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A Far Distant Shore Rating: NC-17
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Maedhros walked to the little village alone. He had forgotten how long the walk was. It had been many years since he had come this way, but he didn’t regret the trip. It was good to just be alone for a while, to watch the sunset, to watch evening come over Valinor. It would be late when he got home. Fingon would be asleep, likely with several newly stashed bags of chocolate covered coffee beans hidden all around the keep. Fingon could be an extremely calm and easy-natured individual. But if he didn’t agree with something, nothing short of death could move him. And Fingon saw no reason to give up the beans. Fat, stomach cramps, the occasional unexplained bought of asthma and other indicators that he was quite likely allergic to the stupid things was no excuse to stop shoving them into his face. Maedhros wondered if he could get a law passed… but no, that wouldn’t stop him either. Fingon would just hire a privateer to go get them for him. It was a trait that Maedhros found both very attractive and excessively aggravating. The Valar themselves could not move Fingon once he made up his mind. There had been times in the relationship where Maedhros had literally gone down on his hands and knees to beat his head against the floor, to no avail. And he just knew that the chocolate covered coffee beans were going to be one of those head-banging, teeth-grinding, hair-ripping topics. Maedhros felt a loopy smile cross his face. Fingon was so cute when he was impossible. He heard an eerie, demonic giggling sound in the darkness and shuddered. It was a sound he had heard many times in Valinor, but had never known what sort of a creature it was making the noise. Now that he was able to actually spend time with the Plains Elves, he was getting to know them, and the sounds they made. That horrid Morgoth-inspired giggling meant some little one’s Sia had caught dinner. Fish would be eaten raw; meat would be smoked or roasted. Fruits, tubers, herbs, and greens would be washed and eaten raw, but were an infrequent part of their diet. He heard more sounds to his right. There seemed to be a whole clan around him. Clearly they were not worried about his presence, but the eerie cracking, snapping and yips sounded like something that would be heard in a haunted forest in a fairy tale. He stopped, and listened. They were all around, and Maedhros suddenly realized he had walked into an encampment. He froze, wondering what the reaction would be. Certainly such a move would not have been well received by his own kind, but his clumsiness was not met by aggression, only curiosity. The Clan Warrior came over, sniffed him, and then disregarded him. Maedhros watched him go; mildly insulted that he was not deemed more of a threat, but given what Rabbit had done to Haldir, he had no desire to end up in the same condition or worse. Besides, Elrohir had assured him the average Plains Elf would rather run than fight. These were not violent beings. “I really am a very notorious Elf, you know,” he said softly to the large Elf. The Clan Warrior came back, sniffed again, then burped quietly before walking away. Maedhros sighed. “Two sniffs and a burp. There was a time I would have gained a somewhat larger reaction.” He was sniffed over a few more times, but the casual exploration told him that not only was his appearance not a surprise, they had likely smelled him before. They ignored him, and Maedhros was about to go on his way, when he noticed one of the Elves lying in a make-shift shelter. They had dug out a hollow for him, which was covered with leaves, and on top of them were woven blankets. Maedhros thought they may be wool, but he wasn’t sure. They were a natural white, with brilliant patterns of blue and crimson, and sheltering the bed was a simple lean-to, made with polished poles and a cover of the same sort of fabric. The Elf in the bed seemed to be the center of attention currently, and Maedhros suddenly realized that he was very heavily pregnant, likely due within the next few hours. He knelt down before the Elf, forgetting for the moment that he was supposed to be walking to the village. He was utterly entranced by the image, not to mention the uncanny resemblance to his own Fingon. There was the heavy black hair, the green eyes, fine cheekbones, the white skin and the long, graceful bones. Maedhros settled himself on the ground and watched him. The Elf on the bed watched him back with yellow/green eyes, unperturbed by his presence, completely feral but somehow very much an Elf, regal and calm. There was no ceremony, no pomp, no posturing. He simply was what he was. He and his clan were untainted by the touch of evil; indeed they had never even seen the shores of Middle Earth. Elrohir had told Maedhros that the chaos of Melkor had opened two gates to the Faery Realm: one leading to the valley that would become Mordor, and a second to Valinor. The Plains Elves here lived, for the most part, in their own realm, venturing out occasionally for delicacies such as clams and oysters and lobsters. They were as Titania made them: innocent and wild, and free of the darkness that marked Rabbit’s group, the Fox Clan. Rabbit’s Clan numbered twenty-three adults, nine of whom had seen the inside of Barad-dûr and lived to tell the tale. There were the sole survivors of the eight clans, numbering in the hundreds, that had been lured into the tower for what was supposed to be warmth and safety. It was small wonder they were so different from the others of their kind on this island. Maedhros reached out to touch the Elf’s hair, almost as if he was not aware of his actions. He smiled, and said softly; “Well now I know why Elrohir and Elladan thought my Fingon may be with child. I do not think any of your kind ever joined with my ancestors, but we would have been honoured to share lineage with you.” The Elf gave him a cursory sniff. Maedhros withdrew his hand, then stood up, stepping back. Then he quietly left, continuing on his way to the village, lost in thought. He reached the village about a half hour later, and smiled as he spied the familiar white cottage with the little white stone border at the far end of the little community, close to the beach. The lamp on the porch was lit, as always, and shining down the simple wooden sign he remembered from when he was an Elfling: ‘Valaríamrûn – ring bell after dark.’ Maedhros smiled as he walked onto the porch and taking hold of the bell pull. The bell made a polite jingling sound that he recalled so very well. It sounded just the same as when he was a child. The door opened, and he was surprised to see not Valaríamrûn, but a small peredhil with fiery red hair. Maedhros had no trouble recalling him at all. Most Elves with red hair had a darker, more subdued auburn red. However this child had blazing red hair, much like Maedhros’, but without the golden hue. “You’re the boy from that ship that wrecked! Orophin looked after you for a time. What is your name?” “Brennon, sir.” “That’s right.” Maedhros stepped into the cottage, and grinned broadly as he looked around. This place was like a step back in time – the same kitsch on the windowsills, the same doilies, and the same floral pattern couch with the matching runners on the table. It was a house that would have better suited some Mortal’s aging grandmother than one of the oldest Elves still drawing breath. He breathed deep, and laughed as he caught the familiar scent of ginger cookies and clove. “Val you are SUCH a granny,” he whispered. He suddenly recalled the child, and turned to look at him. “Where is Val?” “He’ll be home soon,” said Brennon, closing the door. “Have a seat, I’ll bring tea.” Maedhros did, still lost in the memories of this house. So many times he had played here or spent the night. Val had delivered nearly every First Age Elf in the area, and his house was always full of pregnant women and Elflings. But he had been careful not to let his skills be too widely known; Val prized his private time for raising herbs and reading. In truth Maedhros didn’t think Val would want to take on the job of nanny, but he had promised Glorfindel he would ask. So ask he would. And it was nice to have an excuse to see Val again. He had not seen him since… Since Atar made him leave, about four months before Turgon poisoned him. Maedhros had always suspected that his father and Valaríamrûn were lovers at some point, but he wasn’t certain. All he was sure of was that something had happened between them: something in the third floor music room. Something terrible and catastrophic, that Fëanor adamantly refused to talk about. Val left, and Fëanor sealed the room, locking the door. Many times Maedhros had looked for the key, but he could never find it. Then came the oath, and he forgot about the room. Maedhros raised an eyebrow. Perhaps it was time to look for that key. He wondered if it even still existed. Brennon returned with the tea and ginger cookies. Maedhros poured himself a cup, and said; “Where did you say Val was?” “I didn’t. He’s in the woods. Some wild thing is out there giving birth.” Maedhros smiled. He suspected he knew which wild thing. “And why are you here? Isn’t it late for visits?” “I live here, sorta. I help out, and Val teaches me, gives me food. I’m learning to be a midwife like him.” Maedhros gave the child a look. “I thought you told Orophin that your aunt lived in this village. That was the only reason he and Elladan let you go.” Brennon looked ashamed. “I know. I lied to him. I should go say I’m sorry. I just… I just felt scared and I didn’t know when they were going to turn out to be like Auntie and want to sell me off or make me sleep in the doghouse. So I lied. I left a note when he was out saying my auntie came for me and I would live with her.” “Where did you go?” asked Maedhros. Brennon shrugged. “I wandered around mostly. I slept in barns and sometimes I stole food or a few coins to survive. I ended up outside Val’s house and I tried to take some of his vegetables but he caught me. I’ve been helping out ever since.” “You realize that if Orophin and Elladan knew you were wandering around homeless they would have been in hysterics.” “I know,” said Brennon. “I really liked them, too. I guess I was just scared and confused. I wanted to go back but… I thought they’d be mad.” “They would be thrilled,” said Maedhros. Brennon nodded, biting into a cookie. “I’d really like to go back,” he said. “Val’s real nice but he doesn’t have much time for me.” Maedhros was about to speak when there came a small noise from the next room, and Brennon hopped off the couch and left the sitting room. A few moments later he returned, holding something tiny wrapped in a bundle of cloth. He gently laid it on the floor, and Maedhros’ eyes widened as he saw what Brennon had carried in. It was a tiny baby Elf, at best a few hours old. He slid off the chair and onto the floor, reaching down to lift the infant up. “Who’s baby is this?” he asked. “No one’s,” said Brennon, looking for a new nappy and some powder. “Nonsense, the child must have a mother.” Brennon shook his head. “Not no more. A merchant vessel came too fast through the reefs just off shore here and wrecked. The mother washed up on the beach and Val found her. She was dead, but he cut her open to see if the baby was still alive and she was. That was this afternoon. We haven’t found any survivors. So I guess she’s no one’s.” Maedhros cradled the tiny child, then drew a slow gasp of astonishment as the blanket fell back, revealing a fuzzy crown of red hair. “Wrong,” he said softly. “She’s mine.” ***---*** Elrond helped his son into the examining room, muttering and grumbling the entire way. He led him over to a bed, ordered him to lie on it, and proceeded to probe. Orophin stood behind him, watching. Gandalf meanwhile had found Mouse’s new baby, Dawn Hawk, in a bassinette and reached down to pick him up. Mouse suddenly appeared and showed the kindly old mage every tooth he owned. Gandalf hrumphed, undaunted. “Touchy creatures,” he commented. “Do you feel anything, Elrond?” Elrond shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, “but I confess that this is outside of my experience. Women and Plains Elves have basic similarities, but all I feel here is an apparent over-indulgence of Mauburz’s roast venison.” “I like it,” said Elladan defensively. “My son you are not pregnant. You are bloody stuffed.” “But I felt it move!” “I’m not surprised – eight kilos of deer meat is bound to do some shifting around.” “Ada!” “Elladan, take some antacid and go to bed, and don’t frighten me like that anymore.” “Yes, Ada,” Elladan said quietly. He reached out for Orophin’s hand, letting his husband help him off the bed. The two walked quietly away. Elrond then turned to look at Mouse, who was positively rigid with indignity, staring at Gandalf. He sighed, and walked towards the distraught wild thing. “Now what troubles you, little mother?” he asked. Mouse kept his eyes fixed on Gandalf, growling softly “Charming,” Gandalf remarked. “They’re sweet,” said Elrond. “Really, they are. Just never interfere with their children.” He walked over to Dawn Hawk and looked down at the bright-eyed newborn. “Now why are you here, little one? Oh, you scraped your knees up, did you? We’ll get that taken care of.” He handed Gandalf the baby, and walked over to the cabinet to get some salve, smiling with a certain degree of self-satisfaction as he listened to Mouse make whining, snarling, growling noises at the old wizard. That would teach the old fart to show up in the middle of the night and scare him to death. “Elrond,” said Gandalf as he faced off with a nervous Plains Elf mother, “Just how hard do these things bite?” The Lord of New Imladris sorted through his creams and salves. “Oh, quite hard, I would say. The other day I had one break an Elf’s arm in half before ripping it straight out of the shoulder socket.” Gandalf gave Elrond a sidelong look. “It was not I who suggested your son was pregnant.” “No, but you are Maia, which means you are the closest I can get to Aulë, so you shall have to suffer for his folly.” Elrond returned to the baby and dabbed a bit of cream on the small chubby knees, then gave the jar to Mouse. Mouse accepted the cream, then took back his one-armed baby, and quietly departed. Elrond sighed, and decided to take one last look at Haldir before going to bed, Gandalf following after him. They went into a private chamber where he lay on a large bed. His features were grey, and he seemed to be hardly breathing. His arm, shoulder, and better part of his upper body were sealed in a heavy cast. “I half thought you were joking,” said Gandalf. “A Plains Elf did this?” Elrond nodded. “Aye, Rabbit. He was poisoned, and went into a rage of madness. This family shall need healing of a different sort after their bodies mend. And other things have been happening, too. Strange things. Ilinuil the Grey claims Maeglin tried to defile him, but we have since learned it was not Maeglin, though it did indeed look like him.” He looked at Gandalf. “We have a troublemaker in our midst.” Gandalf nodded, looking thoughtful. “So it would seem.” He smiled, and touched Elrond’s shoulder. “Together we shall unlock this mystery.” Elrond checked over Haldir. Satisfied he was as well as could be expected, he covered him over once more. “Indeed we shall, but not until I have had some sleep! Goodnight, my friend.” ***---*** It was very late, and dark. The sky would be starting to turn light in about an hour, and all the world was still, save for the occasional cry of a night bird, or the soft whirr of little bat wings. The keep was silent as well, and dark. Even the servants were in bed, and the door to the keep was locked. Maedhros yanked at the handle, puzzled, then noticed something; a note, pinned to the door with a steak knife, and the writing on the paper was Fingon's. “Dear darling. Since when do you take off in the afternoon for a walk and not come back? You told me three hours at the most. Where in all Valinor did you go, to visit Manwë? Well I hope you like his couch because that’s where you’re sleeping. By the way, you are no longer my favorite cousin.” Clearly Fingon was not impressed with his lover having gone for a walk yesterday afternoon and not come back, though the anger was likely more worry than actual outrage. Maedhros removed the knife from the door, re-reading the note. There was no way he was getting into the keep until it grew light, and the servants opened the doors for the day. He crumpled the note and laid the knife aside, sighing in irritation. He knew Fingon had a right to be annoyed, but he was tired and now he was locked out of his own keep. He looked down at the bundle in his arms, and spoke softly to himself. “Ai, Findekano, tonight of all nights!” He looked up at the strong and ancient ivy that grew in slow grandeur up the keep walls. Normally he would consider making the treacherous climb up the wall and up to their bedroom balcony: a great carven protrusion, which overlooked the sea, but not with a child in his arms. That was a bit much, even for an Elf. He briefly pondered strapping her to his back, but there was far too much risk. Even if the climb went perfectly, Fingon would kill him when he learned Maedhros had done that carrying a baby. Maedhros glanced down at the tiny sleeping bundle and kissed her, a faint smile on his lips. Then he sighed and turned away, heading for the cliff path to await the dawn, making sure his baby was warm. ‘HIS baby?’ he thought, and grinned. Funny how quickly she had become HIS baby. Well, Fingon’s too. Maybe. If he decided to share. The gravel path that led to the cliff crunched quietly beneath his feet as he passed the windows of the servant’s quarters. He had only just walked by the one that led to the modest sitting room when there was the quiet click of a shutter opening. A voice that belonged to the small daughter of the keep's head cook called to him softly. "Lord Maedhros! This way! Lord Fingon said not to open the door but he didn't say not to open the window.” She giggled. Maedhros paused, then turned his head to look at Elisiel, feigning royal indignity. Once more, the child saved the day. Maedhros hoped she never grew up; she was too valuable an ally when it came to sneaky stuff. Of course she used it to her advantage, but all was fair in love and bean-wars. Maedhros held the tiny infant close as he stepped through the window, holding the baby with the ease of one who had helped to raise six brothers. "Thank you, my lady," He leaned close and whispered. "That new dress in the market you have been wanting. Go and get it tomorrow, have the merchant send the bill here. Tell him to send to me if he cares to doubt you." Elisiel blinked, stunned, and stared at him, jaw falling open. Then, with the indignity only a pre-teen girl could manage, said; "How did you know I wanted it? You're a boy, boys never notice anything!” She noticed he had a bundle, but her upbringing preventing her from asking what it was. Besides, it was likely just a gift for Lord Fingon. Something dull. Maedhros smiled. “Yes, well, it depends on the boy. Get the bracelet too, it will look charming on you." He walked to the door, unwilling to let her see what he carried. He knew she would hold her tongue, but he wanted this secret a little longer. As he opened the door, he thought of Fëanor and smiled wickedly. Well the demented old drunk did say he wanted grandchildren… Elisiel gasped. “The bracelet too? But…” “The bracelet too. Just… don’t tell anyone I came in through your sitting-room window.” Elisiel was hard put not to do handstands on her excitement. A new dress and a bracelet, all for letting Maedhros sneak into his own keep! Elisiel wondered what she would get for telling him where Lord Fingon kept his beans. Then she recalled Fingon had promised he would let her have that hairy fat little Dwarven mine pony she had been swooning for if she helped hide them, and a pony won over a new dress any day. So instead she just said: "Mind the top landing on the way to the second set of stairs, the third board creaks if you're trying to sneak." Maedhros paused, wondering how on Arda she knew that. He finally decided he didn’t want to know. "Thank you. And if Findekano ever tells you where he hid his beans, be sure to let me know. I am sure we can come to some arrangement." 'No way,' thought Elisiel, 'He's coughing up a pony, and you said yesterday that you thought I was too small for one.' She smiled sweetly and waved. "I will!" He made his way through the keep to the wooden spiral stairs that led to the round tower room he and Findekano had made their bedchamber, carefully stepping over the telltale board. He reached his door, and carefully squeezed the latch, wishing to make as little noise as possible. He quietly crept into the room, smiling at how the approaching dawn made the pale walls shimmer with light reflected off the sea. He watched the rippling light for a few moments, then looked over at the bed to see if Fingon had heard him. Fingon was a bundle under the covers. He was curled into a ball, which always meant one of three things - he was ill, he was cold or he was depressed. In this case, possibly all three - it would be a long time ere he recovered from the shock of Turgon's actions, and his loss. Likely this was the reason behind the note pinned to the door and the locked keep as well. Fingon was what Maedhros’ Nana used to call ‘a quiet bleeder’ - he said little about his inner pain, but it oft came out in other ways. Maedhros carefully set the infant down on a couch and shed his cloak and boots, watching Fingon, his eyes full of love and concern for his beloved. He wanted, nay, needed to comfort him, and he found himself hoping that the arrival of this baby may serve to distract Fingon from his pain. Dropping his tunic and shirt over a chair, he lifted his newly adopted daughter and held her close, looking down at her tiny scrunched features. "Come, my little one, let us introduce you to your Sia." He got carefully into bed and lay close to Fingon, settling the baby between them. She was asleep, and Maedhros closed his eyes, content to rest until dawn with his family. Then he would see what Fingon's reaction would be. ***---*** Dawn came, and the sun rose in the sky. Fingon squirmed, disturbed by a hellish cacophony that sounded like the Witch-Kings bachelor party coming from the cliff. Bloody Plains Elves, he'd throw a boot at them if he thought it would do any good. They'd probably just eat it. He refused to open his eyes; worried that he would not see Maedhros. It was not like him to walk away and be gone all night. Then something very small and soft and warm bopped him on the end of his nose. He sighed, and pulled the covers over his head. "Red it's going to take more than a game of 'Nosies' to make me share the blankets," he muttered. Maedhros had also been awaken by the demonic dawn chorus. "I am not here, you locked me out, remember?" His tone was dry, but loving. The blankets squirmed. "No, that was the other Fingon that lives here, the drunk, distraught Fingon who didn't know where his favorite cousin was." Maedhros snuggled closer, careful not to squish the baby. "Yes, I can smell the alcohol fumes wafting from you. Am I still your favourite cousin then?" "I don't know," said the voice under the covers. There was a slight pout to the tone. "I might be inclined to forgive you for a bit of tea and breakfast, and the lowering of the shade. I have a headache you would not believe." Maedhros left the baby in the bed, safely tucked between two pillows so that Fingon could not accidentally roll on her, and walked over to the window. He closed the heavy shutters, creating a gentle twilight in the room. "Fine, I will seek to regain my favoured position by getting MY favourite cousin breakfast of toast and cinnamon rolls and bacon and his favourite tea. Oh, and I wasn't playing ‘Nosies’." "Sausage too please? And yes you were, I felt..." Something poked at the blanket, which was most disturbing because Fingon knew Red had just got up. He heard a small squeak, and cautiously poked his head out from under the covers. Then he pushed the covers back, his black hair loose and wild, making him so very closely the wild Elves in the forest. Fingon peered at the bundle, and then carefully opened it. He cocked his head. Finally he declared his findings. "That's a baby." “Very good, a correct answer on your first try.” Fingon sat up, gently lifting the tiny Elfling, holding her close. "She can't be more than a day old! Whose is she? Where did she come from?" He suddenly seemed to notice something, glancing from the baby to Maedhros. "And why is her hair red?" Maedhros rolled his eyes as he came to sit on the bed. "There was a merchant ship wrecked on the beach. Val found none alive but her. And I have no idea why her hair is red; she is not mine. At least... I did not father her." Fingon looked at Maedhros, eyes large, then looked down at the child. "Do you wish to keep her? What if she has kin? But then... if she was found in a wreck, it is unlikely any know she lives. And she is so small, none would expect her to have made it." Maedhros said quietly; "I think we should call her 'Annaiel'. She was a gift from the sea, after all." Fingon nodded, holding her close. Then he smiled, and said; "Well Fëanor did say he wanted grandchildren." He laughed. "And Elladan and Elrohir did think I was with child. Oh we could be SO very bad if we were of a mind!" Maedhros settled close to his lover and their new baby. "Already thought of that.” Fingon's eyes narrowed in demonic glee. "Oh do tell, you know I'm always up for a prank. What are we going to do? Are we going to say I bore her?" Maedhros nuzzled the baby, who clumsily grasped a fistful of his hair and yanked. "Ouch! And I think so. Will serve the old lush right.” Fingon gazed at Maedhros, eyes shining. "I love you when you're evil. Well if I just gave birth then I believe it is the custom in Plains Elf families for the... what's he called? The father? I believe it is his duty to slay sausages for the hungover mother." "’Aie’, and your wish is my command, my therlu." Maedhros kissed him softly and then the baby. "Be good for your Sia, my Annaiel, I will be right back." He rose to his feet and crossed the room, walking to the door, off to hunt tea, cinnamon rolls, sausages...and where the hell was he going to get the milk she needed? Fingon was thinking much the same thing. He knew some half-blood Plains Elf babies drank milk, but if they were going to pull this joke off successfully then they were going to have to ask a few questions. He called after his lover "Maedhros! Return here for a moment." Maedhros stuck his head back through the door. "I am attempting to find milk here, what?" Fingon stuck his tongue out at him. "Ask Elisiel's Nana for baby-milk, she will have some made up for you. And any information you can find on what Plains Elf births are like would be helpful." "Right. Anything else, little Sia?" Fingon cocked his head. "Sia?" "Umm, closest word to 'mother'. You. Of our Annaiel." "Oh. So I'm see-ya and you're...what was it? Aye? I will have to pay attention more to these things. OH! I just thought! Grab a pail of the old blood out of the shed where they slaughter the animals for the table. I just gave birth remember - can't have clean sheets after birth." Maedhros made a face. "Must I? Can we not just rumple them a bit and say you gave birth out the window?" Fingon crossed his arms. "Oh come, would you honestly let me give birth out the window? You wouldn't even let me brush my own hair after I cracked my ankle." Maedhros glared. "You might have jarred it.” “Jarred my ankle?! I don’t brush my hair with my feet!” Maedhros rolled his eyes, dropping the subject. “Very well, I will get blood. Ai, I wanted to spend today just the three of us, before the world becomes a circus." Fingon smiled, and blew him a kiss. "Well, you get the milk, and the blood, and after we feed Anna and get her a new nappy, I will let you get me pregnant." Maedhros was out of the door so fast it swung in the wake of his passing. Fingon laughed, and laid down with the baby, watching her. "Welcome to the madhouse, little one. Sorry for all the fuss but if you are going to be a member of this household, we have to get you started on the bad jokes early." ***---*** Thranduil had raised three children, and one of them more or less on his own. He knew a fair bit about babies and small children. Or at least, he had assumed he had. Veet and Liritar had been the first-born, and from day one they were trouble. Things did not improve once they were able to walk. For one thing, diaper changes were a nightmare, with both he and his wife sitting on shrieking toddlers while a frantic nanny wiped, powdered and diapered. Then they were shoved into white baby-dresses and set free to attach themselves to the legs of assorted household staff and ride around on their feet. “That comes from YOUR side of the family,” Thranduil would remark to his wife, who would curl her lip at him before threatening him with a canister of baby powder. Legolas had been only a few months old when she left. Plagued with images of what his twin daughters had been like, Thranduil dreaded the day his little boy learned to walk. But Legolas had been a passive, easy-going child. Thranduil could simply lay him on a mat, clean and change him, and Legolas was fine with the whole ordeal so long as he had his toy puppy. He had remained a passive, calm and reserved child right up until the day his sisters first tied him up, coated his face in make-up and shoved him into a party gown. After that, he started taking his hand-to-hand combat training more seriously. Baby Balin, however, was something different altogether, as his Ada and Ada’s lover were learning. Elflings in general tended to stay close to the shins of their parents, and seldom ventured out of sight. Another thing was that, once they were dressed, they tended to stay dressed. Dwarf babies, however were far more adventurous, assertive, and lively. It took every ounce of strength Gaelemir and Thranduil had to get him changed, cleaned and dressed, and the moment they let him go, he was out of his clothes and off faster than a seagull with a Silmaril, his Ada in hot pursuit. Today, however, Balin had outdone himself. While Thranduil and Gaelemir lay snuggled together in their bed, and the sun was just starting to show over the horizon, Balin had figured out the lock on the side of his crib, dropped the baby-gate, shimmied out of his jammies and was running wild and free across the grass of Valinor, stark naked. “There’s something you don’t see everyday,” remarked Boromir, as a naked half-Elf half-Dwarf baby streaked by, giggling. Mauburz rose from the kitchen table to come stand beside the Man. Both watched the small chubby butt head for the Plains Elf village. She sighed. “Me better go catch him.” “I will,” said Boromir. He pulled on his boots and went after the errant youngster. Balin meanwhile was having the time of his life without his Ada near at hand to tell him not to shove worms in his mouth and rub dirt in his hair and pee on the flowers and pull the ears of the hunting dogs and stick pebbles up his nose and… Oooooohhh…. What was that? It was BIG, and had long black hair and was sleeping on the grass. It yawned mightily, jaw unslinging, revealing HUGE pretty white shiny things, then rolled onto its stomach, catching the first of the sun’s rays. It was, in short, Fadai. But Balin didn’t know that. All he knew was this was something that needed to be looked at. He toddled straight up to the massive Plains Elf, crouched before him, and grabbed his nose in one chubby fist. Fadai opened one eye and stared irritably at the baby. He growled quietly, then sat up, surprised as the second chubby fist shoved into his mouth and gripped his lower jaw. He couldn’t breath through his nose, so he was both breathing and growling through a partly opened mouth. Balin yanked, pulling the jaw further down, trying to determine the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming from inside this thing. He pried the great jaws opened and stuffed his head inside, blithely unaware of the deadly cutting teeth above and below his little cranium. Fadai had never harmed a child a day in his life, but this kid was certainly pushing his limits. He made an angry roaring sound, which was abruptly cut short as Balin released the hold he had on the Elf’s nose and shoved his baby fist down his throat in quest of the noise. Then the baby was gone, and the outraged Plains Elf was watching a Man hustle the giggling troublemaker away. Fadai made a sound of pure anger, and Boromir picked up his pace a little, uncertain as to whether Fadai would chase after them. He entered the house, and hustled the baby to his Ada’s room, setting him on his father. Thranduil opened one eye and stared at the giggling baby, dirty, grass-covered, worms and dirt in his hair, one arm still wet with Fadai’s saliva, and, of course, stark naked. Then he looked at the crib with its sprung lock. Oh yeah. Dwarf babies were far harder to deal with than Elf babies. ***---*** Legolas lay in bed, eyes closed, breathing laboured. He was sick; even Gimli could see that, and he was by no means a healer. He placed his strong, calloused hand on the Elf’s head, and felt the heat of his damp flesh. He was deeply worried. Legolas had always been very slender, even for an Elf, but within just the past few days he had dropped several pounds, and had gone from light and slender to thin and fragile. No matter what Legolas said, this was far more than a simple case of too much merriment. Legolas made a soft sound, and rolled over to look at his Dwarven lover. He smiled, looking wasted and small, and touched his face, his long fingers carefully exploring Gimli’s features. Then he slipped his arms about his powerful neck and drew him down to kiss him. Gimli felt Legolas part his lips, and he responded, though he felt more concern than passion. The kiss ended, and Legolas held him close. “Make love to me,” he said softly. Gimli looked surprised. “I cannae do that! You’re sick!” For once, Legolas did not deny it. “I know, but I really need you right now.” Gimli shook his head, his expression one of grave concern. “Legolas you need a healer. Not a lover.” Legolas nuzzled closer, not minding the grumps and grumbles. Gimli rolled his eyes at how the Elf always managed to sweet-talk him into anything. In truth they did not make love very often: their bond was more of an intensely personal and exclusive friendship, with the occasional romp in the hay, than a true romantic relationship. Gimli did not often stop to try and categorize the exact nature of what they had. They were in love. They were inseparable. They always would be. Sex was just an added treat on top of something that was already perfect. Legolas was still as much of an enigma to the Dwarf, as he had always been. Gimli knew what got Legolas in the mood, and what would earn him cold silence and a night on the couch. He knew how Legolas liked to be touched, to be held, and he knew the fastest way to be granted access to the Elf’s golden body was just gentle honesty. Legolas did not need to be flattered, he needed to know he was loved and desired. Gimli knew how to get him to respond to him when he wanted him, and likewise Legolas knew how to get Gimli’s attention. The only thing that confused the Dwarf was why in all Arda Legolas wanted sex now. He was clearly ill, and lovemaking was not going to change that. In truth Legolas was not sure why he wanted to make love right then either – he only knew he very much wanted to feel the security of his lover’s strong body on top of him. Gimli tried to resist, but to no avail, his body responding to the soft touches, the kisses, the gentle insistence. He finally relented, responding to him, caressing him, and soothing his burning flesh with cooling mint oil, which he also used to prepare him for lovemaking. Then he carefully moved on top of him, gently taking him. Legolas released a soft sigh, drawing his long legs up, wrapping his arms about his husband, closing his eyes and making a quiet, contented sound. Gimli chuckled softly. “You always make me do what you want.” Legolas kissed him, then smiled. “Fine, the next time we make love, we’ll do what you want.” “You realize I am going to go for Lord Elrond after this.” Legolas nodded, making a soft little sounds of pleasure. “After. Not now.” “No, not now.” They made love with quiet passion, gasping softly, uttering small cries. Legolas did not reach his climax, but seemed content enough to feel Gimli spend himself inside of him. He held him tightly, feeling somehow better now. Gimli sensed this, and stayed inside of him until his soft member slipped out. Reluctantly, he moved off the slim body, kissing him. “I will go for Lord Elrond now,” said Gimli. Legolas nodded, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. “I will be here.” ***---*** “Fin….” “Just a little further, darling.” “Fin this is NOT a wise idea.” “I swear I will not let you stumble, darling.” Erestor felt Fin’s lips against his, and sighed. He had no idea what his husband was up to, but he was sure he would find out soon enough. He returned the kiss and smiled, eyes blindfolded, his hands held gently by Glorfindel. Fin had come for him and insisted he put the blindfold on, and led him gently out of the house. He knew where he was, just not what was to be shown to him. He could smell horse, and hear the animal make a soft rumbling sound. “You bought me a pony?” “Yes one of those little Dwarven mine ponies. I thought you would look cute on it.” Erestor laughed, and felt Glorfindel reach up to remove the blindfold. He blinked in the sunlight, then looked. He was not entirely sure just what he was seeing. There were two horses, a stallion and a mare, both of Fëanor’s splendid breed. They were in full harness, their coats and tack gleaming black and gold in the light, but he did not recognize the crest. It looked to be a raven, but the colour was wrong, and it was flying over a woven vine of golden flowers. It was lovely but he did not know whose it was. Holding the horses were Glóin and Berhin, and with them was an enormous cornerstone of black marble, shot with lines of gold. It was an exceedingly rare type of marble, found only in the sacred isle of Valinor. Behind the Dwarfs and horses was assembled a huge work crew of friends, artisans and crafts-folk. As Erestor gazed at the crowd, all solemnly bowed. Erestor had a strange feeling that he was looking at something of great importance, but the final clue was escaping him. He looked to his husband. “Fin?” Fin grinned, taking his hand and kissing it. He said nothing as from behind him stepped Lord Elrond, he was carrying a weighty piece of folded black fabric. Erestor was suddenly keenly aware of the fact that he was nauseous, pregnant, unkempt, recently-awoken, and had not even so much as a chance to comb his hair. Estorel was in his arms, wearing only a new diaper and most of his breakfast, and was wiping his face off on the front of his Sia’s robe, while Silivren was clad in some outrageous blue and red thing left over from Rúmil’s time as a catamite. “Fin what is going on here? You could not at least let me…?” Lord Elrond began to speak. Erestor stopped talking. “Long ago, in the kingdom of Gondolin, there were two great Houses. The House of Lord Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, and Erestor of the Circling Raven. When these Houses were destroyed, I was honoured to have you both come dwell with me, though I confess things were not always as harmonious as I would have liked between you. But, you seem to have overcome your… differences.” “I’m going to kill you for dragging me in front of all these people looking like a scullery maid and the kids looking like orphans,” Erestor growled at Fin. “Nonsense darling, they don’t look like orphans.” Erestor elbowed him in the ribs. Elrond smiled. “If I may continue?” “Of course my Lord, please do.” Elrond passed him the fold of black cloth. “You are bound. You have two children, and another on the way. It seems to me that two such honoured Lords, bound and with a growing family, should not be without their own house, one that represents both their illustrious bloodlines.” Erestor slowly opened the cloth, realizing it was a standard, such as one would find in a great hall. It was made of black silk, and embroidered with the same strange crest. It did not sink in until Glorfindel said softly; “I hope you do not mind that I combined the heraldic crests.” Erestor gasped. “House of the Golden Raven! Is that what this is?” Glorfindel grinned and nodded. “You need your own house, darling. The Valar know you deserve it. Lord Elrond and I have been plotting with a master conspirator for weeks now. I must admit, I have found none better for hatching plots behind one’s back, and thankful I am that he is on our side!” “Who?” Erestor looked around, seeing no one, until Lord Elrond stepped aside, revealing a small form with curly brown hair, blushing to the top of his scalp. “SAM!” The Hobbit smiled shyly. “Hope you don’t mind. Lord Glorfindel had to beg a lot of folks to arrange for me to visit. I’m here to do the gardens for your new house.” Erestor bent to embrace the Hobbit, hugging him tightly. Sam turned flame red, uncertain how to react. He had really only come to see Frodo, and Rosie had wanted to see Rabbit. Sam had noted rather sourly that, when he got off the ship that morning, he was ignored. When his wife stepped off, a veritable demon chorus of screams greeted her, and Mari-Ton made a noise that would have earned him a slap in polite Hobbit society. It was clear the Clan had missed ‘Bringer of Chocolate’ far more than ‘Muddy Irritable Hair-Foot’. Erestor held Sam tightly, then released him to put his free arm around Glorfindel and cried on his shoulder. “Oh Fin, you never cease to amaze me,” he whispered. Fin smiled, holding his husband close. “I know,” he said. “How long have you been planning this?” Fin kissed him. “For a few months. Ever since I noticed how much you loved the low area near the beach beside the old forest.” Erestor felt his eyes grow wet, and he embraced his husband tightly once more. “I love you so much. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” “Must have been bloody awful,” said Fin, and grinned. ***---*** Legolas opened his eyes, and knew with every fiber of his delicate, perfect body that he was ill. He could feel the fever ravaging him, feel it burn his flesh, addle his mind, and eat away at his bones. He could feel the nausea torment him, and knew that if he had to vomit he would never be able to rise, or indeed walk a straight line. His hair was lank, sweaty and limp, and he was far too hot. He blinked, and tried to sort out the figures in the room with him. He felt Gimli’s strong, broad hand gently stroke his head, and Legolas finally recognized Frodo, Gandalf, and Boromir. “We’re missing three Hobbits and a King,” whispered Legolas. Frodo smiled, but his expressive blue eyes were concerned. “I never thought I would say this to an Elf,” he said, “but you look terrible.” Legolas smiled briefly. “But I am still an Elf and so I do it very well.” “Quite right,” said Boromir. “Even when Elves look like shit, they do it better than Men.” Gimli grumbled quietly, then said, “You’re ill.” “Nonsense,” said Legolas, his eyes yellowed with discharge and his fever burning him like paper. “It is just a hangover.” “You see what I have to put up with?” said Gimli. “I’m surprised I married him.” “Married?!” exclaimed Boromir. “How did that happen? The last time I saw you two, you were putting burrs in each other’s shorts and setting one another’s boots on fire.” “We decided we liked each other,” said Legolas. He tried to sit up, his body shaking. Gimli held him carefully, supporting him. Legolas had always been thin, but the few pounds he had shed in the last couple days he could ill afford to lose. He was wraith thin, and looked fragile and weak. The Elf tried to get to his feet and found he could not. The room swam, and he collapsed to the bed. Gimli gently laid him back down. “Lord Elrond will be here in a moment.” The sound of the door latch being lifted attracted the attention of all gathered. Elrond entered the chamber, and paused, not liking how Legolas looked at all. He was clearly in worse shape that he had been when last he saw him. “Well?” demanded Gimli. “What’s wrong with him?” Elrond resisted the urge to snarl. The events of the last few days were taking their toll on his temper. “Worst case of Dwarf-allergy I have ever seen,” he remarked. Gimli growled, but said nothing else. Elrond walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, looking at the thin, sickly Elf. He did not like to admit it, but he had not the first idea what could be wrong with him. Elrond shooed the concerned group into the hall; all save Gimli, who would not go. Then he examined the sick Elf thoroughly, slowly, and carefully. Then he left briefly, returning with an armload of books and went over him again. Finally he made Gimli leave and asked Gandalf to come in, and the pair went over him a third time. Legolas was certainly sick, but just what was wrong with him, they had no idea. Elrond did what he could to ease his discomfort, then permitted Gimli and the others to come back into the room before making his way to his library, Gandalf at his side. Once out of range of being heard by Legolas and his friends, Gandalf spoke. “Do you think it’s him?” “I do not know,” said Elrond. “I felt nothing to make me think so. But I must say, he is certainly at the top of my list of suspects.” ***---*** Elladan perched neatly on the edge of the bed, his hair flowing long and loose, passed his hips and pooling on the bed beside him, watching his brother examine Rabbit. The huge Plains Elf was heavily drugged, and though his eyes were half opened and he blinked from time to time, it was clear he was in no condition to do anything. Behind him on the bed sat Bramble, hugging her baby brother Rivil. She knew her Sia was sick and her Ada was hurt, but no one had told the child just what had happened. There was time enough for family drama later. Right now she was solemnly handing Elrohir the instruments he needed to remove the splinters and shards of wood from the inside of Rabbit’s mouth. Elladan cleared his throat and said softly: “So how do you know if they are serious?” Elrohir slowly drew out a thin spear of wood. “I beg your pardon?” “You said tonight you would teach us how to tell when a Plains Elf was serious and when one was just making noise.” “Most growling is just noise,” said Elrohir, concentrating on the dark interior of Rabbit’s mouth. “The time to be afraid is when they suck air and then growl.” “Suck air?” “Remember when Maedhros tried to pick up Rúmil’s new baby? That sharp intake of air before the snarl? If they suck air first, best just to grab your favorite bits of anatomy and get out of there. That is a threat. Plains Elves are actually pacifists; I would even go so far as to say they are timid. They don’t want to fight with you if they don’t have to. They just happen to be terribly good at intimidation. A lot of what they do is just posturing; they puff up, growl, stare you down, show teeth. Given half a chance, they would rather just lope off and leave you in the dust. But if one sucks air and then snarls at you, get out of there, he means business. A bigger threat is if he clacks his blades at you. I’m not sure how they do it; they sort of snap at you, and it makes this explosive ‘clack’ noise. Frost showed me once, just demonstrating because I asked, but when he did it most of the village cleared out and didn’t come back for about two hours.” Elrohir was unable to stop a smile coming to his face as he mentioned his beloved’s name. His Frost, home again, waiting for him in their chambers, spending the day with his long-missed babies. His family was whole again. “I’ve never heard it done in earnest, but apparently when they make that noise, you’ve lost the chance to run.” Elrohir pulled out a last splinter. “That’s got it. It was not as bad a mess as I had feared.” “Will Sia be all right?” asked Bramble, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sia will be good as new in just a few days,” said Elrohir gently, smiling. “I promise. One of the little Tower Fish poisoned him, so you must promise me not to ever play with them.” The child was worried and tearful. “I promise,” she sniffed, her voice hitching slightly. “Can I see Ada soon?” “Just as soon as he awakens, Bramble,” said Elrohir. He reached out to scratch one of Fang’s ears, smiling as the great cat closed her eyes in pleasure, pressing her head against his fingers so he could rub the right places. He smiled. “Nice kitty.” “Puppy,” said Bramble. “Bramble,” said Elrohir, his tone softly chastising, “you and I both know that Fang is not a puppy, don’t we?” “Yeah,” she said, “but Ada didn’t say I could have a kitty, he said I could get a puppy, and if he knows she’s not a puppy, he might not let me keep her.” Elrohir laughed. “Trust me, he already knows she is not a puppy.” “He does?” “Yes.” Bramble stroked the spotted coat. “Oh.” “So no more screaming that she is a puppy.” “All right. Can we stay with Sia for a while?” Elrohir glanced at Elladan, who nodded. “We can stay for a while. You keep your Sia company, and I will make lunch.” Bramble and Rivil stayed with Rabbit, while Elladan and Elrohir went to prepare lunch for the children. Elrohir seated himself at the table, and scrutinized his twin. “So, what does Ada think?” Elladan found the bread and began to slice it. “About what?” “About you maybe being pregnant.” Elladan shook his head. “He does not think I am.” “I would tend to agree. I do not think you and Orophin fit the description of the couple described by Gandalf.” Elladan shook his head. “I felt something move. Something in me.” “Gas or a parasite. Maybe both.” “No!” Elladan turned to face his twin. “I felt it! I felt movement!” Elrohir looked at his brother, eyes soft with compassion. “Could it be that when Gandalf told you the tale, you simply hoped that it was you he was describing? Hoped so desperately that you thought you felt something?” Elladan shook his head. “I do not know. Perhaps. But I want it to be me! It seems Orophin and I have cared for every single baby in this mad little village, we deserve one of our own. He was so thrilled… ah, well, nothing to be done about it I suppose.” Elrohir laughed in surprise. “I had no idea you two wanted a child so badly!” “Well what is to be done about it? I’m male, he’s male, and neither of us has a drop of Plains Elf in us. Therefore we are not going to have a baby. So there’s nothing to talk about. Unless some poor child suffers the misfortune of losing both parents we are not ever going to have one, and I find it distasteful to sit about praying for orphans.” He slammed the knife onto the breadboard and sat down at the table, eyes clouding with tears. “Then Aulë goes and dangles this carrot before us. It’s cruel and unfair!” Elrohir rose and walked over to his brother, putting his arms around him. “I am sorry, Elladan. Were it up to me, I would give you a child.” “Oh I am sure that would please Ada to no end.” “You know what I meant, brat!” said Elrohir smiling. He knelt before him. “May I look?” “Of course,” said Elladan. Elrohir nodded, then reached out a hand, placing it on his brother’s belly. He felt it, gently probing, hoping he could feel something unusual, but he did not. Finally he shook his head. “I’m sorry Elladan. I do not think it is you who is pregnant.” Elladan sighed quietly, then nodded. “I’m sorry too.” He sat in silence for a few moments. Then, as Elrohir went back to his own chair, he rose to finish making lunch for Bramble and Rivil. He had not quite reached the counter when there was a quiet, cautious knock at the door. He walked over to it, taking hold of the latch and pulling it open. Staring back at him was a small peredhil with a long shaggy mop of fine red hair. “Brennon!” exclaimed Elladan in surprise. “Brennon it’s so good to see you, Orophin and I have missed you. Come in. How is your Auntie?” Brennon took a deep breath. This was NOT going to be easy to explain, but Elladan was so happy to see him. “That’s sort of a long story,” he admitted sheepishly. Elladan pulled a chair out for him. “Sit. You can tell me while I make lunch.” Brennon nodded, and went to seat himself at the table. Feeling nervous, he drew a deep breath. “Well…” he began. ***---*** If there was one thing Erestor had learned during the course of his long life, it was this – whether one was Mortal, Halfling, Elf, or Orc, they all had one thing in common. Folks loved their gossip. He smiled as he heard the door to the room next to his study fly open, and Anna’s excited voice saying “Mauburz! Mauburz come here you HAVE to see this Elf!” “Not prettier than mine!” she said. Erestor heard her cross the floor, then pause. “Oooooooohhhh…. Not prettier than mine but damn close!” He heard another Elf come running down the hall, and then Rúmil’s voice saying; “Did you see what just walked down the path? AI! Eru give me strength! Woof!” The next voice was Rosie’s. “Ohhh… pretty pretty pretty! I don’t think I’ll mention noticing him to my Sam!” Then there came Foxfire and Firespark, followed by Mouse. “How do you say ‘I’m single and in estrus’ in Quenya?” asked Firespark. There came rolls of shrieks and giggles. Erestor glanced over at Orophin, who was on sitter duty so Erestor could tend to some minor political duties. Orophin was currently engaged in a literal form of his duties; sitting on Estorel, who did NOT wish to have his nappy changed. Erestor smiled. “That’s your little brother in there, cackling like a hen. Are you going to go remind him of his station?” Orophin shook his head. “Not me. There’s so much estrogen floating around in that room you can smell it from here. I take a step in there and I’ll turn into a Plains Elf.” Erestor shook his head. “Orophin, sometimes you are positively primeval.” “Be that as it may, sometimes I feel like I’m the only male in a thousand miles who can’t hold a decent conversation on menstrual cramps and childbirth.” “Plains Elves don’t menstruate, Orophin, their bodies are more efficient. They do not build up a lining in the uterus until they are already pregnant.” “Well that just goes and proves my point, doesn’t it?” “They do, however, get cramps.” “I do not wish to discuss this.” Erestor smiled, feeling impish. “They have been known, however, to eat the placenta after birth…” “I DO NOT WISH TO DISCUSS THIS!” “Well really it’s just a waste of vital nutrients if you don’t.” “Fine. When you give birth I shall see to it that Lord Glorfindel has a chaffing dish suitable for the occasion.” He stood up, releasing Estorel. From the next room could be heard gossip, giggling, and dirty remarks. Fun was fun but Erestor had work to do. “Orophin, ask them politely to break it up, would you? I need to get this done, Lord Elrond has to have it by tomorrow eve.” Orophin nodded, and walked to the door. He opened it, and stopped dead. A deep, soft voice said; “I am seeking Master Erestor, Chief Advisor to Lord Elrond. Is he here?” Erestor looked up. “Orophin? Who is it?” Orophin did not say anything; he simply stepped aside and permitted the Elf to enter the room. Erestor saw what was coming towards him, and felt his eyes grow large and his jaw drop. He could do nothing but stare. The Elf was very tall – one of the tallest Erestor had ever seen, and broad in the shoulders and chest. He had loooooong legs, and the biggest pair of blue eyes Erestor could recall seeing; like clear crystal pools. He had long white hair flowing down his back, loose and free and soft, and a smile that reduced Erestor’s insides to water. He walked straight over to him, and bowed. “Mae Govannen, Master Erestor. I am Valaríamrûn. Your husband hired me to help raise the children.” Erestor stared at the huge hunk of Elf candy before him. In the doorway, a collection of faces watched the interaction. Erestor swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to recall how to speak. “Geh?” he managed. “I have already settled in my room, I simply wished to meet you and the children.” Erestor cleared his throat again. “Flrble?” “Oh, and to provide you with my references, of course. I am sure you will see they are all in order. I’ve worked for some very fine Houses.” “Fweeblt.” “So with your consent, I’d like to get straight to work. Oh this must be Estorel, and this fine young lady must be Silivren. And I understand you are currently with child. As you can see from my résumé I am a fully trained in the art of midwifery, so I can be of service when your time comes.” “Flack,” said Erestor. “Thank you. I hope to be in your service for a very long time to come.” Erestor finally found his ability to speak. “As do I.” Orophin looked from Erestor, to the crowd at the door, to the huge buff beautiful piece of Elf-cake standing in the room. Every husband in New Imladris was going to want to kill Fin for bringing Valaríamrûn here. ***---*** Fadai slowly prowled the beach, half looking for anything edible that was stupid enough to not get out of his way, and half keeping an eye out for Warrior Moon. Fadai did not like anybody with the exception of his own child, but snapping at babies was not to be tolerated under any circumstance, and Warrior knew it. It was equally likely that he had not gone very far; Titania would not welcome back one who had done such a thing, and that left Warrior with no place to go. Fadai picked up Warrior’s scent by the base of the cliff, under the village, as well as the remains of oyster shells and inedible bits of a lobster. He sorted through the bits, trying to determine how recently Warrior had been there. Then he made a small cut on his hand with one of the shells, smeared the blood all over his palm and fingers, and slapped the bloody hand onto the side of the cliff, leaving a red impression before urinating all over the scraps. Any Plains Elf in his right mind would know that was a MOST clear indicator that he was NOT welcome. This, of course, was assuming that Warrior was in his right mind. Fadai kept prowling along the beach, investigating every odd scent. He could tell that Elves not of his Clan had been by here, likely hunting in the dark of night and vanishing with the first traces of dawn. Plains Elves seldom hunted by day, and only in areas where there was little, if any, habitation. Horse Clan hunted by day near Fëanor’s keep, but that was because only Fëanor lived there. In areas where there were more Elves, they would venture at night. Only Fox Clan hunted exclusively in the day, but their long torment in the bowels of Barad-dûr had soured them on the night. Fox Clan did its hunting by day, and hid during the hours of darkness, while their brethren, untainted by the horrors of Morgoth and Sauron, played in the moonlight. He had not prowled far when he spied something he had literally never seen before. It was huge, with a great round body, dragging its slow and ponderous form up on the beach with huge flippers. And there was another one coming out of the water behind it, and yet another! A feast from the sea! They were crawling out of the warm surf, onto the jeweled beach, and using their flippers to swat holes in the sand above the high tide line. Fadai watched, fascinated. Then his stomach growled and he dropped into a stalking position. He approached with caution, uncertain if these things had fangs or poison they could use. Few creatures came without natural defenses, but these silly fat things seemed utterly helpless. Fadai picked one he thought looked good, settled into a crouch, then lunged forward like a javelin, landing on the animal, unslinging his deadly jaws for the killing blow and… SNAP! The explosive sound of his own blade breaking on the great sea turtle’s shell echoed in his head, and pain screamed through his jaw. He yanked back, swearing and cursing, tears of pain coming unbidden to his eyes. The female turtle continued swatting sand, unmoved and unimpressed, her only indication of the potentially lethal attack was a deep scrape in her shell. Fadai swore, holding his face. Finally he turned and began loping for home, his mood most foul and in a substantial amount of pain. He made his way to his hut and sat, feeling the side of his face swell up and the blood leaking out of his mouth. He growled at nothing. He heard someone approach his hut. It would have to be Mari-Ton, he was the only one mad enough to dare approach at a time like this. The hut flap pulled back, and yes, true to form, it was Mari-Ton. He took one look at Fadai, and raised an eyebrow. “Hunting rocks, were we?” “NO! I do not know what it was. The son of a bitch was armored!” “Awwww….” said Mari-Ton, his tone suggesting he was speaking to an Elfling with a tummy-ache. “Diddums bweak a toofy?” “Fall off a cliff.” “Come now, show me the damage.” Fadai growled, and ominous rumbling sound that started in his broad chest. Mari-Ton sighed. “Look, Fadai, you can’t sit there in misery. You need to have it seen to. How will you eat?” Fadai snapped at him. Mari-Ton said, “Fine. Starve.” Fadai listened as Mari-Ton left, and settled on his bed, drooling blood, his face swollen. All he wanted was to be left alone, but it quickly became apparent that he was getting no peace. Most of the Clan was there by now, and all Fadai wanted was to sit with his broken blade in peace. He roared like an outraged bull at the commotion, and was somewhat pleased when all backed off a little. He snorted and settled, miserable and content to be so. Then… he heard a voice. His head shot straight up, eyes wide, forgetting his pain. He listened, body quivering with tension. It was a voice straight out of the very distant past, and one he had never expected to hear ever again. The rest of the Clan too had gone oddly silent. Fadai did not dare look. Not even when he heard his name. “Fadai? Is that truly you? I saw you break your blade, can I help?” Fadai hesitated, uncertain what to do, shaken to his very core. At last he peered out, and looked upon an Elf he had not seen since the days before they had been lured into the tower. “River? By the Queen of Night is that honestly you?” The smallish Elf smiled, and nodded. “It is.” He had changed since last Fadai saw him. In that long-ago century, River Laughing had been strong, playful, unbound but thinking about looking for a therlu. He had always been rather fond of Fadai, and let him know it, but Fadai had never been interested. Or at least, he thought he had not been, not until he found himself locked in that dungeon of hell and despair. Then he found his thoughts often strayed to the little Elf who flirted with him by the pond in the sunlight. River Laughing stood before Fadai, leaning on a stout walking stick, but smiling as ever he had been. It was clear he had been in some sort of accident since last Fadai saw him. His whole right side was badly scarred, and his right arm and leg had healed badly, as had his back, nearly crippling him. His right eye too had suffered some damage, and was covered in a blue-grey film. He was painfully thin, and badly bruised, but bore a much-faded tattoo about his left arm: a single goose and fish, separated by a single line. He had been trained by the shaman of some other Clan to be a healer. Fadai just stared at him, feeling a huge maelstrom of emotions tear at him. Shock and confusion and pain and… a great and terrible joy. He had missed this little Elf so dearly, and only now, as he saw him, did he truly realize how very, very much he had. “Where were you?” he whispered. Mari-Ton brought a chair, and River seated himself slowly, using his stick to ease himself down. “Long I waited, wandering the valley after I saw you all go to the Tower. I feared you would never return, and I was saddened to see that I was right. When the air began to foul, I left, and ended up in what the Halflings came to call the Old Forest, near where they lived. It was a good place. I stayed there for many years, visiting this VERY odd individual and his wife. Tim Bombadil his name was. He was a most ancient and powerful creature, but he could truly be annoying. I taught him about the Thrayre-Iyre, and he taught me about things he knew. Tree-magic, mostly, and the art of stone-singing. Many things. We were good friends. But one day I was exploring an area near the Barrow-Downs, and I fell into one, bringing a fair bit of debris down upon myself. I lay there for days, my bones broken, before I managed to get out from under the stones. I was… not right in my mind. A stone had hit me very hard in the head, and I crawled deeper into the Barrow, and there I lay. I had water, for small ponds had formed in the Barrow from underwater springs, and there were small things to catch. Fortunately no foul thing lived in that particular Barrow, so I was reasonably safe. I lay there all winter, and Tom found me in the spring. But by then there was little he could do for me. He made arrangements with Círdan the Shipwright, thinking Valinor the best place for an Elf in my condition. So here I have been for the past thousand years. Months ago I smelled something I had not thought to ever smell again, and I came as fast as this body would allow, all in time to see Fadai break a blade on a turtle.” Fadai stared at him, and began to shake, feeling centuries upon centuries of carefully constructed layers of hate and rage and bitterness start to crumble. “So you were never in the Tower. You escaped all that.” River nodded. “I did.” “I missed you,” he blurted out. River smiled, and reached out his good left hand to gently touch Fadai’s face, reducing the Old Bastard to a shivering Elfling. “I missed you, too.” Fadai just sat on the ground, shaking, his eyes closed as he felt the small hand gently stroke his face, the warmth of the late afternoon sun shining on him. His jaw still ached and throbbed, but, for once, his heart did not hurt. ***---*** Elrohir walked down the beach, hearing the soft rush of the waves, and the cry of the gulls wheeling in a sky tinted pink by the sinking sun. The jeweled sand glittered, and all seemed more beautiful for having Frost beside him. Elrohir looked at his newly returned lover. He was still blacker than hematite, but the black was beginning to streak grey. Soon the night-colour of the faery realm would fade away, and he would be ice-white once more. Which was just as well – he felt a bit odd calling a perfectly black Elf ‘Frost.’ His Frost, alive again. He could scarcely believe it. Elrohir stepped in front of him to embrace his huge body, holding him tightly, breathing in his scent. He kissed the hot flesh of his collarbone, and said; “I missed you so much.” Frost returned the embrace, holding him tightly, kissing the top of his head. “As I missed you,” he whispered. “The Faery-Queen would have granted me rebirth eventually, but it grieved her to see a whole family in mourning; I for you and the children, and you for me. But when she learned I was still carrying two sleeping babes inside me, her heart was moved, and after she taught me what I needed to know, she sent me home.” “I am so glad she did,” whispered Elrohir, his eyes closed, feeling Frost’s living body against his own. “I must find a way to thank her. Even if she had not cared about our feelings, I would hope she would have done it for the sake of the Clan. They would have perished without a proper shaman. And Rabbit has missed you so very much.” “I have missed Sia as well. I will help to mend him, then set about finding who poisoned him. You are sure it was not Warrior?” Elrohir shook his head. “Not unless he can fly. The only way he could have fired that spine into his back was to have been floating in mid-air. We were standing on the cliff.” “That would have been a neat trick,” admitted Frost. “Very well, Warrior is off the hook for now, though if I see him, I will have some hard questions for him.” They kissed, then continued walking down the beach. It was nice to have this time together. Moonshadow and Nocturne were with Fëanor currently. Not that Fëanor was in any shape to look after them, but they had wanted to sit with him for a while, and they had Elladan with them. The two little ink blots could come pounding down the sand towards them at any moment, but for now, it was just Frost and himself. They turned a corner, and spied two figures down the beach. It did not take Elrohir long to recognize them; it was Fade and Hare. There was certainly no mistaking Hare at any rate, not with his crippled arm and leg. Fade towered over him, and they were engaged in some sort of chasing game… a naked chasing game, Elrohir suddenly realized. “Oh for goodness sake,” he muttered affectionately, “what are those two clowns doing?” Frost raised his head to watch, then narrowed his eyes as he grinned. “Ah, I know this dance.” “Dance?” said Elrohir, puzzled. Frost nodded, smiling. “Come, we will get a little closer, and you will see something no other Elf of your kind has witnessed.” Elrohir was still baffled by what this could be, but he allowed Frost to lead him a little closer. They halted by the remains of a great tree that had fallen from the cliff above, and watched. The tree was not the best cover, but Fade and Hare did not seem to see them. Certainly they were not paying attention to anything but each other, and their strange game. Elrohir learned long ago that Plains Elves had three distinct dialects – a spoken language, a language of yips and cries for communicating over vast distances, and a third that he would never know. It was a language of subtle body language, and scent. Fade and Hare were definitely communicating in this manner now. They said not a word, made no sound, but it was very clear they understood each other. Elrohir glanced at Frost, then looked back towards the pair, watching as Fade seemed to try to herd Hare in certain directions, letting the much smaller and weaker Elf elude him. The game formed a graceful, weaving dance, with Hare both enticing and eluding his much larger lover. Sometimes he would pause just long enough to let Fade nip his throat or shoulder, but then he would move off, and Fade would patiently chase after him. Elrohir suddenly realized that, whatever it was Hare was doing, it was turning Fade on immensely. “We should not be watching this!” hissed Elrohir. Frost covered his mouth with his hand to contain an outburst of laughter. When he finally had himself under control, he whispered in Elrohir’s ear; “Some things are worth spying on, if only once. I promise you that you will never see this again. This dance is something very old; a ritual that has no words, and goes back to the days before Iluvatar granted us the gift of awareness.” “Yes I can see that. I have no idea how Fade is going to fit inside that poor little Elf!” Frost laughed softly. “Oh they will both pay for this nonsense, believe me. You will switch sympathies several times as we watch.” “I do not think we should be watching them have sex.” “Sex?” said Frost, his tone mildly surprised. “Oh no, my little Aia-Nen. This is much more than sex. This is the creation of a family. We call this the Binding Dance, and it comes from a time so long ago, none recall it.” “Binding..?” Elrohir’s eyes grew wide. “This is a wedding!” “Yes. It is a wedding.” Elrohir watched as the pair ducked and weaved, slowly, gracefully. There was no hurry to their movements, just a very slow and very carefully constructed game of cat and mouse. They seemed more like two stallions than Elves, especially Fade, with his long black hair streaming down his back, blowing in the early evening wind. Frost leaned down to speak in his ear. “In this dance, there are two roles, that of the Pfar, and the Syriath. It seems to me that Hare has chosen to be the Pfar.” Elrohir looked at Frost. “I do not know what that means.” “Well they are not words that translate easily into your tongue, for your people are unisexual. The easiest way to translate would be ‘male’ and ‘female’, but that is not what the words mean. A more accurate translation would be ‘vessel’ and ‘planter’. One is the vessel for the planter’s seed, but that is not quite what they mean either. In this part of the dance, the Pfar leads his Syriath on a symbolic chase, testing his strength and determination. This chase can last for days at a time, sometimes for weeks. They might simply do this for a few hours and then break off to do something else, and get back to it a little later. Or not.” Frost smiled. Elrohir looked back to the pair. Hare had stopped, but this time when Fade came up behind him, he simply tilted his head back to nip at the skin on the underside of his chin. Fade pressed close, slipping his arms around Hare’s waist. Elrohir flushed crimson when he realized Fade was now inside his smaller lover. “We shouldn’t be watching this,” he muttered, both mortified and fascinated. Frost laughed softly and put an arm around him. “You are the one who once told me you wished to know all there was to know about our ways.” Elrohir didn’t have a response to that. He looked back towards the two Plains Elves, watching as Fade began making love to his smaller partner in the decidedly awkward pose. There was some shifting and attempts to get better balanced, then Fade tightened his grip and pulled Hare up onto his toes and began thrusting hard. “He’d better get his jaws around the back of his head soon,” remarked Frost, grinning. “Why?” asked Elrohir. Hare suddenly let out a loud gasp of pure pleasure, his head jerking back and audibly cracking Fade on the nose. “That’s why,” said Frost. Elrohir winced. “Yeowch.” Fade shook his head, then wrapped his jaws around the back of Hare’s neck, holding him more or less still – at least he was no longer in danger of getting cracked on the nose again. Hare made a hoarse sound of ecstasy, writhing and crying out. He suddenly screamed, thrashing in Fade’s embrace as his passion overwhelmed him. Or at least it seemed to; Elrohir suddenly realized Hare had not spilled any semen. “Is he actually enjoying this, or just trying to build up Fade’s ego? And why such an off-balance position? Fade’s back is going to be out for a month.” Frost narrowed his eyes. “Oh he is enjoying it.” He glanced at Elrohir, eyes gleaming. “When the Pfar and the Syriath come together for this, the Pfar is almost always in the midst of his fertility cycle. When that happens, a small nerve deep in his canal swells and becomes most sensitive. But it is… not easily accessible, save for in this stance. When stroked, the pleasure, I am told, is almost insanity-inducing.” Elrohir watched, mesmerized, aware of Frost’s large body moving to stand behind his own, his fingertips moving lightly, slowly down his shoulders. He kissed Elrohir’s neck, and began speaking, his voice soft in his ear. “The nerve sends signals to his body. Tells it not to waste resources on producing semen. Tells his child-bed to make ready.” Elrohir gasped. “But Hare is not permitted to bear children!” Frost kissed the top of Elrohir’s head. “Hare cannot conceive. That is part of his illness.” He narrowed his eyes, and Elrohir could hear the arousal in the soft words he purred. “But his body does not know that. Nor does Fade’s. And so they respond to instincts older than Valinor, and lock together in this dance.” He trailed his hands down Elrohir’s arms, kissing his shoulder, nipping the flesh. “I have heard some of the Glaur-Iyre refer to us as animals – beasts that go into heat like dogs and mate in the streets. It is true that I can tell when one of my people is at his most receptive, and I will not say it does not affect me. But I am an Elf, not a dog. I can control my baser wants. Still, I find it strange that they turn their nose up at us, when they too do this same dance. Perhaps not in the same way, but Elflings, I am told, do not make themselves. Not even Glaur-Iyre ones.” Hare let out a moaning wail, thrashing, panting, oblivious to all but the powerful body holding him, the large stiff shaft thrusting into his body, caressing and stroking the nerve inside of him until he climaxed again, screaming himself hoarse, biting his lip until it bled. Elrohir felt his throat tighten, his breath coming a little harder. Frost kissed his long dark hair, his breath soft in his ear. “As I said, this is more than sex. It is a binding, and an exercise in trust. Hare must trust Fade to hold him and not drop him, to be strong enough to support him, and not just physically, but symbolically as well. We have a saying; ‘If he will not stand behind you to bind, he will not stand behind you at any other time.’ It has been my experience that the saying is true.” Elrohir swallowed. “And how must Fade trust Hare?” “You will see.” Hare cried out again, an almost pleading sound, panting, gasping, his small body gleaming with sweat. Then he became quiet and still, almost limp, as if he was in a trance. Fade growled, holding him all the tighter, his cutting blades leaving fine thin slashes on Hare’s flesh. He thrust hard, then shuddered, panting loudly. They went still, remaining in their embrace, their bodies linked together. Then Fade began to shake. His right leg went weak, and he had just time enough to release Hare before he dropped to the sand and lay like a dead thing. Hare remained standing, and positioned himself near him protectively. “So Hare must watch over Fade now,” said Elrohir. Frost nodded. “He will watch Fade. He will watch him and keep him safe, and then he will make him get up and do it all over again.” “Again?! But he won’t be able to that again. Will he?” Frost laughed softly. “He will. His body will react to signals from Hare, and he will respond like a well-trained pet. You watch.” Elrohir did. Hare seemed restless and playful, and it was not long before he began trying to get Fade on his feet again, nudging at him, tugging on him, finally harassing him in an almost desperate manner. Elrohir did not think Fade was getting up, but suddenly he did. He lunged to his feet and Hare darted away. Were he not hindered by his bad leg, what would have ensued would surely have been a faster and far more aggressive version of their earlier slow dance. Hare had made him get up, and was now determined to make him work for the privilege of having him again. But he was not fast enough, and when Fade caught him, he took him roughly, penetrating hard and fast, grabbing onto him with his teeth. Elrohir winced. “You’re right, I am definitely wavering in my choice of whom to feel sorry for. How long will they keep this up?” “Until they achieve what we refer to as the perfect coupling, the one where Hare’s body tells him his therlu has done his duty and gotten him with child.” “But Hare can’t conceive.” Frost smiled. “I know. But, as I said, their bodies do not know that. Once the nerve has received enough stimulus, Hare will relent.” “Well I won’t be asking Fade to demonstrate this at the party this eve. I wonder if Haldir and Rabbit have ever done it?” “I doubt it,” said Frost. “Haldir is simply not strong enough to hold Rabbit in the required position, even if he could understand the body language that precedes it, as well as perform several times in a row. Glaur-Iyre males are simply not built for such things as this. And the nerve does not need to be stimulated for conception to happen.” Elrohir smiled, and looked up at Frost. “I bet you could hold me like that.” Frost looked down at him, raising one eyebrow. “I’ll wager I could as well.” Elrohir smiled. “I’ll wager I could even mimic the movements, even if I don’t smell as nice.” He moved away from Frost, walking slowly, grinning as he felt Frost move after him, scrunching up his nose and making soft, high-pitched tickled noises as Frost nuzzled at him, nudging him around. If his Ada saw this he would probably think his baby had lost his mind. He ducked and wove as Hare had done, pretending he was trying to escape Frost, finding the game incredibly erotic. Elrohir laughed as Frost nipped his neck. “We haven’t any pleasure oil,” he said. Frost used his huge frame to gently herd Elrohir to the left. Elrohir ducked and went right, laughing. He paused just long enough to let Frost nibble his ear, pressing close, feeling his erection against his buttocks. “I have some,” said Frost. Elrohir rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?” He gasped as he felt Frost’s fingers slip under his khiton and gently touch him, softly applying the oil. He closed his eyes, letting him softly prepare him. Then he remembered the game and once more began pretending to elude Frost. Time seemed to stand still. The sky held the softest traces of the faded light of day, and there was no sound other than the waves on the jeweled sand. Elrohir eluded, and Frost pursued. There was no hurry to the game, only a timeless patience. Then Elrohir found a place that felt right to him, and stopped, closing his eyes, waiting. He felt Frost come up behind him, felt his strong hands go about his waist, then, disconcertingly, his jaws around the back of his head. He felt Frost lift him, pushing forward, getting him into the same awkward pose he had seen Hare and Fade in. Then he penetrated, thrusting deep inside of him. It was a little unnerving, dangling there, but he knew Frost would not drop him. Frost would never let him fall, physically or emotionally. Elrohir smiled, the implications of what they were doing suddenly occurring to him. “Always pictured my wedding day a little different,” he whispered. ***---*** Rúmil had spent the day in bed. Now, as it grew dark and people were making ready for the last night of Elrond’s party, he bathed and dressed, finally getting a chance to wear the gorgeous and elaborate robe he had meant to wear the night he gave birth to Ereinion and Eölthrim. He called in a servant to cinch him into the under-band, and then dressed in the other robes of crimson and indigo velvet, lined with cream coloured silk himself. He did his hair, artfully applied a very light layer of make-up to hide the hint of dark circles beneath his eyes, and then topped the whole thing off with his circlet. “Rúmil,” he said to himself, “you are one fine piece of Elf.” He rose to his feet, turning, and was confronted by the life-sized portrait of Gil-galad that had once sat in Elrond’s office. He stopped, and gazed at it, feeling sad and angry. “You could have stayed long enough to say goodbye,” he whispered His attention was caught by a knock at the door. He stared at the painting for a moment longer, then, reluctantly, he turned away, walking towards the door. He grasped the handle, pulled it open, and stared. He did not at first know the Elf-woman standing there, but then recognition slowly sank in, and he felt himself go weak and cold with emotion. He made himself stand straight, and bowed slowly, formally to the tall Lady before him. “My Lady Celebrian,” he said quietly. “It has been a very long time.” “Rúmil,” she said, her tone equally quiet. “It is good to see you.” Rúmil fought an urge to slam the door and lock it. As Lord of the House he could by rights do it, but his long time in service to Celebrian and her family made him reluctant to do so. So the two faced each other in strained silence. Finally Celebrian spoke. “May I come in?” Rúmil almost said ‘No, you can crawl back under your rock’, but manners won out. “Of course.” He stepped aside, permitting her to enter. Celebrian stepped passed him with a soft rustle of her long gown. It never failed to amaze Rúmil how very much she resembled both her parents. Then she spied the two tiny bundles on the bed, both dressed in their finest party robes, which were actually loaned to them by Erestor; they belonged to Estorel, but he was too large to fit them. “Oh how tiny and precious!” she exclaimed, and began making her way to Ereinion and Eölthrim. Rúmil was shocked at his own reaction, and certainly Lady Celebrian was more than a little stunned as he lunged in front of her and made a noise like something straight out of the bowls of Morgoth’s realm. He faced her down, sucked air and snarled, not even really understanding why he did so, only that of all Elrond’s passed loves, Celebrian was the biggest threat. Above all, he wanted to protect his little family. Celebrian backed up, eyes wide with surprise. “Rúmil!” she exclaimed. Her tone was chastising, but there was no missing the hint of fear. There was no getting around him; his ancestry was on him full and strong, and he would bite if he had to. “Why are you here? Why did you come back? You told Elrond you did not wish to be bound to him anymore, refused to go see your daughter wed excuse me ADOPTED daughter, not that Arwen knows that, and when Elrohir wept for you because his husband had died, leaving him alone with two babies, STILL you did not come! Now you show up when Elrond and I start a family, and I demand to know why.” She backed up a little further, eyes growing wet with unshed tears. Celebrian had never been the warrior that her parents were, but she was by no means weak. Still, this was something she had never encountered. She had heard rumours of the Thrayre-Iyre, but it was one thing to hear of them, and another to be face to face with one that shared their blood and was bound and determined to protect what was his. She swallowed, and mustered her courage. “I heard Elrond had just become a father, and wished only to see him, and his children. He is my husband after all.” “Former husband,” spat Rúmil, “and that too was by your choice, not his. All your family wept for you, and you did not come back, but when at last they over come their grief and begin to move on with their lives, THEN you show up?” Celebrian was finding herself less frightened and hurt and more angry. She glanced at the babies on the bed, then back to Rúmil. “And what of you? You snarl at me about injustices, when clearly at least one of those babes bears a close resemblance to Gil-galad.” “Elrond knows well the parentage of Ereinion. Too bad he cannot say the same about the children you brought home from parts unknown.” “I gave him children, as was my duty as his wife to do!” “But you LIED about it!” Rúmil snarled back. Celebrian blanched, eyes beginning to shine again. “I did what I had to! And where did you come by those two? Do not tell me they came out of you, I may not be a healer but I do know how children are made!” Rúmil marched up to her and stood nose to nose with the Lady he had served so long and faithfully. He narrowed his eyes and growled quietly; “Do you really want me to show you from whence they came?” Celebrian thought about that. “No,” she finally said. “I thought not. Now why are you here?” “I came to see Elrond and my children. It is his birthday.” Rúmil nodded. “Funny how you do not come for Arwen, or for Elrohir, or even for Elrond when he wept for you, but now you come, when at last you realize he has reconciled himself to your loss and found love with another. Tell me, did the birth of my children finally penetrate that cloak of martyrdom you clad yourself in, and make you climb down from your tower, where you have sat for centuries, claiming to be fading? Your death has been long in coming indeed!” She slapped him, hard. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner! Do you not know what those Orcs did to me? Do you not know the pain I suffered?” “No,” said Rúmil softly, his tone changing. “No I cannot pretend for one moment that I know, or understand. And I for one think that coming to Valinor was the wise thing to do, or else you surely would have faded. None begrudge your choice in leaving. What we do begrudge is they way you turned your back on your family, leaving your sons to believe that you blamed them, your daughter without a mother, and your husband to mourn until it nearly killed him. I do not know if you understood that one day he would cease to wait, but he has. And your return now is too little too late.” Celebrian looked both tearful and defiant. No, she was no warrior, but nor was she one to back down from a challenge. “We will see about that,” she whispered, then strode out of the room. Rúmil watched her go, then glanced down at the robe. The last time he put it on, he gave birth. This time Celebrian returns. “I’m burning this thing in the morning,” he muttered. “It’s cursed.” He glanced at the painting of Gil-galad, then at the one of Elrond, clad in his gold and blue armor from long ago. Suddenly he felt very small; a common archer among great Kings and Heralds, and facing down a Lady of most formidable ancestry. Of the three, he was the most dispensable, and he suddenly felt that he would simply be removed from this family the way a splinter is removed from a sore so it can heal. He sat down on the bed and began to weep. ***---*** It was early evening when Fëanor awoke. He opened his eyes and slowly looked around the room, weak and sickly, and aware of a disgusting stench that he suspected was coming from him. He carefully looked around, and felt a gentle hand stroke his hair. “Who’s there?” he whispered. “It’s me,” said Faramir quietly. “Can’t you see me?” The world was a smeary blur; Fëanor felt his eyes were covered in some sticky matter. He struggled weakly to sit up, but couldn’t. He felt another person sit on the bed, placing a gentle hand on his back. “Atar calm yourself. You’re not well.” Fëanor ignored Maedhros. He was a proud warrior and a former king as well as an Elf, and he was NOT remaining on a filthy sheet, stinking of pus. Maedhros sighed. “Atar, honestly, once you get a thought in your head, it takes a hammer to get it out. Faramir help me with him.” “At least he’s well enough to be a pain,” said Faramir. “He’d have to have been dead fifty years to not be well enough to be a pain.” Faramir smiled, and very, very carefully lift Fëanor. He was surprisingly small for one of his kind, and felt like little more than small bones. He was weak and not terribly responsive, and allowed Faramir to hold him on his lap without complaint, resting his head against the Man’s shoulder. Faramir kissed his brow. “Poor little love,” he said softly. Fëanor opened one eye and gave him a look that suggested it was a very good thing for Faramir that he was sick. Well at least he was well enough to be threatening. “I’ll draw you a bath,” said Faramir. Fëanor was unable to speak. He remained limp, weak and ill, and far more complacent than was his wont. Maedhros cleaned the bed, then helped Faramir to peel the reeking garments off of him. Finally they got him settled in a shallow bath. Faramir seated himself on a chair beside the ornate painted bath and began carefully washing the black hair. He found he was smiling. “Poor Atar,” said Maedhros. Fëanor reacted to the statement, but was too ill to actually do anything more than open one bleary eye and glare at his eldest. Maedhros smiled, and sighed dramatically. “Poor sad frail Atar.” Fëanor growled. Faramir said, “Maedhros stop antagonizing the poor sad frail thing.” Fëanor stared at the both of them, far too ill to give them the thrashing they were both begging for, but still able to send out the faintest hint of white light. Faramir smiled and gently kissed him. “Calm yourself,” he said quietly, “We’re only teasing, you know it.” Fëanor was not amused, but was far too sickly and weak to properly feed them a piece of his mind. He closed his eyes, and relaxed, enjoying the feel of Faramir scrubbing his long black hair. The wound on his chest was still open and ugly, but the sores that the poison had caused were at least drying up. Faramir shook his head, but said nothing, keeping to his washing and making sure the wound did not get wet. At last they were done, and Maedhros lifted his father out of the bath so Faramir could dry him. It was as much excitement as Fëanor could stand; he was asleep by the time they got him in a clean nightshirt and settled on the bed. “Poor fellow,” said Faramir. “So very ill. Still I suspect Turgon is lucky he is already dead. I would not wish to be the one to face Fëanor in his wrath.” “No,” said Maedhros. “He is not called Spirit of Fire for naught. He burns as does Mount Doom when angry. I am sorry to say I have seen it.” Faramir gently steered Maedhros from the subject of the past. “And you, I believe, are ‘Copper Beauty’.” Maedhros sighed. “Yes, I am. And Glorfindel is ‘Golden Braids’, or as some like to call him, ‘Goldie Locks’. Parents of that age have much to answer for. Try admitting straight faced to a minion of Morgoth that you are Copper Beauty, and your buddies Goldie Locks and Fluffy the Wonder Elf would like a word.” Faramir straightened and looked at Maedhros. “’Fluffy the Wonder-Elf’?” “Well he since changed it to Gil-galad.” “Indeed. And I am sure Elrond will be happy to confirm this.” “Absolutely.” Faramir smiled, and seated himself on the edge of the bed, stroking Fëanor’s long hair. Outside the window, night had fallen, and the final night of Elrond’s party had begun. Maedhros stretched, then walked over to the night stand to pour himself a glass of water from the large pitcher resting there. “Ah I can but hope this evening will be less exciting than the other four.” Faramir smiled. “It has to be, what more chaos can one household unleash?” Maedhros laughed quietly, then went rigid, eyes growing large, the glass dropping from his numb hand as out in the yard he heard Brennon scream; “LORD FINGON JUST HAD A BABY!” |
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