her as he felt his eyes well with tears. He shook his head, and sighed. "Mallorn trees," he whispered. "Even after Faramir and I watched a Plains Elf give birth, I still refused to believe what my own eyes told me. Why would she tell me babies fell from Mallorn trees?"

"Because she was a selfish women who needed you to believe what she wished you to. There is much you need to learn, but you will, have no fear of that." He held out his hand, "Let me have Miss Goose, and then tonight, when you have moved in, Fingon and I will come. The three of us will share a glass of wine, and you may say goodnight to her. How does that sound?"

Lindir nodded, and reluctantly passed her to Maedhros, already anxious he may leave her too close to the fire or not put her into her nightgown or make sure she had her slippers. He rose to his feet and excused himself, darting out of the sickroom.

Fingon sighed. "A shilling says he's gone off to get that duck's belongings."

Maedhros laughed. "It is a goose, and if he has, then we will dress her and make sure she is comfortable until the day comes when he realizes he no longer needs her. I have a feeling that day will not be long in coming." He kissed Fingon lingeringly, feeling desire awaken in him. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough to know you are giving away bits of my jewelry when I sleep, you rogue.”

Maedhros touched the loosened braid, "And if I give you back the exact same thing, something you left in my room the first time we made love and I have kept ever since, will that appease you? Oh and unlimited access to my body."

"I already have your body, and you steadfastly refuse to give back my virginity. I suspect you keep it in your old foot locker with that toy stuffed puppy I'm not supposed to know about." He took Miss Goose and cuddled her, kissing Maedhros.

Maedhros gasped and blushed, "Nobody knows about him! Ai, who told?" He ran his hands lightly over Fingon's body and sighed mournfully. "I am so unappreciated. Would you want your virginity back?"

"No. But we can go to our room and see if it really is impossible to get a male Noldo with child." His eyes gleamed kittenishly, but then Lindir returning with nothing less than a trunk attracted his attention.

"I got some of Miss Goose's things. Make sure she has her slippers and her night bonnet on when she goes to bed. Oh and I packed her favorite pillow to sleep on."

Maedhros was long practiced in the art of not appearing surprised, and he nodded solemnly, though in truth he wanted to howl with laughter. "I will make sure. And when Fingon and I come to visit tonight, I will ask Maglor to join us." Maedhros had a feeling Miss Goose would get rather less attention if Maglor was in the room.

Lindir grinned broadly. "I packed my things, I'm going to take them up to the cottage closest to the keep, the little one with the tumble-down stone wall. I know it's the oldest but I like it and I want to fix up the wall and maybe have a garden so I can have a pet guinea pig. One of the traders from the Sutherlands had one and it was really cute but he said they need sunshine and nice plants to eat, and they don't eat meat so it won't bother Miss Goose. Oh and did you know Mithrandir just rode up? He's here because someone's pregnant but he doesn’t know who."

Maedhros looked surprised. "Mithrandir? He is here for a pregnancy? Well, I expect we will find out soon enough. It is not anyone in this family, that much is certain. You go on ahead, we will join you soon."

"I will! And..." Lindir smiled at Maedhros almost shyly. "Thank you."

"You are welcome. I will see you in half an hour." He watched as Lindir departed, then turned to Fingon. "So, will you stay here and keep an eye on Atar and Faramir while I help our young friend move? And between us we may find out who really is pregnant." He looked slightly wistful, waiting for Lindir to be truly gone before he uttered the next phrase. "At least someone is having sex"

Fingon smiled. "Do not despair my beautiful one. We will again. Someday. You go help Lindir settle and gather the gossip. I shall make certain your father and his mortal toy-boy do not run away. Oh, and bring the child some lamps and lamp oil, there are none in that cottage."

Maedhros got up with a long suffering sigh. "Someday? Someday sounds like a long time." He got up reluctantly, "Lamps. Right. Ah, could ‘someday’ be when I get back?" he asked hopefully.

Fingon rolled onto his back, looking kittenish and submissive, knowing what aroused his lover's interests. "Tell you what. When we finish with Lindir, you may come find me in our bed. I'll be naked and covered in lavender oil."

Maedhros' breath caught in his throat, and his breeches suddenly felt tight. He stared at his dark lover, feeling want begin to take control. Fingon rose from the couch and came to stand before him, kissing him, reaching down to casually take hold of the waistband of his garment.

“The sooner we see Lindir, the sooner you get to find out what sort of undergarments I am not wearing.”

Maedhros nodded. “Right. Let’s go move the little bugger into his cottage.”

***---***

“Did I not got to bed a few hours ago?” asked Elrond, plainly at the brink of exhaustion, while Gandalf held Ereinion. The old wizard was currently smiling at the tiny infant in his arms.

“Elrond, why does this child bear a distinct resemblance to Gil-galad?”

Elladan laughed quietly, as did Orophin. Elrond gave them both The Eyebrow. The four were in the garden just outside the room in which Rúmil and Eölthrim now slept. The great glass doors that led to the garden were open, so Elrond would know if his husband and baby needed him. Ereinion was newly fed and changed, and though his mood was good, he was finally falling asleep.

“Gandalf, if you would please just tell me why you are here for something as common as a pregnancy, I am more weary than I have been in a very long time.”

“Not merely a pregnancy,” said Gandalf, strolling slowly about, watching the Elfling fall asleep. “There has been… an error.”

“Error?”

“Aulë the smith replaced a thread in the tapestry of Vairë the weaver, calling back into being the fëa of a child whose intended mother has passed. The child is now in the one who had been meant to be her father.”

“So, the father is a Plains Elf?” asked Elladan.

Gandalf walked into the bedchamber to lay the sleeping baby in his cradle. He tucked him in, then returned to the garden. “No, young Master Elladan. He is not.”

The three were silent as they let the words sink in.

“And that is why you have come,” said Elrond. “The father… mother I suppose, is a male Elf. Truly male, as opposed to the Plains Elves, who are hermaphroditic.”

Gandalf nodded, seating himself on a stone bench. “Manwë fears the pregnancy will be seen as a portent, or an omen. He wishes for me to find out who carries the child, and then assist in keeping the exact nature of the birth from being revealed. This incident is a simple case of a kind deed gone awry. It is not a sign.”

Elrond nodded, looking thoughtful. “The… Sia… will need special care. Male bodies are not suited to pregnancy. Have you no idea as to whom is pregnant?”

Gandalf shook his head. “Only that it is a bound and loving couple, though there are some who do not approve of the union.”

“Well we have a few couples here who fit that description,” said Elrond. “Ecthelion and Ithilian, Maedhros and Fingon… Elladan? Are you all right child?”

Elladan’s eyes were distant, and he raised a small hand to his belly.

“I think it is me,” he whispered.

Elrond’s eyes grew large, and he suddenly felt afraid for his son. Orophin looked as though he had been struck.

“Elladan why would you think such a thing? And I did not… no. That is not true. I was not immediately pleased with your choice of lover, was I?”

Orophin placed a gentle arm around his husband. “Elladan why do you think you are pregnant?”

“I do not know. I… I have just been worried as of late about my health, and feeling very odd.” He raised his head and looked at the three people gathered about him. “Ada I swear that, this morning, I felt something move.”

“We must know,” said Gandalf.

Elrond stared at his son, cold worry clutching his stomach. He got up and walked to him, kneeling before Elladan. He reached his hand out, and felt his abdomen.

“I can tell nothing. I feel no movement, but you are a little round. I will…”

Elrond’s words were cut off as suddenly a wailing shriek came from the Plains Elf village. One lone voice at first, then others, and the chilling sound of the ‘where are you?’ cry echoing over the ocean and across the grass. Gandalf rose to his feet abruptly, listening to the frightening cacophony of whoops and screams.

“Good gracious, what is that?”

Elrond rose to his feet and turned, looking towards the village. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “The Thrayre-Iyre are welcoming home one of their own.”

***---***

Elrohir made his way down the beach. The night had fallen, and the moon was a white disk in the sky, turning the world to a silvery blue. It was a beautiful night, perfect for chants, and Nocturne and Moonshadow were delighted to have a chance to play in the evening tide. They scampered after small fish, and brought their Ada oysters to crack for them. It was altogether a lovely night.

They reached the cave that Rabbit had directed them to, and Elrohir began drawing a circle in the sand with his spear. He drew it carefully, and the symbols flanking it, then raised his spear to the full moon, smiling as he saw the light turn it to liquid Mithril. Elrohir would never turn his back on the Valar, but his delight in the ways of the Thrayre-Iyre filled him with joy, and a sense of life that he had never felt before. He began the chant, his beautiful voice echoing sweetly over the sand and water, while his children played, careful not to break the circle. The evening was warm, and there was only the sound of the water and the twins playing. The party for Elrond was happening not far from them, but the curve of the cliff kept the sound away, forming a little cove that seemed a world unto itself.

The chant was long, and rather complex, and more than once Elrohir felt a brief moment of worry when he was not quite sure if he recalled the next line. But it always came to him, and he sang, his long hair hanging loose and free down his back, the wind making it flutter. By the time he was done, the tide had come in fully, and was washing away the circle, opening it up for Elrohir. The children waited, and once they saw their Ada leave the circle, they ran up with oysters to be opened. Elrohir sat in the surf and opened the shellfish for his children, all the while casting glances at the closed door to the cave. Whoever was in there had yet to emerge. He hoped Rabbit had not directed him to the wrong place. He gave his children the shellfish, then rose to his feet, his wet body glistening with silver, his hair wet, the short, leather kilt forming close to his slim body. He approached the cave, and tapped at the door.

“You may emerge, brother,” he said. “The spell is cast.”

The door did not open, but Elrohir heard something move within the cave. He smiled.

“Ah, you are a shy one, are you? I am Aia-Nen, Shaman of the Fox Clan. There is no need to fear.” He took hold of the door latch and squeezed it. The latch opened, and the door did not seem to be barred. “I am coming in.”

There was another stirring. Knowing the average Plains Elf would rather bolt that fight, Elrohir opened the door wide, giving the Elf within ample space to run if he wished. When he was not run over by a departing figure, he stepped into the little cave.

The space was small, cozy, laid with rugs and simple furnishings. A hand carved fireplace held a small fire, which was the sole source of light. The inside of the cave was quite dark, and at first Elrohir could see no one. Then he stopped short with a gasp as he spied the Elf.

He was tall, and slender, and his skin, as well as his hair, was blacker than the night. He seemed to blend into the dim and slightly smoky interior of the cave. All that Elrohir could truly see where the huge, baleful gold disks of his eyes, and what looked to be some odd, disembodied white lines that seemed to float around in the darkness. The eyes stared back, and the Elf froze, prepared for flight. Elrohir knelt respectfully before the black Elf.

“I mean no harm. I am Aia-Nen.”

The tall Elf stirred, moving like a wild thing, his black hair flowing softly across his shoulders and down his chest. Elrohir could see that the stripes were actually a part of him, and formed a tattoo on his face and shoulders. It formed a pattern very much like… a tiger’s stripes.

Elrohir gasped, and felt his body go limp. His courteous kneel became a graceless drop to the sandy floor, and he stared, eyes huge as the tall Elf came to sit before him. He stared into eyes that were different now, but still very familiar. The Elf moved forward to touch his face, the long hand straying over Elrohir’s cheek, and then he kissed him softly.

“I know you. I have missed you so very much, my Aia-Nen. I came as soon as I could.”

Elrohir began to shiver, and a strangled little whimper escaped his throat. He drew a shivering breath, and felt tears begin to slide down his face.

“Frost?”

“Yes, Aia-Nen, it is me.”

Elrohir gasped again, then lunged forward, throwing his arms around his lover’s neck and breaking down, sobbing as he had the day his beloved husband had died. He was unable to say or do anything, simply crying, hoping beyond hope that this was not a dream. Frost held him tightly, speaking softly to him.

“Do not cry, my Aia-Nen. I am back.”

“I never thought I would see you again!” he managed to choke out the words. “I thought…”

“Hush, child. I am home, and we will not be parted again. Titania has schooled me in all the old ways, and I am here to see the Clan is restored to its proper path.”

Elrohir cried into the heavy black hair, holding Frost so tightly that he felt the Elf pull back a little in order to breathe. Then he felt him press his lips to his, and he responded almost violently, kissing him back hard, running his hands over his strong, lean body.

“It’s really you.”

Frost kissed him again. “It is really me, Aia-Nen.” Frost held him tightly, tears running down his own face. He drew a shivering breath. “It is me. Now take me home, I have been away so long, and I never saw my babies.”

Elrohir laughed. “I do not have to take you home to show them to you, they are in the surf, eating shellfish.”

“They are? My babies are outside?”

Elrohir nodded, and laughed through his tears. “Yes. They are.” He held his lover tightly, his emotions overwhelming him. “Frost? The… world is… going all fuzzy.” Then he fainted.

Frost looked down at the slender body that now lay limp in his arms. He smiled lovingly, and kissed his throat. “It is a very good thing for you that I am well mannered. A lesser Elf would want to take advantage of you in this state.” Frost cocked his head and gave the thought serious consideration, but the sound of little feet running through the warm surf distracted him. He picked up Elrohir.

“We will go home,” he whispered.