A Far Distant Shore
Chapter Fourteen

Rating: R
Category: Humour, Drama, AU
Pairing(s): Erestor/Glorfindel, Haldir/Rabbit, Orophin/Elladan, Elrond/Rumil, Legolas/Gimli, Elrohir/Frost, Mauburz/Rhimlan, Amaris/Ilinuil, and others
Warnings: Slash (means: two male Elves in love), Mpreg, Angst
Summary: It is a night of storms in New Imladris. Lindir gets a shock, Legolas has a dream, Maedhros finds something he thought long lost, Haldir has a fright, and Amaris is NOT wild about Harry.
Notes: Meadbunny Rating: 5
Portions of this chapter written with the help of the incomparable Mirien and her performing troupe of muses.
Baguette is for King Thran.
Song “Today” is by Catherine McKinnon.

I’ve always loved the horror genre. Trouble is I stink at it. And no, I’m not being modest. Live readings of my horror elicit more howls of laughter than my humour, and that’s the sad truth. But, as I said, I love horror, especially very atmospheric spooky house-type stuff. So I decided just to dive in and try my hand at it again. I would like to say “Be afraid, be very afraid,” but I have a sneaking suspicion that what I should be doing is leaving a food and drink warning…

Lindir slowly awoke, eyelashes fluttering as he stirred, consciousness slowly infiltrating his limbs. He rolled onto his stomach, his long silver hair loose and wild, the sheets tangled around his lean, naked body. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked out the window at the crystal clear day, feeling the cool touch of the sea breeze that blew through his hair softly, bringing a faint fragrance that only an Elf would detect. It was a strange, ionized scent, wafting to him from far away.

“There is a storm coming,” said Lindir softly.

A large presence moved close, slipping an arm around him, trailing a broad hand over his hip.

“Aye, I smell it too. It shall be a big one.”

Lindir turned to look at his companion, who still lacked a name. He was gazing out the window, his long black hair loose, his circlet askew, his strong, noble face lit by the clear sunlight. Lindir felt a sudden shock of recognition. No… it could not be him… could it?

“Fingolfin?” he asked, almost shyly, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

The Elf turned and kissed him softly, clearly mistaking disbelief for concern. “No need to fear, little Lindir, I will not be on the sea long. I will not risk the storm catching me. I will be back by lunch, if… you wish to see me?”

“I do,” said Lindir softly.

Fingolfin smiled, then gently reached out for him, touching his face.

“I have a little while before I must go.”

Lindir smiled, and blushed, but did not resist as his lover gently pushed him onto his back and moved over top of him. It was daylight, Elves were not supposed to… do this… in the daylight, were they?

Fingolfin kissed Lindir’s throat, gently nibbling his flesh, running his large, powerful hands through his silvery hair. Lindir forgot about the fact that it was daylight, choosing instead to relax and let his lover have his way. Fingolfin touched and nibbled and caressed, slowly exploring him, lavishing attention on him. Lindir closed his eyes, uncertain as to how he should respond. He wondered if he was what Glorfindel would call a ‘terrible lover’, but then, Fingolfin did not seem to have any complaints. Besides, maybe he would get better. Nana had told him sex was for ellons, not elleths, and a proper lady did not enjoy sex. But Lindir was no elleth. In fact, now that he thought about it, most of the ladies he knew did not seem to be what his Nana would call ‘proper’.

He gasped as Fingolfin mounted him. All thoughts of his Nana vanished as his lover gently kissed him, murmuring soft assurances into his ear, nipping him. This was so nice, so lovely… He heard himself make a quiet sigh as he gently nipped Fingolfin’s ear, then moaned. He was better prepared this time for the slow buildup of passion, though it was still frightening to him. He panted and gasped beneath Fingolfin’s great body, writhing, finally crying out and giving himself permission to enjoy it. Then he lay beneath his lover, arms about his neck, relishing the feel of him thrusting inside of him, finally reaching his own release. Lindir held him close, loving the sensation of him shuddering, spilling himself inside of him, and after a while growing still. Lindir smiled, and stroked the dark, damp hair.

“’T was lovely,” he said softly.

Fingolfin kissed him. “It was,” he whispered. After a few moments he moved off of him, then slowly rose from the bed. Lindir sat up and watched the large Elf dress, then glanced out the window. In the distance he could see the faint line of black clouds moving across the water.

“Must you go?” he asked.

Fingolfin seated himself on the bed, wearing his breeches and boots. He gently turned Lindir’s face towards himself and kissed him.

“I must. But I will not be gone long. Wait for me. I shall be back ere you know it.”

Lindir smiled, and nodded, then closed his eyes as Fingolfin kissed him once more before quietly leaving the little cottage. Lindir smiled, and slowly exhaled. He felt… lighter, somehow. As if his night with Fingolfin had stripped away a weight he had not even realized was there. He turned to look out the window once more, watching the clouds slowly approach Valinor. He smiled, savouring the memory of the previous night.

At last Lindir rose from the bed. He walked over to Hawthorne’s box, and found that the little guinea pig had not so much as nibbled Fingolfin’s white shirt; he had simply hidden under it. Lindir picked up the shirt and held it close, breathing in the scent of his lover. Then, on a whim, he put it on. For Fingolfin, it was merely a shirt. For Lindir it was almost a robe, the hem hanging down nearly to his knees. He belted it around himself, then went downstairs to make tea and breakfast. All the world seemed changed, and he seemed to be viewing it from a different perspective. He was truly grown now. He had his own home. He was caring for his own needs, making his own hours, and building his first relationship… and with a KING, no less! Well, former king. He heard himself laugh at nothing; it just seemed to burst out. At last his life was his own

He checked his calendar. He had nothing to do this day; no classes, no duties, just an entire day to spend with his new lover. Lindir made breakfast and ate, then tidied up and made a fresh pot of tea before seating himself at the kitchen table. He spread out his music and began practicing the melodies Maglor had assigned him. The windows were open, and the kitchen was filled with the clean scent of the rising storm. Hawthorne meanwhile had found his way out the piggy-door and into his walled garden to chew grass just as his master began to sing.

“Today, while the blossoms still cling to the vine,
I’ll taste your strawberries; I’ll drink your sweet wine.
A million tomorrows shall all pass away,
Ere I forget all the joy that is mine today.

I’ll be a dandy and I’ll be a rover,
You’ll know who I am by the song that I sing.
I’ll dine at your table; I’ll sleep in your clover,
Who cares what tomorrow may bring?

Today, while the…”

His song was interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door. He sighed and set down the mandolin, suddenly realizing his hair was still loose, and all he had on was a pair of breeches and Fingolfin’s shirt. Well what did it matter, it was still early and he was practicing. There was time enough to get dressed.

He pulled open the door, and froze. In that one simple act, his day was destroyed, his mood shattered, his happiness gone, and all he was left with was a nightmarish dread. He began to shiver almost uncontrollably, and he thought he could feel himself shrink as the elleth before him smiled coldly.

“Well, Lindir,” she said, “don’t you have a kiss for Nana?”

***---***

Legolas was not moving. The Elf was a quiet bundle under the covers; only his nose and a wisp of hair visible in the tangle of bedding. Pressed against his back was Gimli, clad as always in his cotton nightshirt, arms around his beloved Elf. Outside the fair day was clouding over, and the curtains rustled ominously in a breeze that smelled of impending rain. Legolas made a quiet squeak as the shutter clicked softly when the wind gently nudged it shut, but that was all the reaction he managed. He and Gimli were both far, far away, sharing a dream.

In this dream they were standing together in a fantastic garden, beneath great Mallorn trees and surrounded by scented flowers. The day was warm and lovely, and fat bees droned lazily as they went about the business of pollinating the brightly coloured and exotically fragranced blossoms. Both looked around at the glorious statuary, the delicate fountains, and the clouds of spectacular butterflies. All around were things each found fair, from the finest of stonework to the most fantastic plant life.

“Are we dead?” asked Gimli.

Legolas smiled, gazing around the marvelous garden. “These are the gardens of Lórien. It can be no other place.”

“So we’re dead.”

Legolas laughed. “Nay I think not.”

Gimli had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach. Legolas had been very ill, and Gimli had seen the dead matter Elrond had removed from his body. Perhaps they were not both dead. Perhaps only one of them had ceased to live, and the other was here to speak his farewells. The thought only seemed to be confirmed when a figure wreathed in black suddenly appeared before them, materializing silently. His great black cloak parted to reveal garb of may hues and shades, and Gimli knew it could be but one Vala.

Námo.

Without thinking, Gimli drew his axe and planted himself before his husband. “Ye cannae have him, so just back away and I won’t have to hurt you.”

Not surprisingly, Námo did not seem daunted. “I have no intention of taking myself to the Halls, Master Dwarf, so pray put down your axe.”

Gimli was not daunted, and he did not back down an inch. “I said ye cannae have him, so just back away!”

Námo’s eyes showed he was amused. Legolas placed a hand on Gimli’s shoulder, trying to get him to calm down.

“You are not here for me, are you?” asked Legolas in his soft voice.

“In a way I am,” said Námo. He smiled as Gimli growled. “But not in the way your husband thinks.”

“Then what?” asked Legolas.

Námo smiled. He was fairer than all the glories of the garden, and he seemed to know it. Legolas had not expected him to be so beautiful.

“I come not to take, but to give,” said Námo. “We have watched thee, Legolas Greenleaf. We know things about you that you yourself do not know. Though you are most happy with yon Dwarf, you were not initially meant to love him. You were meant to love an Elf maid from Lothlórien, and to have a daughter with her. But this did not come to pass, as the lady died. You found love with another, and your life continued.”

Gimli gasped, feeling a jolt of pain at the thought of never having his Elf in his life, or worse: loving him and never having him. Námo smiled at Gimli.

“Fear not, good Dwarf. You and Legolas would likely have come together, though the path would have been longer. Even the Valar do not see all ends, but we do see that you and Legolas are two halves to a whole.”

Gimli breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes. Legolas said; “But… the… child… she was denied life.”

“Aye,” said Námo. “She was. And not once, but twice. Once when her mother died. The second time when she was accidentally called into being inside of you. You were ill, Legolas, because your child died inside of you. Elrond removed the remains and did not tell you, for fear of causing you grief.”

Legolas rocked visibly, and blanched. He reached out a hand to grasp hold of Gimli’s shoulder. “Wait... I was..?”

“Yes,” said Námo, his voice soft and sympathetic. “We are most sorry. She died because she had no bed, and no means of nourishment. Thus life was denied her again.”

Legolas wove, then sat down hard, his long legs simply buckling beneath him. He felt Gimli put an arm around him and try to give comfort.

“Then why tell us now?” demanded Gimli, his voice full of emotion at the sight of his dearest friend in such pain.

“Because we wish to make amends for what has happened. And as such, Manwë has sent me to offer a gift.”

Gimli looked suspicious. “What gift?”

Legolas raised his head and looked at Námo, eyes wet, looking as if a piece of his life had just been sucked out of him.

“What gift?” he asked, his voice a soft echo of his husband’s.

Námo smiled at Legolas, eyes warm. The Vala was so lovely – how could death be fair? Legolas wondered at this as Námo began to speak.

“Because, Legolas, you have twice been denied your daughter, we offer you the ability to twice bear a child. Twice you may will into being what is required for conceiving, carrying and bearing a child. But heed my words well. You may only do so twice. You may have a child now, and a child later, or you may choose to have twins, but no more. If the children do not survive, then such is the will of the All-Father, and you must accept it. Two children only. Do you..?”

“I accept this,” said Legolas before Námo even had a chance to finish speaking. “I accept this gift, and thank you humbly for it.”

“Do not thank me too hastily,” said Námo. “You are not built for this, Legolas Greenleaf, and the gift will at times be a curse. Women and Plains Elves are made to bear children. You are not. This will be very hard on you.”

“I do not care,” said Legolas. “I wish to do this.”

Gimli looked worried but said nothing, knowing how much this meant to Legolas. His heart yearned to tell him not to do it, not to put himself and his health at risk. However he knew it would do no good.

“When can I start?” asked Legolas.

“As soon as you awaken,” said Námo, smiling.

“Then I wish to awaken,” said Legolas.

Námo nodded. “As you wish.”

Legolas sat up in bed with a start. He glanced about the room, slowly realizing it was raining hard, and the day was dark and storming. He threw back the covers and got out of the wide, soft bed, moving hastily to the window to secure the shutters. He pulled them closed and locked them, then turned to look towards the bed. Gimli was still heavily asleep, snoring softly, and Legolas smiled. Likely the Dwarf was arguing furiously with Námo, demanding to know how dangerous this could be for his beloved Elf. Then a thought crossed his mind, and Legolas looked down at himself.

Gone. The incision was gone. He was well and healed, with no sign of Elrond’s work upon himself. He ran his hand over his white flesh as if to make certain he truly was healed, then laughed. He ran to the bed and leapt onto it, and Gimli’s eyes flew open. The Dwarf sat up, rumpled and bleary, and found himself face to face with his Elf. The Dwarf opened his mouth to launch into his usual tirade about ungracious awakenings, but stopped as he saw the look in Legolas’ eyes. He swallowed nervously at the predatory glint.

“Now? So soon? You… don’t want to go have breakfast first?”

Legolas growled, then pounced. Gimli was flung back to the bed with a yelp, covered with well nigh seven feet of naked, writhing, willing Elf-flesh. Legolas caressed and nibbled him, stroking Gimli’s broad, powerful body.

“Oh no my friend,” said Legolas huskily, lightly biting one nipple. “You are going no where until your duties are fulfilled.”

“Oh.” Gimli stared up at the ceiling, relishing the arousing sensations of Legolas kissing him, caressing him. “Better get started then.”

He gently dumped the Elf onto the bed and moved over top of him, pressing his massive erection against Legolas’ flat stomach. They kissed passionately, and then Gimli paused.

“Are you sure about this? You heard what Námo said. This will nae be easy for you. And if ye are planning on twins, I won’t be fathering them.”

Legolas looked into Gimli’s dark eyes, and knew the Dwarf was serious. Usually Legolas could flirt and cajole Gimli into anything, but this time he could sense that the Dwarf would be as unmoving as stone.

“Agreed,” Legolas whispered. “One at a time, and I shall not conceive the second until Elrond grants it is safe to do so.”

Gimli smiled, and gently touched his face, then kissed him. “That is all I wished to hear.”

“Breed me,” said Legolas.

The Dwarf laughed. “As you wish, ye spoiled pointy-eared princeling.”

Gimli wondered what Thranduil would think of all this as he reached down between Legolas’ thighs, uncertain what he was feeling for, but he knew it when he found it. He softly traced his fingers over the opening, watching as Legolas closed his eyes and gasped, parting his long thighs. Gimli adjusted his position, taking himself in hand and began guiding himself into Legolas.

“Careful,” murmured the Elf. “Remember what happened the last time we… AI!”

The Elf reacted with a vengeance as the enormous dick was shoved into his virginal entrance, tearing through the hymen to thud against the cervix, and causing a tremendous amount of pain. Gimli suddenly found himself lying on his back on the floor, hearing Legolas swear in his own tongue as he clutched his abdomen.

“I did it again,” remarked Gimli to the ceiling. He sat up and watched his lover roll on the bed, swearing and in pain, blood showing between his thighs. “Legolas, I…”

The Elf threw a pillow at him, smacking the heavy, down-filled object square into his face and then railing at him savagely in Sindar, saliva flying from his jaws as he screamed and swore. Gimli would later vow the Elf’s ears were flattened like an outraged cat’s as he leapt up and pulled a robe on.

“I’ll… go get breakfast,” he said, and darted out of the room just in time to avoid a brass and black marble candleholder.

***---***

“I’m gonna do it.”

“No, Elladan, don’t be foolish.”

“I must, Elrohir. You cannot stop me.”

“Well if you get your arm ripped off then don’t come running to me.” Sigh. “Elladan…”

“He’s drugged to the blades, what’s he going to do?”

“He’s not that drugged, not anymore.”

Elladan sat down on the bed, opening a bag. He pulled out a hairbrush, some liniment, and a pair of scissors. “Well someone has to do it, I could swear he’s had that same matt in the back of his hair since we met him.”

“He has, it’s recurring, he told me. He brushes it out; it comes back in twenty minutes. In fact I watched it once.”

Elladan laughed, and began carefully combing out the heavy mane of black hair. Normally Elves had soft, silky hair, but the stuff on Rabbit felt like something better suited to the back end of a horse.

“Does Frost’s hair feel like this?”

Elrohir gave Rabbit’s hair a stroke. “Uh… pretty close. Frost takes better care of his, though.”

Rabbit grumbled quietly as Elladan worked on his hair. There was almost no getting through it; the hairs were like piano wire, and formed a dense covering of tangles and knots and snarls that went straight down to the small of his back. Rabbit was lucid enough to appreciate that he was having his hair combed, but not quite awake enough to actually do anything about it. The poison was finally out of his system, but the drugs were taking a little longer. Elladan worked away, assuming he was safe.

“He’ll bite you,” said Elrohir.

“No he won’t, he loves me.”

Rabbit huffed. Elrohir laughed. Elladan pouted but kept brushing.

“You’re a mean old Rabbit,” he teased gently.

Rabbit huffed quietly, but allowed Elladan to groom him. Likely he was less than pleased with his current state; Rabbit was seldom well groomed, but he was always clean. Elladan quietly worked, watching as his brother told his twin sons to be good for Uncle Elladan.

“Are you going to Fëanor’s keep again?” asked Elladan.

Elrohir nodded. “I told the dear old drunk I’d take care of a few things up there while he was ill. Poor Fëanor.”

Elladan shook his head. “I don’t know, Elrohir. I know he seems lovely now, but…”

Elrohir walked over to his brother and kissed him on the brow. “Fëanor is mad, yes, and obsessive, but I do not think he is capable of great evil on his own. Look at what a dose of poison did to our Rabbit. Both Rabbit and Fëanor are certainly dangerous. But neither is a killer. Not on their own.”

“Point taken,” said Elladan softly. He sighed. “Well I will look after your little ink spots. Brennon will help.”

Elrohir grinned. “My dear brother, if you were any more pleased about having that boy in your life I swear you would start clucking.”

Elladan grinned. “I did. Orophin finally became fed up and asked Ada to tell me to stop.”

Elrohir laughed. “Why am I not surprised? Well I shall see you later. I will be home around sunset.”

He left the stone cottage, walking to the stable to fetch his horse. It was a massive, restive animal, gifted to him by Fëanor. Truth be told he was slightly afraid of the great stallion, and the horse knew it. The yet-unnamed horse would often play mean little pranks on his rider, including walking over to the very edge of the cliff and looking down, as if considering leaping into the sea, But the horse was merely mischievous, not mean, and Elladan suspected it would not truly harm him. Still, he wished Fëanor had given him a mount a little less splendid and a little more mannerly. He walked up to the great beast and took the reins from the groom.

“No jokes today!” he said to the horse. “We have much to do.”

The horse shook his head, and waited for Elrohir to get on his back. He then leapt straight off the ground, landing with a bone-jarring jolt before prancing in the direction of Fëanor’s keep. Elrohir waited for his teeth to stop shaking in his skull.

“Rotten horse,” he muttered.

“You have to show him who is in charge!” said a voice.

Elrohir turned his head to see Maedhros riding towards him. He was mounted on a spectacular red mare: tall and leggy, well muscled and speedy. She was an excellent hunter, aptly named ‘Princess’. Elrohir noted sourly that she seemed perfectly well behaved. He felt his pelvis threaten to split in half as his stallion leapt up for another bounce.

“He knows who is in charge,” said Elrohir, his skull rattling. “And it’s not me.”

“What is his name?” asked Maedhros.

“I don’t know, I just call him; ‘Ya Bastard’.”

Maedhros laughed. “Well no wonder he does not like you!”

“He started it! The first thing he ever did was knock me down and urinate on me. I’d like to give him back to your father, but I do not wish to risk hurting Fëanor’s feelings.”

Maedhros smiled. “You are very fond of my father, aren’t you?”

“I am,” said Elrohir quietly. “He’s been very kind to me, and my children. I do not know how I would have survived Frost’s loss without his friendship.”

“Atar has a large heart. He always did. I should have suspected something was wrong with him, but…”

“But that is neither here nor there,” said Elrohir. “As my father says, the past is for learning from.”

“Aye, and regrets,” said Maedhros.

Elrohir shook his head. “Yes, regrets and self-reproach and agonizing over that which we cannot fix, asking ourselves what in all Arda we could possibly have been thinking. Fëanor says when he feels it coming on, he goes and gets drunk with his horse.”

Maedhros rolled his eyes. “I am sure the horse is delighted.” He furrowed his brow as he noticed in which direction Elrohir was riding. “This road leads to the keep, does it not? But Atar is at my home currently.”

“I know. I promised him that I would take care of… a few things there.”

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Elrohir looked slightly uncomfortable. “Yes.”

Maedhros narrowed his eyes, and Elrohir squirmed under his scrutiny. “It would not have anything to do with the music room, would it?”

Elrohir turned and looked at Maedhros, puzzled. “Music room? What about the music room?”

Maedhros knew when Elves were lying, and Elrohir wasn't; he truly had no idea what Maedhros was talking about.

"It does not matter, then," said Maedhros. He looked briefly up the road leading to the keep, brow furrowing in thought, but he said nothing. Elrohir watched him, his curiosity piqued, but he asked no more questions about the music room.

"It has been a long time since you were in your father's keep, has it not?"

Maedhros laid a hand on Princess' neck as she tossed her head, sensing tension in her rider. "Yes. And I am sure I need not explain why. Why do you ask?"

Elrohir felt his gut clench. As Fëanor’s friend, he was privy to some of the secrets of his keep – secrets he was not certain Maedhros was aware of. "Your father... has things hidden there. Things he is desperate to protect, who are now wholly unable to defend themselves. He swore me to secrecy but... " He fell silent for a moment, then drew a breath. "But I do not think he feels they need protecting from you. If you…"

Maedhros held up a hand, silencing Elrohir. "Before you say another word, permit me to say Atar saw no reason to tell me this. Perhaps you should respect that? He and I may have forged a tentative friendship, but there is still much unmended between us. I do not much care what he is hiding. Or what he is protecting."

Elrohir nodded. "I leave the choice up to you, then, whether to accompany me into the Southern Tower or not, or indeed even the keep." He glanced up at the sky, and at the dark clouds rolling in. A fat drop of rainwater struck his cheek. "Let us hurry. I think there is a storm rolling in." He smiled at Maedhros. "A cask of cherry wine says my horse can beat your horse."

Maedhros grinned. "Princess against...what did you call him?" He held up a hand before Elrohir could answer. "No, I remember. Forgive me if I rename him. Princess defeating Storm will hardly be an effort. And I will not be accompanying you into the tower or the keep. Atar did not ask me to 'take care of things', he asked you.”

“It is not my intention to force you to do anything that you do not wish to do,” said Elrohir softly.

Maedhros nodded, then spoke to Princess, not even needing to touch her with his heels. She began skipping; pulling at her reins, and she gave Elrohir's mount a haughty look. Maedhros' grin broadened.

"Well the lady is willing. Shall we?"

Elrohir smiled. "Let's." He looked at his horse. "Come on, Storm, you can outrun her!"

The rain suddenly began in earnest. Storm abruptly halted, sending Elrohir over his head, then turned and made for home, kicking up his heels. Rain was for common horses, not him. Elrohir lay on his back on the grass, staring up at the sky, trying to determine if he was dead. Maedhros rolled his eyes and dismounted, his hands gentle and experienced as he checked Elrohir for injuries.

"I think your name was better," he remarked as he helped him to sit up. "Come, Princess can carry double, and you are right about the storm."

"He's too big for me!" complained Elrohir as Maedhros helped him up. "He's gorgeous but he's just too much horse for me. Do you think your father would notice if I traded him for another?"

The rain was falling hard and fast, but warm as only a summer storm could be. Maedhros remounted and gave Elrohir his hand to help him up behind him. Once Elrohir was settled, Maedhros spoke a soft word to Princess, and she set off at a steady canter up the road.

"He is not too big for you, Elrohir. Atar does not make mistakes when he gifts his horses. Bring him to my keep next week, and I will help you learn to handle him, if you wish."

Elrohir pushed the heavy wave of red hair out of his face. He'd read about Maedhros' hair in the histories, but being face to face with it was another matter. He was sure it was alive.

"If you say so. He is beautiful, and I would like to keep him, but he scares me. He likes to rear up and hang his hooves over my skull. Mind the path up ahead, the cobblestones that made up the old road start there."

“He does that because he knows you hate it. The offer is there, anyway. I do not even bite... much. As for the cobblestones, I know. I saw them being laid."

'By the Valar you're old,' thought Elrohir. He shoved the hair out of his face. "We shall be there, whether he likes it or not! And no offense, but I doubt that you bite at all." He smiled. "I have terrible news for you, Maedhros. I'm not afraid of you, though I have no intention of trying your patience!"

***---***

The storm arrived with a vengeance, slamming into New Imladris like the wrathful fist of a furious deity, smashing shutters, breaking the corn in the fields, snapping the orchard saplings. Elrond had gathered up his chicks from their garden home and put them in a box in the rooms he shared with Rúmil, concerned the tiny balls of puff might be blown away. It was not such an outlandish thought, considering the ships in the harbour were pulling at their mooring lines like wild horses.

“And just how long are we going to have these guests, my lord?” Rúmil asked sweetly as Elrond sat on the bed with his chicks, feeding them bits of lettuce.

“Until I am certain they will not end up in the Iron Hills,” said Elrond, smiling as one of the tiny creatures picked at his robe.

Rúmil rolled his eyes and was about to say something when there came a tremendous crash in the direction of the healing rooms. Ereinion and Eölthrim were frightened into wakefulness and began to wail, and Elrond leapt off the bed to see what was the cause of the noise. He met with Ilinuil, who had been heading towards Elrond’s chambers.

“I was just coming for you.”

“What happened?” asked Elrond.

“A tree was just blown over. It struck the wall of the healing room and smashed through, shattering a window as well.”

“Come help me. Haldir is in there. We have to get him out.”

“And take him where?” asked Ilinuil.

“Home,” said Elrond. “We will take him home.”

They heard the sound of approaching boots, and turned to see Gaelemir walking swiftly towards them. “I saw the tree fall,” he said, “I came to help.”

“You assistance is most welcome,” said Elrond.

The three of them made their way into the damaged healing room, stepping over debris and smashed glass. They eventually reached the bed where Haldir lay. He was awake, and seemed confused.

“What happened to my arm?” he asked fuzzily.

“Mouse attack,” said Gaelemir. “Worst I have ever seen.” He looked towards Ilinuil. “Lord Elrond and I can handle this. Return home and gather up some things. That little cottage of yours is not safe in weather such as this. Pack up your pets and Amaris and come room with Thranduil and I. At least until the storm is over.”

Ilinuil paused, as if considering the offer. Finally he realized the wisdom of the suggestion and nodded. I will, but after we move Haldir.”

Gaelemir nodded, and smiled. Ilinuil blushed slightly and looked away. Elrond raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, turning his attention to Haldir, who was once more unconscious.

“Let us move him, and quickly,” said Elrond

***---***

Elrohir peered around Maedhros and saw the black spires of Fëanor’s keep looming up before them. It was an eerie enough place in the bright sunlight; in the rain, with the sea boiling beneath it and the mist coming in from the water, it was a dark and unnerving haunt. Maedhros himself shivered at the sight. He had vowed never to so much as set foot in the place again. It seemed to him that old ghosts, including one of himself as an innocent young Elf, haunted every window. Steeling himself, he stopped Princess at the steps to the main door, eyes on the black and ominous gothic structure.

"I do not envy you this place today," Maedhros said.

Elrohir slid down from Princess' back, looking up at the great structure. It was beautiful, but standing stark and cold in the rain, it did have the feeling of being haunted. Moreover Elrohir knew the keep was indeed haunted, and by far more than ghosts. Then the skies opened up and the rain began thundering down in a silver-grey torrent. Lightning flickered, and then the thunder sounded so loudly that Princess reared, eyes wild, ears back. She danced about, terrified, tossing her head in fear. Maedhros spoke to her calmly, keeping her well in hand, Elrohir forgotten for the moment. Princess trembled, turning circles. Then the thunder boomed again, and, quite uninvited, she turned and delicately scampered up the steps, into the keep and into the foryer. Elrohir laughed and followed after them. So much for Maedhros’ vow to never enter the keep again!

Maedhros kept his seat, barely, and as soon as they were inside, he slipped from Princess' back, leading her to a large room off the main hall where the noise would be better muffled. He acted without thought, other than his concern for his mount. He did not consider what he was doing until Princess was calmer, standing passive in the huge room and nuzzling him for treats. Only then did he slowly look around himself, seeing the chairs and small tables, faded now, and dusty. Once he had sat here, playing Tablero, and his father had downed a potion meant for him. Maedhros could almost see his family, his father, his brothers...

He blanched and turned, striding quickly back into the hall and past Elrohir, making his way to the door. "She will be fine there. Findekano will return for her when the storm abates."

Elrohir watched the huge Elf stride passed him, and found himself wishing that Maedhros would stay. Then suddenly Crysalin ran into the room, eyes large and full of fear.

"Elrohir! Thank the Valar you're here, they're out of the tower and not talking and begging your pardon but they scare the daylights out of me! I cannot bear them, not on a day like this!” She held herself tightly, shivering.

Maedhros paused, seeing the look of agitation on the Dwarf's face. "Is there a problem here? Who is out?"

Crysalin just stared at him, clearly nervous. Elrohir asked softly; "So it's a 'quiet' day today?"

She nodded. "And how I hate the quiet days," she said, her voice quavering. "They're in the library."

Elrohir nodded, and looked at Maedhros. "The… two things your father asked me to look after during his illness. They... wander some days."

Maedhros looked puzzled. "Wander? What are they? They sound unpleasant, if this maid is afraid of them."

Elrohir smiled. "They are not unpleasant, just... well... different." He held his hand out to Maedhros. "Come with me. Please."

Maedhros stared at him, making no move to take the offered hand. "I told you I did not wish to know. I still do not. Why are you so insistent?"

Elrohir lowered his hand, and gazed at Maedhros for a long moment. He then turned and asked the maid to bring tea and something hot for them to eat, seeming more at home in this keep than the Elf who was raised here. Outside, the thunder rumbled, and the lightning flickered. There would be no leaving this place until the storm let up, and Elrohir suspected Maedhros was well aware of that. He seated himself in a chair near the fire, and asked quietly; "How many of your brothers live now, Maedhros?"

Maedhros had been looking out of a huge window, edged with stained glass, cursing the storm. He hated this place, hated the flood of memories. Elrohir's question caught him amidst a storm of past images. He started, snapping his gaze to the young Elf, eyes flat and cold as he snarled a reply.

"What sort of a fool question is that? They are all dead, save Maglor. Did you not read the histories? Your Atar would be disappointed."

Elrohir had spoken the truth when he said he was not afraid of Maedhros, but he certainly respected him, and had no intention of making him feel goaded. "Oh I know history. Believe me, I know what I read. And I know what your father told me. And I know that sometimes histories are written in such a way as to protect those who could be most harmed by it."

Maedhros glared at Elrohir. "Is it? I wonder. But stop speaking in riddles, and…”

Elrohir stood up abruptly and moved swiftly to stand before Maedhros, placing one hand on the tall Elf’s arm, the other hand lightly touching his lips, silencing him. He was looking at something that had just come into the room, and his voice was very soft as he spoke.

"At times like this, they do not see us. They are aware only of each other, but loud things can and do upset them. If we are quiet, if we do not touch them or interfere with them, you will see something I think you believed you would never see again."

Just as Elrohir finished speaking, two smallish but gracefully beautiful Elves walked by, identical to each other, both crowned with red hair, but a darker shade than Maedhros', almost auburn. They seated themselves before the fire, shoulder to shoulder, holding hands, watching the flames, utterly oblivious to all. Maedhros had been about to ask what on Arda Elrohir could mean when he caught sight of them. For a long moment, he stared, utterly unable to speak. Then he made a strange sound, a choked sob, and took a half step forward, quickly checked by Elrohir. He stared, absolutely entranced.

"Ambarussa..."

Elrohir gently held him back. "Yes, it is they. Your father has been guarding them like a dragon with an egg for millennia. They did not die as the histories said, but the things they endured have made them fey and strange. Some days they are almost the same as any other Elf. Then there are days like this. None have been able to determine the cause for these times. My father has been helping to look after them, but as yet we have no understanding of these 'quiet' days."

Maedhros' eyes shimmered with tears, his eyes never straying from the two still and silent Elves seated on the rug before the hearth. "I do not understand, I saw the ships burn... I saw Amrod fall!" His Mithril hand reached out, but he drew it back. "Why did Atar not tell me when I was reborn? Why did he not tell Maglor?"

The twins sat, watching the flames, hands clasped, seemingly unaware of either the storm, or those in the room. Elrohir said softly, "Because you hated him, and many others with you. He would not take a chance that someone would learn they lived, and would take vengeance. As you can see, they are most vulnerable. As for what you saw, I do not yet know the whole story, and Fëanor does not easily share his secrets." He smiled at Maedhros, reaching up to touch his hair. "Sometimes, if you sit beside Amras while he is like this, he will come out of the trance and see you."

Maedhros cast him a glance, then took a steadying breath and slowly, carefully approached the twins. Though most could not tell them apart, Maedhros knew which was which as he knew day from night. He settled quietly on the rug and whispered; "Amras, my little one. Please hear me."

Elrohir seated himself in a chair, saying nothing, merely watching. Amras blinked at the flames, never breaking contact with his twin. Then the thunder exploded once again and he noticeably flinched. The expression changed from blank and distant to one of fear, and he looked around, cringing, seeing things the others did not see, making no sound. Amras had been afraid of storms since he was very small, and Maedhros reached out before he could stop himself, touching the trembling shoulder.

"Amras, it is Nelyo. This is just a storm, nothing to fear."

Amras did not react. Maedhros gently took him into his arms and began softly singing to him a song he had so often sung to a trembling child during storms years ago, while the two trees yet lived. Elrohir winced, but said nothing. He himself had reached out to touch the twins, and been rewarded with a few well-aimed blows to remind him that they were still trained warriors before the pair headed off into the depths of the keep. Amras did not seem to see Maedhros, or object to him. The thunder boomed so hard Elrohir swore he felt the chair shake, and Amras flinched. He drew his twin Amrod close, holding him protectively. Then, surprisingly, he edged closer to Maedhros, leaning into him, eyes still large and frightened. Maedhros dared not breathe, not wishing to frighten them. He could sense that any quick movement, even a slight one, and they would be gone. Slowly, carefully, he placed a hand on the red hair, never ceasing the soft song, and began to stroke the silken strands as his eyes filled with tears.

"I am here, I will not leave you. Oh my little ones, how did you come to this?"

The twins clung to each other, silent, removed, both gazing around the room as if locked in a nightmare. Then the thunder crashed once more, and Amras flinched, as if becoming aware of other things. He shook his head, and blinked, like one who is awaking. He looked at Maedhros, eyes curious, unsure who this Elf was.

Maedhros could see the total lack of recognition, and the tears came, unbidden. He withdrew his hand, the song faltering, and waited, drinking the sight of them in. A part of him wanted to run out into the rain and to Fëanor, to scream at him for keeping this from him, all the while hoping against hope for something, any spark of recognition at all.

Elrohir smiled. He had seen this 'awakening' before, and something inside of him was rejoicing in watching this silent interaction. Amras looked at Maedhros, really not sure who this was but... maybe..? He moved closer, then leaned forward to cautiously smell Maedhros’ neck, breathing in a scent that was no longer there. Amras sat back and pouted.

"You don't wear the musk oil anymore?"

Maedhros drew a shaky breath and chose his words carefully. "Sometimes I do, but I forgot today. Amras, do you know me?"

Amras looked at him. Words no longer came easily to him, and often what came out made sense only to him; a sort of code, made up of tangle of images and words. He looked at his brother with green eyes, and said quietly; "Oldest. Right? Findekano's."

Maedhros was surprised into a chuckle. "Findekano's. That about sums it up. I always belonged to him, heart and fëa. Aye, little brother, I am the oldest." He once more touched the dark red hair. “I have missed you."

"I missed you too,” said Amras softly, as if in a trance. “I asked Atar about you. He said..." Amras trailed off, unsure what he was trying to say. "He said when you talked to him, he would tell you. I hoped you would come."

"When I talked to him..." Maedhros' heart twisted once more. If he had not hated their father so, if the truth had come out sooner... He shook the thought off; now was not the time for self-reproach. He smiled, holding out his arms, once again hoping. "I am here now."

Amras snuggled close, hugging him. "We missed you. It's been lonely here without you. But Celegorm talks to Amrod sometimes. He told him you would come when you got your head out of your ass. Why was your head in your ass?"

Maedhros jumped, feeling his eyes grow wide as he held Amras close. Celegorm? How could Amrod be speaking to Celegorm? The wind moaned around the ancient keep, and the room seemed to become colder. He stroked Amras’ long hair.

“Little one, Celegorm is dead. Amrod cannot be talking to him.”

Amras did not seem to hear what was said to him. He raised his head and kissed Maedhros' face. Amrod turned his head just then, eyes glazed and distant, but he spoke clearly.

"We see him in the attic at times." Amrod cocked his head and looked at Maedhros. "We missed you. Atar missed you too. Are you home? Are you home to stay?"

Maedhros looked towards Elrohir, eyes wide. “El..?”

“Later,” whispered Elrohir.

Maedhros swallowed, and glanced around the huge room. For a brief second he thought he smelled the bloodied earth of a battlefield, but then it was gone. He drew a steadying breath, and looked once more at Amrod, smiling.

"I live with Findekano now. But I will see you as often as you would like me to. We will not be parted again."

The Ambarussa gazed at him, as if deciding if he was telling the truth. Then Amrod seemed to glaze over and forget about him once more. Amras did not retreat so easily or quickly.

"But... on the island, right? With us? Close?" The question had an almost child-like level of worry to it.

"Yes, beloved. Close. I live but a few miles away. Findekano will want to see you too. And Maglor. We have all missed you so much."

"Maglor too? Maglor lives? Atar said he did but... so much anger." Amras shook his head, but seemed to be slipping back into the silent world. "Too much anger. Too much. Celegorm said there was anger. Told us... to be patient." He shook his head, fighting the slide. "Stay until the storm is over? You can come see Celegorm with us."

Maedhros reached out to him, trying to hold him to lucidity, knowing it was a losing battle. He held him close, resting his cheek against the top of Amras’ head.

"Yes, Maglor lives. And I will stay.”

Amras nodded. He sighed, and settled against him, sliding down to rest his head in his lap, facing the fire. After a moment he closed his eyes. Moments later Amrod did the same. Maedhros looked down at the both of them, unable to take his eyes off them. Elrohir’s soft voice interrupted the quiet.

"Do not think their conversations with Celegorm are but part of their fevered imaginings. I would swear to the Valar I have seen him. Always in the upper parts of the keep."

Maedhros nodded, hand moving in soothing strokes on first Amras', then Amrod's hair. "But why? Why is he here? He should be with Námo, not still tied to this place."

Elrohir shook his head. "I don't know. He doesn't talk to me. He sees me, I think. He freezes like a deer and stares at me. His hair is dirty and tangled, and he wears armor that is bloody and rusty. Yet for all that, he is indeed as history named him - Celegorm the Fair. I try to approach, but he vanishes without a sound."

Maedhros smiled, but without humour. "My brother was unrepentant and difficult to know. But he is my brother and I would see him. Perhaps I can help him, if he sees the youngest ones are safe, perhaps he will seek rest at last."

Elrohir smiled, but his eyes were sad. He glanced up as lightning filled the room briefly with a brilliant blue-white light, then the thunder exploded, sounding like mountains falling. The twins sat up, frightened, yet largely unaware of the other two Elves in the room. Nor did they seem to notice when the Dwarf-woman came in with lunch on a small cart. Elrohir took the cart from her and sent her on her way, knowing she feared and disliked the Ambarussa.

"The trick now," said Elrohir quietly as he began setting out the food, a slight smile on his face, "is getting them to notice you long enough to make them to eat."

Maedhros smiled. "Ah, now that I think I can help with."

Elrohir watched as Maedhros filled a plate for himself, then walked over to the fire and seated himself on the floor, angled slightly away from his twin brothers. He sat the plate of food on his lap and began to eat, ignoring his brothers completely.

Elrohir laughed. "I've tried that one. Works reasonably well, but it has drawbacks." Just as he finished speaking, Amras edged closer to his eldest brother and began picking at Maedhros' plate. Maedhros cast a sidelong glance at Elrohir and smiled.

"I know. But they have both done this to me since they were tiny. Used to drive me mad."

Elrohir grinned. "As Arwen did to the whole family. We used to call her 'Little Mouse'. Well, they are eating, that is the important part. Crysalin fears them too much to do this. I told Fëanor I would make sure they ate."

Maedhros pretended to ignore Amras as he continued to raid his plate; passing his brother half the food he stole. "I will help you. They are my responsibility and I love them.” He looked at the young Elf, eyes soft. “Thank you, Elrohir."

"'Thank you'? For what? Hey! I was looking forward to that!" Elrohir chastised softly as Amras took a large piece of breaded fish from his plate to give to his brother.

"For making me come here, for giving me my brothers back." Maedhros gave Elrohir some of the fish from the cart before the rest could be stolen. "Do you have any fresh berries here? With cream and some honey?"

Elrohir smiled. "You are welcome. And yes I do, but Fëanor says they are not to have them until I am sure they have eaten their dinner. Or mine." He sighed in a gentle, parental way, not raising his voice. "Oh Amrod do not take the cheese, you'll be sick all night again. Oh fine, it's your bellyache."

"That is what Atar always said. We never listened." Maedhros reached out and gently took the cheese back. "No, little brother. You have never been able to digest it. Here, the bread is fresh and warm, and I especially do not want you to have it!"

Amrod edged closer, leaning forward to bite the soft, warm bread covered in melted garlic butter. Elrohir took the cheese and ate it before Amrod noticed it was gone.

"I hope you get to see them on the days when they are not off in their own world. Of course the quiet is almost preferable - they speak in unison. It's absolutely headache-inducing. AH! Victory. Amras ate his meat. Fëanor will be doing handstands. Well, since they are being good, I will get the berries."

Maedhros nodded. "They have done that since Alqualonde. I think they were a little mad even then, and Amras did not long survive after that.... so I thought." He looked up at Elrohir. "What happened to them? If you know I would have you tell me.”

Elrohir walked over to Maedhros, seating himself before him, his voice soft as he spoke.

"Amrod was not badly burned when the ship was set afire, but the strain and terror of being trapped on the blazing vessel unhinged his mind. He was found by a small company of deserters from your father's army, a group who wished to do as Námo commanded and return home. They took him with them, and he dwelled in a hospital until your father returned and claimed him. Amras was not dead, but he was seriously wounded, and your father sent him home in secret with a small group of soldiers he knew the Valar would permit to return. Once reunited, Amrod and Amras shut out the world. Fëanor says it was centuries ere they said a word."

Maedhros swallowed, his throat tight, his mouth dry. “So… they did not die.”

“No,” said Elrohir. “They are not reborn.”

Maedhros nodded, looking at his twin brothers, remembering them as lively pranksters. Caranthir used to refer to them as ‘matched brats’. Now they were but fey shades, locked into their own strange little world. He was unable to speak as he gazed upon them. Quietly, Elrohir rose to his feet.

"I'll go make tea. They love tea. And I’ll get the berries. "

Maedhros smiled, a quirk at the corner of his mouth. "I know; I gave them their first cup." He looked up at Elrohir. “They like a little cinnamon on the berries.”

Elrohir smiled. “A little cinnamon it is, then.”

Elrohir departed to get the tea, leaving Maedhros and his twin brothers alone on the soft rug before the fireplace. The Ambarussa quietly devoured up every crumb of food available, then once more fell silent, watching the flames in the fire place, holding hands.

***---***

Haldir stirred, and opened his eyes. He blinked sleepily, then looked around, sluggish and confused. It took him a little time to realize he was in his own room, in his own bed, with the better part of the upper portion of his body in a cast.

By the Valar, what had happened to him?

He shifted and looked down at himself. He felt no pain, but he suspected that had more to do with Elrond’s abilities as a healer rather than a lack of damage. He let his head fall back to the pillow and closed his eyes, trying to think. Pheasant. He had a pheasant. He had been looking forward to the party. He walked into the cottage… something growled…

Haldir gasped and struggled to sit up, then cried out as his shoulder suddenly burned with agony. He tried to scream, but no sound would come out. He waved his good arm as if to ward something off, an image of a demon, teeth gleaming like a butcher’s blades, aiming straight for his face. Then Elladan was suddenly in the room, speaking quietly to him, soothing him. Outside the thunder exploded with force enough to shake the walls, and Bramble and Rivil were both crying, while Fang hid under the bed. Brennon was doing his best to comfort the two frightened children, but being a child himself he found his attempts lacking. Elladan looked harried and exhausted, but he took Haldir’s good hand between his own and squeezed it.

“All is well, Haldir. It is just a storm, nothing more. A bad storm, indeed, but nothing to fear.”

“Rabbit,” he gasped, struggling weakly.

“Rabbit is well,” said Elladan, his voice soft and reassuring. “Look, you can see for yourself…”

“No! No I do not want to see that monster! I do not wish to be in the same room with it!”

Elladan winced, and shook his head as if he had been struck, feeling tears come to his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder at Rabbit, who was curled up on the daybed. It was doubtful the massive Plains Elf had understood what his husband had just screamed; he was still far too heavily drugged. Rabbit was still in the same position he had been in for days, and his eyes were closed. He rarely opened them these days; the light was too harsh for his poison-damaged nerves. He did however react to the sound of Haldir’s voice, raising his head slightly, listening.

“He is not a monster, and you know that better than any of us!” hissed Elladan. “He was poisoned, he has lingered in misery for days, and even now his body is riddled with pain and infection. He was not in his right mind. Rabbit would never hurt you of his own accord.”

“He tore my arm off,” gasped Haldir. “I can still see it when I close my eyes. I can feel the bones crushing, the tendons snapping like bowstrings…”

Elladan reached up and stroked his hand over the fair, silky hair. “Calm yourself, Haldir. Please. He will not harm you. He is no monster.”

Haldir turned his head to look at Rabbit. Elladan, too, looked towards the large, feral Elf. His eyes were crusted with some sickly matter, and he was still slobbering pus-tinted blood from the infections in his mouth. He was bruised from the attack, and he was making quiet, inquisitive and non-aggressive growling noises. Elladan looked back to Haldir, and saw that the blue eyes were wide with fear. He was trying to think of something to say when the front door opened, and Orophin walked in, looking as if he had just fallen into a lake.

“I will be right back,” said Elladan, and went to attend to his sodden and irritable husband.

Haldir lay, staring at his husband, feeling cold fear squeeze his stomach like a fist. Rabbit had attacked him. He had leapt straight at him, eyes rolled back, jaw unslung; several hundred pounds of death aimed straight at him. Haldir had never been on the receiving end of Rabbit’s aggression before; had never seen him as dangerous. Now all he could see was danger and hostility.

His beloved Rabbit had been reduced to a monster.

Rabbit huffed quietly, and Haldir jumped, flinching at the sound. He felt his throat tighten as he watched the head raise up. Haldir went cold, his heart pounding in his chest so hard he could hear it as he heard Rabbit sniff. He had forgotten just how keen Rabbit’s senses were; forgotten that Rabbit did not have to see him to know exactly where he was. Haldir heard himself make a small sound of pure terror as Rabbit shifted his aching body into a seated position, scenting the room, tracking the familiar scent of his husband. Haldir felt as if he was trapped in a nightmare, locked into his bed by the cast. He heard himself utter a sob of fright as Rabbit suddenly filled his lungs and uttered that horrendous piercing Nazgûl-shriek, welcoming his therlu home after his absence. Haldir struggled to get up.

“Elladan!”

Elladan appeared in the doorway, while Rabbit filled the cottage with a sound like all Mordor had broken free. He paused, wanting to go to Haldir, but holding himself back, uncertain what to do. Rabbit clumsily gathered himself, blindly tracking Haldir’s smell, and then leapt onto the bed. Elladan winced as the bed smashed beneath Rabbit’s weight, and Haldir shrieked in pain and terror. Then Orophin was in the room, walking over to his older brother.

“Hush you,” he chastised softly, seating himself on the broken bed and taking Haldir’s hand. “It is not a demon, it is only a rabbit.”

“Demon-Rabbit,” said Haldir, but the faintest smile crossed his lips as Rabbit did an unsteady face plant onto the bed.

“It is not,” said Orophin, having to stop himself from laughing. “Come now, look at him, he is unsteady as a kitten. He has missed you dreadfully.”

“Hungry, is he?” muttered Haldir.

He winced as Rabbit clumsily arranged himself on the bed, then thumped down, putting his head on Haldir’s stomach, his body trembling with the effort of moving from the daybed to his husband’s side. Haldir recalled when he would have thrilled at the power of him, the beauty of his wildness. He reached his good hand out, very cautiously, and touched the black hair, feeling the coarseness of it. He wanted to love him, wanted to recall only the good things, and the passion that bound them. But now as he touched the powerful body, all he felt was revulsion, and he did not know if he would ever feel anything different.

“I want to love him as I did,” said Haldir softly.

Orophin winced at the words. “You will,” he said. “Give it time.”

Haldir removed his hand from Rabbit’s hair as if he had touched something distasteful, then closed his eyes. “Orophin what am I to do?” he asked, and felt himself begin to break, the tears coming unbidden to his eyes. “I have two children with him. What if..?”

Orophin leaned forward, taking his brother’s hand. “Listen to me, Haldir. This fear will pass. Rabbit loves you, and you love him. It is only reasonable that you are afraid now. But he was ill. Someone poisoned him. He was mad with the venom and in horrible agony, and he would have gone after the first thing that came through the door, and it just happened to be you. It is not his fault. Do not cast him aside because of this. Look at him. Even now, thin and sick and drugged as he is, he welcomes you home and crawls to you like a dying dog to a beloved master. Do you truly think that if he had been in his right mind he would have done such a thing?”

“No,” Haldir said softly. “But it does not lessen the fear.” He closed his eyes, utterly drained from his brief but stressful awakening. “I must rest,” he whispered.

Orophin nodded. “Elladan will tend to you,” he said gently.

Haldir nodded, and Orophin stroked his brother’s hair, then leaned forward to kiss his brow. Quietly he left the room to change into dry garb and a heavy, weather resistant cloak. He buckled his sword about his slim hips, then took his bow and quiver and left the cottage, walking back out into the vicious storm. Something had set out to destroy his brother and his brother’s family. And Orophin meant to find out who return the favour.

***---***

Gimli slowly pushed the door opened, and peered inside. He cleared his throat. “Are you talking to me yet, my little flower?”

Something in the room made an irate snort. “I suppose. You had better be carrying food, you’ve certainly been gone long enough.”

Gimli stepped into the room, carrying a tray, then nudged the door closed with his foot.

“It took a little while for me to find all the things I wanted,” he mumbled by way of explanation.

The Dwarf walked over to the bed, watched by angry blue eyes. Legolas had been irritated with him before, but not like this; never like this. He swallowed nervously, and gently placed the offering before his beloved, hoping it was enough. Legolas stared at the covered tray, then picked the lid off. He was not in a mood to be amused, but Gimli thought he saw a brief flicker in the cold eyes at the sight of the assortment of delicacies arrayed before him, including smoked fish. Gimli had learned long ago that Legolas would forgive much for a piece of smoked fish.

“I’m still angry at you,” said Legolas as he picked up the warm toast upon which the fish lay. He took a delicate bite as Gimli seated himself on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Gimli said softly.

Legolas melted. “I know you are Gimli, but… why did you have to be so rough? You love me, I know you love me, and I love you too. I wanted to spend the morning making love, conceiving our child, and you… you… ruptured me!”

“I’m so sorry.” Gimli reached out and touched the Elf’s beautiful face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Are you all right?”

Legolas nodded. “I am fine.” He looked out the window at the storm, then at Gimli once more. “We could try again, if you promise to be gentle this time.”

Gimli smiled. “Aye. I swear. Now eat your fish. You’re going to need your strength.”

***---***

Elrohir went towards the kitchen, but once he was out of sight of Maedhros, he changed direction, heading up the sweeping, spiral staircase as quietly as he was able. He made his way up to the third level, and stopped before a great door; the one that let to the music room. It was crafted of wood, and carved with delicate images of frolicking creatures, and mythical beings playing panpipes and harps. Much of the detail however was gone – buried beneath a thick and crudely applied layer of black paint.

Elrohir touched the door, running his fingers over it. He managed to hook a nail beneath a flake of paint and pick it off, revealing a cherry red colour, filigreed with gold. He could see now the incredible detail – tiny flowers, insects even, and mice, capering in gardens, some crafted of the smallest chips of gemstone. It had to have been crafted by Fëanor; there were no others who could have achieved this level of detail. No wonder the Elf was mostly blind.

He picked away another flake, revealing a cavorting unicorn, mane wild, dancing in a field of lavender made of bits of amethyst so fine it was little more than glitter. Such a shame to cover something so lovely with what looked to be… what was this stuff, anyway?

Elrohir picked off another flake and looked at it. Marine paint. Thick, almost rubbery paint meant to protect the hulls of ships from the ravages of salt water. Hardly the sort of thing one would use indoors. The only reason he could see for using such a substance was to essentially cover up the door, to erase it.

Elrohir looked down at the handle. It too was black, but there were hints of gold showing through the hastily applied paint. He reached down and took hold of it slowly. He would not linger long; he would just take a quick peek…

He squeezed the latch. It refused to budge, and Elrohir was almost relieved. He exhaled, slowly, closing his eyes and resting his brow against the door. Finally, slowly, he turned away, and gasped in fright, leaping back. Before him was an Elven warrior, clad in bloodied, rusty armor. His long golden hair was snarled with mud and clotted blood, and his beautiful, aristocratic face was streaked with dirt. He was strikingly lovely, and Elrohir thought he must look like his mother, for he little resembled his father. It was Celegorm, and he was angry. Normally the specter retreated from Elrohir, but this time he was deathly cold with wrath, and loomed before him in silent outrage.

“I meant no harm,” said Elrohir softly, his back flat against the door. “You know I did not. Your father is very dear to me.”

Celegorm lunged, the hallway becoming black as a grave as all the candles and torches had the life sucked out of them, and the air became colder than a winter crypt. Celegorm screamed, but the sound was not that of an Elf so much as the death-heralding shriek of the Bansidhe. Elrohir cried out in terror and fled, racing down the stairs and into the kitchen to cower by the warmth of the hearth fire, and weep.

***---***

Amaris had expected that the situation would be uncomfortable. After all, Thranduil’s present lover had been wed to the fair Elf that Amaris was now courting, but there was surprisingly little tension in the room. They sipped drinks and played board games, chatting and generally having a very lovely and civilized day. But as the day drew to a close, and night came on, and the hellish storm did not abate but indeed seemed to grow more violent, Amaris noticed that Ilinuil seemed to be coming increasingly restless, almost irritable, which was not like him.

“My love are you… unwell?” asked Amaris, reaching out to touch the beautiful silvery hair. Ilinuil jerked away from his hand and rose from his chair, beginning to pace about the parlor.

Amaris blinked, surprised at first, then concerned. “Ilinuil…”

“Leave me alone,” Ilinuil snapped irritably.

Amaris felt his jaw drop. Never in the time that he had known Ilinuil had the beautiful, beautiful Elf snapped at him. He sensed movement to his right, and he looked at Gaelemir, who seemed to have some thought as to what may be occurring.

“Is it a full moon tonight?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Thranduil, “it is. Why?”

“Gaelemir?” said Amaris, “what is wrong?”

“Possibly nothing,” said Gaelemir, though his expression showed concern. “With your permission, Amaris, I would like to speak to Ilinuil alone.”

Amaris stood up. “Absolutely not! If Ilinuil is ill then I as his suitor should be informed!”

“He is not ill,” said Gaelemir. “Please, just give me a few moments alone with him. We can discuss this later.”

Amaris did not fancy the idea of leaving the two of them alone, but at last he nodded. “Come Thranduil. We shall let them speak while you show me the harpsichord you commissioned.”

Thranduil nodded. “Very well, I wish to get another baguette anyway.” He and his brother left the parlor. Once they were gone, Gaelemir quietly locked the door.

“Ilinuil,” he said quietly, “did you not tell Amaris about what happens to you on the night of the full moon, when the storms blow in from the sea?”

Ilinuil paced, acting like a trapped animal. “I had rather thought there was time enough to share this information.”

“Apparently not,” said Gaelemir. “Ilinuil, we must lock you up, and we must do so now.”

“Nay! I will not be imprisoned like some maddened animal.”

“Ilinuil,” said Gaelemir, his voice quiet yet firm, “you are not yourself.”

Ilinuil paced, looking distressed and upset. “I should have told him. But I feared… I feared he would leave.”

Gaelemir smiled. “My love, Amaris knows your father was the Witch-King of Angmar, why should Harry upset him?”

“Because Harry is not a nice boy. Ai, Gaelemir, help me!”

Gaelemir walked over to his former husband, taking him into his arms. He escorted him over to a chair and sat him down, then began franticly locking windows and shutters. Then he turned back to Ilinuil, taking his hand between his own.

“Ilinuil? Are you well?”

Ilinuil shuddered, tossing back his long silver hair, then fixed his former husband with strange, silver eyes, and smiled. The eyes began to glow with an eerie green light, and as Gaelemir watched, massive wings tore through Ilinuil’s garb, shredding shirt and tunic alike. Ilinuil seemed to become taller, and he tore off the remains of his clothing without a thought as he slowly prowled towards Gaelemir.

“No. I am better.”

Gaelemir backed up a step, reaching for an iron fireplace poker. “Go away, Harry, you’re not welcome here.”

“You used to like me like this,” the thing purred. It was naked, and possessed all of Ilinuil’s considerable beauty, which it flaunted with delight. “Do you still not think me lovely?”

Gaelemir ran his eyes over Ilinuil’s flawless body. “I still do,” he whispered. “But… Ilinuil… “

“I’m not Ilinuil,” whispered the creature.

“I’m… with Thranduil now,” said Gaelemir, watching helplessly as Harry stepped forward to shred his clothes with one swift gesture. “Oh… dear…”

The winged being ran his hands over Gaelemir’s body, smiling softly, his eyes glowing like phosphorous. “I know. But you don’t love him. Oh sure, you enjoy his company and his… cute little inept antics in bed, but he doesn’t do to you what I did.”

Gaelemir was at a loss as to what to do. He did love Thranduil, but there was love, and then there was… this. He felt his body betray him as the winged creature purred and caressed him, surrounded by an eerie blue-green luminance. He tried bravely to fend off the creature.

“And what about Amaris?”

“What about him?” breathed the creature.

“Ilinuil loves him.”

“Ilinuil is not here. I am here. And I am hungry.”

Gaelemir gasped as the creature pressed close, kissing him, soft and submissive, but very much in control. “Take me,” it whispered, reaching down to clasp Gaelemir’s stiff shaft, stroking it. “I have missed you.”

“I can’t,” he whimpered. “I can’t I… I have a family… they…”

The creature kissed him. “Oh, poor Gaelemir, morals at war with your baser instincts? Strange, is it not, the level of importance we place upon where one spills body fluids? What harm is there in sharing a little fun?”

Gaelemir, with incredible force of will, pushed the thing back. “I am locking you up before you do something that Ilinuil will regret.”

He turned to pick up a cloth from a table to wrap around himself, then jumped as he heard a window shatter. He spun about sharply, then screamed in dismay as he saw the enormous window was smashed, and the winged creature was gone.

***---***

The room seemed incredibly still, and all that could be heard was the soft crackle of the fire, and the rain striking the stained glass windows. There was a creepy feel to the room, which the twins seemed unaware of, but which was slowly preying upon Maedhros. It had been a very long time since last he was here, and the room was alive with ghosts and dark memories. He did not wish to have his binding ceremony here: perhaps… nay. Atar would be crushed if he backed out. Perhaps it would not be so dark here when bedecked for the wedding. The great keep had been fair enough, back when the halls had been filled with light and laughter, and Atar was well and Nana still dwelled with them. He glanced at the twins, and smiled as Amras took a brush out of his tunic and began brushing Amrod's long mahogany hair. They paid no heed to the eerie, crypt-like smell that slowly began to fill the room.

Maedhros was not certain at first that he actually smelled the odor like moldering earth and decomposition, but as it grew stronger, there was no denying the stink; it filled the room with a stench that was almost choking. Then the room became icy cold, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he sensed a presence.

"Ai, Celegorm, my brother. I know you are here. Will you speak with me?"

He turned to look in the direction of the presence, seeing nothing at first. Then a figure walked into view, silent, translucent, smelling of the grave. His cloak was tattered and dirty, his armor rusty. His long golden hair was snarled with small twigs, and his face was smeared with blood and dirt. Yet for all that, he was still so very, very beautiful, despite the white, bloodless skin and the haunted dark eyes. Maedhros felt his throat close and his eyes sting. He smiled, sadly, wishing to reach out to Celegorm, but not daring to, lest the specter vanish.

"My dear Celegorm. Why do you stay? You should have sought rest long ago, that you may heal and be reborn."

It was Amrod who broke the silence. He was gazing at the fire, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and distant.

"He will not go."

Maedhros snapped his gaze to his youngest brother, startled by the sound of his voice.

"Why? Does he stay for you both?"

Amrod blinked. "He stays for us, and for Atar. He stays for the wrong he did not do. Námo will grant him entry, but Celegorm will not go until his history is rewritten."

Maedhros felt his jaw drop. "I do not understand. His history is as it is written. What differs from that?"

The smell faded, and Celegorm retreated. Moments later, Elrohir walked in with the tea and the berries in cream and honey.

"Store room is flooding," he remarked. "Good thing we moved everything onto the high shelves."

Maedhros nodded absently. "It always did." He was troubled, suddenly wishing for Fingon's reassuring presence. He looked out at the rain and asked softly; "I am probably going to regret asking this, but what do you know of Celegorm?"

Elrohir winced. He had heard few tales of Celegorm, and none of them were pleasant. He answered carefully as he handed out the berries in cream, touched with a light dusting of cinnamon. He noted dryly that when it came to fruit and sweet cream, the Ambarussa had no trouble at all recognizing reality.

"Well, I know what your father tells me, and I know what I have read, which is not much. I know he was strikingly lovely. Celegorm the Fair, he was called."

Maedhros made an impatient gesture. "Not that. What is it that history has wrong? I was sure I knew all my brother's history, but Amrod says he will not seek Námo’s Halls until his history has been rewritten.” His brow furrowed in thought. “I wonder…”

Elrohir had no interest in this discussion. The LAST thing he wanted was to end up in a debate with Maedhros about atrocities committed by his brothers. First Age Noldor had a funny habit of tossing things that annoyed them of cliffs, and he had no interest in seeing if he could bounce. His eyes widened in horror when he realized he had muttered the last few words aloud. Maedhros shook his head and seemed to dismiss the comment.

"That was only Turgon who tended to do that, and others close to him. Ask Maeglin, actually no, bad idea.” He looked thoughtful. “Elrohir do you know if Eluréd and Elurín have been reborn?"

“I know nothing about Eluréd and Elurín, other than... well... other than... Celegorm was supposed to have marched them into a wood..." Elrohir glanced up, eyes suddenly wide. "Do you think that is why Celegorm has not gone to the Halls? That he is being blamed for a child-murder he did not do? I have to say that would certainly make ME stay and complain."

"I am not certain, and if so, why did he not admit the truth? And he did not murder them... not exactly. It may not even be that. There is much I do not know, I begin to wonder what I do know."

Elrohir shook his head. "I do not know. First I suppose we have to find out what he is upset about. It may be the twins, it may not. I know he doesn't talk to me at all, he just tosses small objects at my head, blows cold air down my neck and scares the life out of me every chance he gets."

"Well, he did not talk to me either. But I suspect he might, in the future." He looked curiously at Elrohir. "We?"

"WE," said Elrohir emphatically. "Fëanor is my friend, one of my dearest, I dare say. If his son is in distress, it is my duty to help." A tiny china lamb bounced off Elrohir's head, and he growled. "Even if the dead stinking bastard does hate me!" A goose followed the lamb.

Maedhros snapped. "Tyelkormo, stop it! We are going to help you, stop behaving like the brat you were! And do NOT throw anything at me!"

There was a long pause. Then Amrod and Amras said in perfect unison; "And just what are you going to do about it, Pinky?"

Maedhros gritted his teeth. "Leave you to rot... some more. Now behave and speak directly. Our brothers do not need you using them like that. And call me that again and I am not helping you."

There was an eerie distant, hollow scream, like something in terrible torment. The wind whipped the rain hard against the windows, and Elrohir flinched. The smell of the grave filled the room with a stink that was almost choking, and suddenly the chamber was colder than death.

"I'm not sure he can," said Elrohir quietly.

Maedhros winced. "Alright, ignore that. As long as they are not harmed, fine. But you enjoyed that so do not bother denying it. Now, are you going to make it easier and tell us what the histories have wrong, or are you going to be the awkward bastard you were in life and let us sweat?"

The Ambarussa said, in quiet unison: "Find the stained leather book in Atar's study."

Maedhros grimaced. "Lovely. More secrets." He got up. "Coming, or waiting here?" he asked Elrohir.

"Coming," said Elrohir. "Lest the Ambarussa eat me."

***---***

Dwarfy sat in his cozy cave, puffing his pipe, watching the storm. He had decided to make his home on Valinor, at least for now. He could always go back to Middle Earth another time, but for now, here was good. He had found a most acceptable cave, and had been working steadily to turn it into a proper Dwarf home. Currently he was seated in his favorite wooden chair, watching the sea as it foamed and writhed like a wild thing. He scowled as he hoped the water did not reach his abode.

He drew on his pipe, and realized it had gone out. No matter. He turned to pick up a small scrap of cherry wood, and used the flame of a lamp to set it ablaze. He then used the wood to light his pipe, shaking it out once he had set the tobacco aglow. Then he sighed and looked back out at the sea once more. Except… he could no longer see the water. His view was blocked by a gloriously beautiful and… oh my… naked Elf.

“Ilinuil?” asked Dwarfy.

The creature smiled, eyes luminous. “Warm me,” it said softly. “I am very cold.”

The Dwarf’s eyes grew wide as the Elf approached, kneeling before him. “Warm… you?”

The creature laughed, and gently kissed him. Then he got up and crossed the room to a humble bed, pushed against one wall, He lay down on it, raising one leg, stroking his hand down the inside of his own thigh.

“Warm me.”

Dwarfy raised one eyebrow. Then he tossed aside his pipe. “Beats staring at the sea all night!”