It was growing late, and with all his heart Lindir wished for nothing more than Fingolfin to return.
He had always thought he would be so overjoyed to see his Nana again, to have her close, to hear her voice, to have her take control once more and lift the weighty burden of this business of being adult. And he had indeed been glad to see her. But now as the dark and stormy day became a dark and stormy night, all he wanted was for her to leave, and give him back his cottage.
The storm was raging and screaming all around the little stone cottage, like some great demonic animal seeking entrance. It rattled the shutters and whistled in the cracks beneath the door, and tried to squeeze down the chimney, scattering ashes and tiny embers. The little cuckoo clock Ilinuil had given Lindir as a housewarming gift opened its door, and the bird popped out to announce the hour. Suppertime, or past it rather, Fingolfin was late, and the sea was thrashing and pitching like a mad horse. Lindir hoped his lover had not gone on the ocean, and offered a silent prayer to Manwë for Fingolfin's safety as he stood up and walked to the stove. His Nana was on him before he could get the door open.
"Lindir leave that alone, you will burn yourself. How many times do I...?"
Lindir felt his nerves fray. She had all but forced him to stay in a chair in the corner all day, and he was growing weary of her relentless bullying. Hawthorne was locked outside, and he was whistling at the piggie-door every time he heard movement in the cottage. Clearly the guinea pig was hungry and afraid, but she refused to let him in.
"Leave the filthy thing be, it can forage for itself."
"Nana…"
"Hush. If you want something, I will fetch it for you. You be good and sit down, stay out of Nana's way, she will make din-din."
"Fine," he snapped. "You make dinner. I'm letting Hawthorne in."
"NO! I forbid you…"
Part of Lindir wished to cringe, to let her have dominion, but another part refused. The little animal was his pet, and his responsibility. He was not leaving him to freeze.
"He's cold and he's hungry!"
"NO! You are NOT bringing that thing into my house!"
That was it; that was the straw that crushed the Oliphant. Her house. Not his, hers. She would throw out his homemade candles, she would burn the music books she did not approve of, and throw out the silk undergarments he had bought himself. She would take over his life. And she would chase Fingolfin away. Oh no, this was not her house, it was his. He spun sharply and came face to face with her. She gasped and backed up, clearly shocked.
"It is not your house," he said, his voice quiet and threatening. "It is MY house. And Hawthorne is MY guinea pig. MY guinea pig may come into MY house. And after I let him in, I will make dinner on MY stove, because MY boyfriend is coming to MY house."
"Boyfriend!" she gasped. "Lindir you cannot have a boyfriend, you are far too young! I will answer the door and chase the nasty man away, you are not old enough."
Lindir went to the door and unlocked it, calling in Hawthorne. The small animal scrambled inside and shook, soaking wet and clearly upset. Lindir picked him up, ignoring his mother as she screamed at him to put the filthy thing down. He dried the guinea pig with a towel, and put him in his box. He piled food and vegetables next to his water bowl, and left the small beast busily crunching. He came back downstairs, ignoring her as he began to stoke the fire. He wondered what Fingolfin liked to eat, other than… Lindir blushed purple. Well he certainly wasn't cooking him THAT! Well, maybe for desert…
He blushed a darker shade of purple. He tied his hair back in a knot, stoked the fire, and walked to the small cold storage room just off the kitchen. He had a brace of rabbits; he could roast them. Mauburz had showed him how. He took the rabbits from their hook and carried them into the kitchen, walking passed his Nana, who was just staring at him. He had his back to her when she suddenly and violently sliced him with a thin rod he used for catching the cobwebs near the ceiling. Lindir cried out in pain and turned around just as she was about to whip him again, and he yanked the pole out of her hand.
"What was that for?" he yelled.
"Don't you dare ignore me! Lindir I am your Nana, and I told you…"
"And I told you I am not a child anymore, and no matter how much you beat me I never will be again! I am over one thousand years old, I am not an infant, and forcing me to be one will not make Ada alive again!"
She was losing control and growing desperate, he could see it in her eyes. Unlike her silver-blond son, she had dark hair, and her eyes were green.
"Don't you speak to me like that!"
"And don't you strike me! Nana whether you like it or not, Ada is dead, he has been dead a long time, and I am all grown up now. Did you ever once think about my needs? Did you ever once think about how humiliating it was to be a baby in a grown ellon's body? To need to be taught to dress, to bathe, to brush my hair? I was one thousand and two years old before I even knew where babies came from."
"I told you where they came from, they fall from Mallorn trees."
"Oh that is a load of pig droppings and you know it. I have seen an Elf bear a child, mother, and it wasn't a Mallorn tree it came out of, believe me."
She was horrified. "Who showed you such things!"
"Faramir. My friend. And if you will excuse me, the ellon I gave my virginity to is coming by and I promised to make him dinner!"
She turned white. Then purple, then a few other shades. Then she collapsed in a heap. Lindir stepped over her to fetch the pepper. He had seen this display before. Long ago it would have had him distraught beyond words. Now he took it for what it was: dramatics. He was shaken and upset, his whole body trembling. He felt numb and scared, and there was a strange buzzing in his head. He was not used to standing up for himself, and he was terrified. He wished Fin was there, or Faramir, or someone. He wanted to just climb into bed and cry, but if he gave in now, she would know all she had to do in the future would be badger him until he caved. He could not do that.
There was a knock at the door. Lindir tossed the rabbits onto the table and ran to it, pulling it open, and sobbing in relief at the sight of the large Elf standing there.
"Lindir I apologize for being so late, there was…"
Fingolfin did not finish his sentence. Lindir threw himself against the broad chest and wept, shaken, distraught, and needing the support of another desperately. Fingolfin was soaked to the skin, his black hair dripping. He held the younger Elf close and kissed the top of his head.
"Lindir, my little love what is wrong? Did you fear me lost?"
Lindir nodded. "Yes, I confess I was becoming worried, but that is not what has me upset."
"Then what, young one?"
Shaking and sniffling, Lindir led Fingolfin into the kitchen. There, sprawled on the floor, was his Nana.
"Lindir, why is there a dead elleth on your floor?"
"She's not dead," said Lindir. "She's doing her best to make me feel horrid by pretending to be. It's my Nana."
Fingolfin raised an eyebrow. He had made it his business that day to find out a little about his new young friend, and what he had heard about his Nana had not been good. He gave Lindir a pat on the shoulder, and a sly look. Lindir watched, wondering what Fingolfin would do. He stepped aside as the large Elf approached his Nana.
"Well Lindir, she certainly looks dead. Such a sad thing for so fair a lady. Well, you must let me take care of this."
Lindir watched as Fingolfin picked her up. She hung, limp in his arms, unmoving. Fingolfin turned and walked her out the door and dumped her unceremoniously in the deepest puddle he could find, then turned and walked into the house once more, closing the door.
"Well that is all taken care of."
Lindir's jaw hung open and his eyes bulged, shocked. He suddenly heard an outraged shriek from the yard.
"A miracle," said Fingolfin, "she lives."
"You put my Nana in a puddle!"
"Yes I know, and I am truly sorry, but one cruel trick deserves another. She has no right to play such horrid games with you. I have seen death, and it is nothing to be used to achieve one's own ends."
"But...!"
Fingolfin held him close, stroking his hair. "She is a grown elleth, she should know better. And if she does not, then she must learn that one gets what one gives."
The door flew open. Lindir's mother was soaked to the bone, her dark hair hanging in dripping tendrils.
"You put me in a puddle!" she shrieked.
"I'm sorry, my lady, we were under the impression you were dead."
She stared at him as if he was completely mad. "And is it your custom to put dead women in a puddle?"
"Yes, it is a very old Noldo tradition. Helps the fëa find its way to the Halls."
She just kept staring at him. Lindir cleared his throat. "Nana this is Fingolfin, former High King of the Noldo. Fingolfin, this is my Nana, Aiwë."
"Greetings, my lady, it is a pleasure to meet you."
She stared at him, shaking with outrage, rendered speechless by the indignity. Finally she turned and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door with force enough to make the shutters rattle. Lindir looked from the door, to Fingolfin, back to the door. He felt a powerful arm go around his shoulder and gently squeeze him, and his head was tenderly kissed.
"Let her go, Lindir, let her gather herself and regain her dignity. She has much to think about."
"She's not bad," said Lindir in a very small voice. "She just… doesn't want things to be true, if that makes any sense. She does not want Ada to be dead, and she does not wish for me to be an adult."
"But your Ada is dead, my love, sad as that may be, and you are grown. And all her anger cannot make these things not so. She could have had a new love, and more children if she so desired."
Lindir nodded. "I know. But I think she felt if she could make the both of us believe it was not true, then it would not be." He winced, remembering the lashing she had given him. His blue eyes filled with tears. "I am so sorry, you must think me very weak and foolish."
Fingolfin held him close, gently kissing the top of his head. "Nothing could be further from the truth. Our mothers make cowards of us all." He laughed quietly. "Now come, dry your eyes. I will build a fire in the hearth while you tend to those poor naked rabbits on the table. I have brought wine. We will make dinner and wait out the storm."
Lindir nodded, and picked up the rabbits while Fingolfin walked towards the hearth, shedding his wet cloak, and then his shirt. Lindir paused, and watched the broad shoulders and muscled back, the long black hair falling across it, the skin shining in the lamplight. Then his eyes moved lower, watching the fluid motion of the firm buttocks, the wet fabric clinging to them.
Oh no, he was not giving up his adult life for anyone, not even Nana.
***---***
Elrohir followed Maedhros up the stairs, clutching a candle in a holder. He had been in Fëanor's house many times, but always on fair days, or clear nights, and always with the mostly blind and partly insane Elf at his side. In the dark with a storm raging, the surf pounding against the cliff, and a cold draft moaning its way down the hall, the keep was an altogether different place.
A gust of icy air made the flame on the candle flicker, and Elrohir felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He glanced over his shoulder, and caught a brief glimpse of Celegorm behind him, encrusted with blood, his hair blowing silently in the cold currents of air slowly making their way down the corridor. He picked up his pace to reach Maedhros' side. Without realizing he was about to, he grasped his hand. The tall Elf looked down at Elrohir.
"There is nothing to fear, child."
"Can I hold your hand anyway?"
Maedhros rolled his eyes. "If it makes you feel better."
"Well I just… don't want you to slip on the steps."
"Right."
Elrohir squeezed his eyes shut and shivered, hearing Celegorm growl quietly in his ear. The spirit was angry, and clearly did not care for his presence. Elrohir would have liked nothing better than to turn and run, but it was he who had insisted on taking part in this matter. He had no one to blame but himself.
They reached a door, located high in one of the great spiraling towers, and Maedhros gently pushed open the door. He had played here often as a child, watching his father lose his eyesight crafting gems into works of art. He thought back to those days, and how Fëanor never seemed to mind his presence here, no matter how disruptive he was. His father had once even made him a pendant of his very own, using a small stone that had been a first attempt at a Silmaril. It had been an opal, he recalled, and he remembered how he had sat on the floor, turning the stone over in his hands, watching the fiery colours burn deep within it. He had lost it, years later, the chain from which it hung broken during a battle.
Maedhros walked slowly into the chamber, looking around. The room was silent, the floors, walls, draperies and furnishings thick with dust. He walked over to the desk, the gem cutting equipment grey with grime, and a large emerald still patiently waiting to be cut and polished.
"Is this it?" asked Elrohir. "Is this where he made the Silmarils? I thought the place would be… different."
"This is but one of the places where he laboured upon them. I am uncertain as to how the cursed things were made; that I am free of them is all I care about."
Maedhros walked over to the desk and began opening drawers, while Elrohir roamed around, looking at the shelves and cases and cabinets full of gemstones and jewelry and sketches. He noticed a small black box on a shelf, and picked it up, opening it.
The light that shone forth from the box was like that of sunlight shining through trees, and there was a sound, like distant music, fair and sweet and despairing, that pierced his heart and made it difficult to breathe. The gemstone burned into his mind, and nothing else existed, or mattered. He gently picked it up, and felt the living warmth of it in his hand. It was alive, a sentient thing that felt pain and love and laughter, and craved them for itself. Elrohir swayed on his feet, then felt someone catch him. The gem was taken from his hand and put back into its box, and the lid closed. Suddenly Elrohir was looking up at Maedhros.
"Be careful, little Elrohir," said Maedhros. "There are things in here that can harm you."
Elrohir breathed deeply, slowly recovering his senses. "What was it?"
"It is a study, a predecessor to a Silmaril."
"It was alive!" said Elrohir, his breath now coming in gasps. "It is alive! It… it is lonely in there…"
Maedhros stroked the younger Elf's hair. "It is not alive, child. It is a gemstone. Do not pay it any heed. Enough blood has been spilled on account of Atar's rocks. Come, we are here for Celegorm."
Elrohir nodded, gathering his wits. He drew a few steadying breaths, then said; "I am all right." He glanced once more towards the box, feeling a yearning, a desire to take the stone home and devote his life to it…
"It is a stone," said Maedhros quietly. "Nothing more. Pay no heed to the things it whispers."
"It is like the Ring of Sauron," said Elrohir. "Frodo spoke to me about it. It whispers, it takes hold of your mind…"
"And it is the same magic Atar put into the Silmarils, one of which Morgoth claimed. And it is the same magic Sauron put into his ring. I do not know what magicks Atar was playing with back then, but I am eternally thankful he has stopped. Here. This, I think, I can safely give you."
He passed Elrohir a small box, and he opened it, gasping as he raised the lid to gaze upon a stone crafted of living fire, set into a pendant of red gold and hung from a delicate chain. He stared at it, almost able to feel warmth emanating from it.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice a whisper.
"It is called a Hessonite Garnet. Granted, many of these garnets are of a dull colour, but every now and then, one finds a stone like this, as if all the fires of the Valar, both fair and dark, are bound within it. It amuses me that diamonds are held up as the pinnacle of beauty. I find them rather dull. There are far more… intense… and… erotic… gems in the deep of the earth."
Elrohir felt a tendril of fear work its way into his being, and it seemed as if he finally began to understand who the charming short-sighted drunk he called friend was; as well as the glorious, intense redhead now fastening the stone about his throat.
"I am not so sure I should take this."
"It is mine to give," said Maedhros gently. "And it if keeps you safe and far away from that green thing in the box, you are welcome to it."
Maedhros walked over to the desk, leaving Elrohir standing in the middle of the room, feeling oddly weak and overwhelmed, turning the stone over in his fingers, lost in its depths. Ai, if Fëanor could do this with a garnet, what could he do with rubies? Diamonds? Fire opals? He found himself wishing that, just once, he could have seen a Silmaril.
Maedhros opened a drawer and coughed as a cloud of dust escaped. He began picking through the contents, muttering and sneezing. Elrohir forced himself to stop looking at the gem and walked over to the huge window behind Maedhros. Despite the fury of the storm, he opened the window a little to clear the air. He glanced towards the doorway, and saw the forlorn shape of Celegorm, slowly pacing.
"He will not come into this room?"
"Nay," said Maedhros quietly. "He never would in life, I fail to see why he would in death." Maedhros pulled out a battered red leather journal from one of the desk's drawers, his expression puzzled. "This is not Atar's, whose is it?" He opened it, and raised an eyebrow. He sat down in a chair and read aloud.
"Dear diary. My brother is a bug-head. I hate him. He is always doing stupid things and blaming them on me. Today he stole a coin from Naneth and went off to buy candy. He then put the change in my drawer and pretended to find it. Now I have to clean the stable and he sits in his room and eats more candy because he was given another coin for being such a good boy. Tonight I will take one of the discarded wrappers, put horse poop in it and reseal it, then I will put it where he will be sure to find it, on the top shelf of Maedhros' wardrobe next to the stack of icky squishy love poems he's written to someone called 'F'. Whoever 'F' is I bet she has nightmares about those poems."
Elrohir gaped in astonishment, then howled with laughter. "Who wrote that?"
"Celegorm," said Maedhros, and smiled faintly, remembering the past.
"And who may I ask is the bug-head?"
"That would have to be Curufin. It sounds like something he would have done back then. He's not called 'The Crafty' for naught. Like the offspring of a fox and a demon, and always either at your feet or your throat, and MOST dangerous when at your feet because he was preparing to spring." Maedhros flipped through a few pages, shaking his head. "How an Elf could have such a mind is beyond me."
Elrohir seated himself upon the rug and watched Maedhros, fascinated by him, by the sheer weight of the history he represented. "What was he like, as a child?"
Maedhros raised an eyebrow and looked at the wide-eyed youngster, a faint smile on his face. "Why in all Arda would you want to know anything about him?"
"Because my father is in his own way a historian, and I learned all my bad habits of asking questions and being nosy from him."
Maedhros chuckled. "He was mad from the moment he left the womb. He adored Celegorm. They were practically glued together at the hip. He adored Celebrimbor too. Atar taught Curufin the secrets of his craft, and Curufin taught Celebrimbor, and so the blight spread throughout the line. He was an Elf of great love in his own way, though he never seemed to believe it when he was loved in return. I don't think the lady who bore his child cared much for him; I cannot say, I never met her. I know Naneth didn't want him, but she didn't really want any of us. We were Atar's business. By the time she had the twins I think she had already decided to leave; she was more than a little fed up with the madness that engulfed all of us like a stench. She could not even be bothered to name the last two. Ambarussa. The red-heads. It was Atar who gave them each their own name. It hurt all of us, but I think it unhinged Curufin. More than anything, he feared abandonment, and he seemed to meet it at every turn. His wife, his son, his mother… Celegorm was the only person I think he trusted. Their closeness sparked many a fetid and untrue rumour, about… shall we say… an inappropriate level of affection between brothers."
Elrohir's eyes grew wide. "Well I never heard that."
"I did, and from people who ought to know better. I actually flat out asked them one time whether any of these rumours were true. Celegorm just stared as if I had grown another head and Curufin… well, you're far too young to hear what he said. As a matter of fact I am too young to hear what he said. Suffice to say the answer was no. They lived together, ate together, hunted together, raised Celebrimbor together, but they never lay together. If Celegorm was laying with anything it was that dog of his."
Elrohir flinched as a sudden violent fury broke out in the hallway; tapestries flew, papers scattered, and there came a shriek of purest, coldest rage.
"I don't think he liked that," whispered Elrohir.
"Oh he can just deal with it. Nasty hairy thing, always breathing dog food in your face, leaving hair and fleas all over the furnishings. And let us not forget the unwanted nether winds that could slay every living being within a five-mile radius. Say what you will about Huan's bravery and loyalty, I know why Oromë gave the thing away; the other Valar MADE him."
Elrohir was laughing so hard the tears were coming from his eyes in thin streams. "Why do they never put these things in the history books?"
"Oh because we are all supposed to be proud and wise and noble and either darkest evil or purest good. No one wants to know the shades of grey. History, my child, is written by the winners; remember that. There are two sides to every tale."
"Perhaps you ought to tell your side."
"No, thank you. I've caused enough strife in my life, no need to bring up Beren's gambling or Círdan's drinking or the fact that dear darling delicate Lúthien was in the habit of wearing so much cheap perfume she once accidentally slew an archer by walking too close to him."
"But didn't Celegorm…?"
"My dear child the only way Celegorm would touch a woman would be if she were on fire and he was trying to put her out. He very much preferred the male of the species, and that whole pursuit nonsense only came about because she stole Huan."
"I thought…"
"Yes, yes we've all heard that bloody song and story until we are fit to vomit, but the truth is the elleth was as flighty as she was flaky. She wanted Celegorm to love her, and Celegorm had his hands full with a slightly demented brother. Not to mention the fact she was not built according to his tastes. So she stole his dog. I must say she certainly succeeded in getting his attention. And nearly accomplished having Beren strangle Curufin. Anyway, Beren rode away with Lúthien on Curufin's horse, Celegorm rode away with Huan, and they all lived happily ever after, or at least until the next catastrophe."
"But Huan forsook Celegorm! Did he not die fighting a great wolf?"
"No he didn't and yes he did, but like all good dogs of divine lineage, he came back. The stupid thing lived with Maglor and Maeglin, until Maglor had that fit and burned his house down, now he's in my keep, sleeping on my rugs, leaving veritable tumbleweeds of hair all over the place and perfuming the air with farts that would slay an Ent. I cannot WAIT for Celegorm to be reborn so we can give him back."
"I'd love to see him."
"How would you like to own him?"
"No, thank you, I think Celegorm hates me enough. But if his breath is bad you can sweeten it by giving him knotted rawhide to chew."
"Really? I shall have to try that. And what about the... shall we say… emissions?"
"Could be dietary. What does he eat?"
"Anything so long as it is not in his bowl."
"I would say that is the problem."
Maedhros sighed. "Well whatever the problem is, I wish… I wish things were different but they are not, so I must live with it. At least I have a chance now to rebuild my relationship with my father. As for Curufin… I just hope he has found some measure of peace."
Celegorm made a baleful moan out in the hall, like the cry of something in unspeakable agony. Maedhros looked towards the shade that paced the hall.
"Now if we can only learn why Celegorm has not found peace, and why he insists upon wandering the halls and howling."
A thought occurred to Elrohir just then, as he watched the forlorn and bedraggled spirit pace the hall, like a faint shadow of the past.
"Maybe," said Elrohir softly, "Celegorm does not refuse rest because of something having to do with him. Perhaps it is something to do with Curufin. Or Celebrimbor. I mean if they were that close in life, could he not still be trying to protect him? Or help him?"
"Curufin is beyond help, he is dead. I saw his body when I came down to try and find the children Celegorm's servants led off into the woods. I saw it burning. As for Celegorm I made the pyre myself, and Caranthir's. ERU what was wrong with the lot of us? Like wolves after a bleeding stag at the merest hint of those damned rocks. Death and blood and damnation all across the lands and all over baubles."
Maedhros pounded a fist down onto the desk so hard Elrohir thought it would split, then stood and walked over to the window to look out at the storm. "And to this day the fate of the children of Dior haunts me. Babies, taken into the woods to die, by ELVES. We should have all been struck down."
Elrohir watched Maedhros for a while, feeling a pity for him he never thought he would for any son of Fëanor. "My Ada always speaks well of you."
"I can't think why."
"Perhaps he had a chance to see something in you that few others did."
"The only thing of mine that child saw that few others did was my underwear drawer. I caught him and his brother using my shorts one day for fort banners."
Elrohir snorted and burst out laughing, and Maedhros, despite himself, smiled at the memory. He said nothing more for a time, and Elrohir rose from his seat on the floor and walked over to the desk, looking down at the book. He could read a little Quenyan, though not much, and he could speak it not at all. But as he looked through the book, he saw Curufin's name many times.
"I may be wrong, but I still think this has something to do with the brother he loved."
"Perhaps it does, but there is naught we can do for Curufin, he is dead, as is Caranthir, as is Celegorm. Only Celegorm of course is, as we all suspected, too stubborn to lay down."
Elrohir slowly turned the pages, reading the tome as best as he was able. He found mention of Celebrimbor being born, even found tiny imprints of little feet and hands, carefully inked and pressed to the pages. But no mention at all of a mother. Elrohir closed the book, and looked towards Maedhros.
"We will need more than this diary if we are to learn what keeps Celegorm from the Halls."
Maedhros nodded. "Then we must speak with the Ambarussa again.
***---***
Ecthelion looked up and raised an eyebrow as he spied Glorfindel stepping out from behind the changing screen, and suddenly found himself recalling nights together very, very long ago, when he and Fin had been lovers. He rose slowly to his feet, and stared unabashedly.
"What do you think?" asked Glorfindel, "too much?"
Ecthelion swallowed hard. "Fin, you are gorgeous."
Fin turned his head to cast a glance over his shoulder at his friend. He smiled.
"Down, boy. If you will think for a moment you will recall we were not well matched as lovers."
Ecthelion smiled and walked over to Glorfindel, coming up behind him, slipping his arms about his waist. "I recall too clearly, which is why I am not down on my knees begging you for one last taste of your charms."
"Then what's that poking into my bottom, your walking stick?"
"Just showing my appreciation of that outfit."
Glorfindel turned and kissed him gently. "The appreciation is appreciated."
He smiled fondly at his old friend, touching his face. They stood close together, looking at each other, thinking back on passed times. They had loved each other with great passion. They had also incensed each other to no end. But that did not mean there were not times when both felt the soft pain of a love that had not worked.
Glorfindel gently pushed aside a wisp of Ecthelion's hair. "I'm sorry."
Ecthelion looked mildly surprised. "For what?"
"For not treating you better. For treating our love as if it were an arrangement of convenience."
Ecthelion smiled, a little sadly. "I am sorry too, for all the nights I left you alone to wonder where I was."
"I knew where you were," said Fin. "That's what all the fights were about."
They laughed, standing together in each other's arms. Then Ecthelion drew a breath. "Let us make each other a promise."
"And what is that?"
"That if ever, Manwë and all other Valar forbid, for I love my husband as much as you love yours, but if ever, likely due to our own idiocy, we find ourselves alone, then let us try again."
"And… actually respect each other and be faithful in our vows? What a novel concept."
Ecthelion laughed. "It would be hard, I know, and shall never happen. But if ever…"
"I would not leave my Erestor for anything. But you have my word. If ever we are cast aside for the rogues we are, we shall try again."
"Thank you my friend."
They kissed, and then Ecthelion released Fin. Glorfindel turned to look at himself in the mirror, and grinned as Ecthelion cuddled him.
"Do you think Erestor will approve?"
"My dearest friend, if he does not, he is dead. But one question still stands - WHERE in all Valinor did you find a Gondolin uniform?"
"I paid a seamstress to make a replica of mine, based on one in a museum in Túna." Glorfindel tossed back his white hair. "Ah, I'm such a handsome thing."
"No arguing from me. So, why the fuss?"
Fin sighed, and adjusted the upright collar on the midnight black uniform, glancing towards the window as a gust of wind threatened to break the glass. "Well, Erestor has been a bit depressed since we found out he is with child again. I just want to show him he's still worth the extra attention."
"Even with unwashed hair and covered in baby vomit?"
"Especially then." Glorfindel spun neatly on his heel to face Ecthelion and snapped him a salute. "Very well. I am off for the evening, don't wait up."
Ecthelion saluted back. "Good luck sir. I shall keep your batboys company, and quell their fears with the whiskey in your footlocker before taking them to bed to quell their fears a little more. You don't mind if we eat your Bully Beef and get semen stains on your Medal of Honour, do you?"
Glorfindel laughed. "Get out, reprobate. And quell their fears all you like, but if Ithilian catches you, there will not be enough left to feed the cat. Oh and if you go into my foot locker, the stuffed old bear in there is NOT mine."
Ecthelion laughed. "Well have fun, do not do anything I would be embarrassed to do."
"And that would be… what, precisely?"
"I don't know. I'm sure there must be something. Give Erestor my love."
"I shall. Now be off, the servant will be here any moment with the dinner, and then Erestor will be arriving. I want everything perfect."
Ecthelion smiled. "Very well. Have a lovely evening, my friend."
Ecthelion left, and Glorfindel put the finishing touches on his uniform. It had been so long since he had been in formal dress, and he was pleased with the picture he made. The uniform fit closely, and was made of the blackest fabric, trimmed with silver. He had missed not so much as a button; he wore the belt and gloves and boots, as well as his medals, and indeed a sword, though it, like the uniform, had to be remade. The one he had worn in the days of Gondolin was lost now to history, as were many of the Elves he knew then.
Glorfindel shook his head, wondering at the maudlin that seemed to grip him. He always seemed to feel a little lost and sad on dark nights when the cold winds blew, and the rain beat down. It brought back too many bittersweet memories, and thoughts of friends lost. There had been two in particular: Mithilmir and Celebalqua. Many nights they had drunk and sung and laughed, even when the stench of battle threatened to overwhelm them. They were dead now, lost in the battle for Gondolin. But on stormy nights, he thought of them, and quietly raised a glass to their memory.
Glorfindel finished adjusting his uniform, then poured himself a glass of wine and awaited his husband.
***---***
Erestor was hot, he was filthy, and once more he was sick. This baby was going to be a difficult one to carry; he could tell already, even though he was not yet showing. This one felt different. Lord Elrond said he was simply run down, having bore two already and becoming pregnant again so soon. But it was not him; it was this child. There was something… odd… about it.
Erestor walked into the apartments he shared with Glorfindel, and stopped short at the scent of honey and roses. He raised his head, and drew a soft gasp at the sight of Fin standing before him. He was clad in a uniform of utter black, trimmed with silver. His long white hair hung loose passed his shoulders, and seemed softly luminous in the flicker of candles. To his left was a table laid with wine and food, and the centerpiece was nothing less than a roasted swan. Erestor had never eaten swan; in the days of Gondolin the bird was reserved for titled nobility and royals. Now the bird was simply viewed as something lovely in a pond rather than food. But the symbolism of the gesture was not lost on him.
Erestor stared, speechless, his lank hair hanging around his shoulders. His robe was wet on the left side, and he suspected Estorel had suffered a nappy-leak. He had baby vomit on the front of his robe, and he knew for a fact that he smelled like a nursery room diaper pail. And there was his husband, beautiful, glorious as a wild stallion, waiting for him.
"Lock the outer door," Glorfindel said softly.
Erestor did, and then looked at Glorfindel once more. "I… I need a bath, Fin."
Glorfindel smiled in that oh-so-mischievous way of his. He smartly stepped aside, revealing an elaborately beautiful claw-foot bathtub, filled with scented water. Next to it was a stand, holding soaps, oils, towels, and sponges.
"Your bath, my love."
Erestor shed his robes and tossed then into a hamper, and moments later was soaking gratefully in the heated water. Glorfindel poured him a glass of iced tea, which he accepted gratefully, and settled into the soothing water.
"Ah, what ever did I do to deserve you?"
Fin smiled. "Must have been truly awful."
"Utterly unforgivable, I would say," said Erestor. He sipped the tea, then set it aside to duck briefly underwater, rising with his black hair hanging slick and wet. He poured some shampoo onto his hand, then began scrubbing his hair, glad to be clean.
"I wonder if all babies are this messy, or if yours just have a special talent."
"They're yours too, darling."
Erestor laughed. "Don't remind me."
He washed his hair, then his body, using the fragrant soaps. Finally done, he rose from the water and accepted the towel Fin handed him. Finally, dressed in a clean nightshirt, wrapped in a warm housecoat, Erestor sat down to feast. He looked at the bird, and smiled.
"A swan. I cannot believe you would bring me a swan! I thought only Kings and high-ranking nobles could dine on such a bird!"
Fin smiled. "Nobles and those they love." He picked up a large carving knife. He sliced Erestor off a piece of the breast, and presented it to him. "Try it."
Erestor did, closing his eyes and uttering a sigh of pure bliss. "Delicious. Absolutely delicious!"
"Nothing but the best for my love."
Erestor laughed quietly. "One would almost think you heard me stomping about earlier muttering about having you castrated."
"Well, no, I didn't. But I have noticed how strained and weary you have been. I wanted you to know what you mean to me."
Erestor smiled, and said quietly; "Thank you, Fin."
They dined in comfortable silence; Fin drinking wine, Erestor staying with his iced tea. By the time they were finished, Erestor's hair had dried in a tangle, but he could always comb it out tomorrow. Taking Glorfindel's offered hand, he rose to his feet and allowed his husband to walk him into the next room. The bed was made up with silk sheets, and rose petals were scattered about, both on the silk comforter and the floor. Erestor felt Fin pick him up, and allowed himself to be carried to the massive four-poster and laid down on it. Then Fin lay down beside him, and lowered his head to kiss him.
"You are worth every swan in Valinor," he murmured just before their lips met.
Erestor returned the kiss. "I do not want every swan in Valinor," he said, touching his husband's face. "All I want is you."
"Then you shall have me."
Fin kissed Erestor again, unlacing the front of his lover's nightshirt, surprised at his own sudden desire. No matter how many times he touched his husband, it was always just like the first time. He pushed the nightshirt off, letting it fall where it would, and gazed down at Erestor. He was not like his past lover, Ecthelion; Erestor was not forceful or demanding in bed, though he most certainly had times when he was both. But usually Erestor was more liquid, seeming to read Fin, and react in a manner to please him.
Glorfindel found himself entranced by the sight of his husband in the light of the coloured lamps. Erestor was ethereal, almost like mist and shadow in his arms; far more beautiful than Fin felt he deserved. He touched him with reverence and awe as he bent to trace the line of a delicate collarbone with his mouth, nipping lightly. Erestor personally had no idea how he looked; he knew Fin seemed fascinated by him, and that pleased him. He did not know that here, on the silk sheets, his body illuminated by the light of the glass lamps, that he was almost sylph-like, translucent, and hauntingly beautiful.
Erestor kissed Fin, taking one of his hands and placing it on his side, enticing him to touch him. Then he opened the front of Fin's uniform jacket, slipping his hand inside, touching his flesh. He pulled the fabric aside and raised his head to gently bite one nipple, making a quiet sound of passion, his body suffused with a soft light, almost like that of a sunrise. He raised one leg, his long black hair spilling over the pillow in a tangle of satiny strands. He gasped and writhed in appreciation, then gently pushed Fin onto his back and straddled him, his long hair forming a veil that shrouded his body. He opened Glorfindel's shirt fully and kissed his chest. Erestor grinned impishly, then reached down and stroked Fin's hard erection, raising an eyebrow.
"I am impressed," he purred.
Fin laughed. "You've seen that before, many times."
"Indeed I have, and each time I am impressed."
Glorfindel laughed at his comment as Erestor freed the great shaft form the confines of Fin's breeches. Erestor then eased it into himself, eyes closing. He gasped, and began moving himself on the large penis, hands braced on Glorfindel's shoulders, head down, his long hair flowing loose. Fin's lips parted in a silent cry as he penetrated his husband.
"Lie down," whispered Fin. "It's lonely down here by myself."
Erestor laughed softly, then lay down upon Glorfindel and pulled him over so that he was on top of him, his eyes glittering with naughtiness. He wrapped his arms and legs around him, holding him tightly, kissing him. Then his long hands began to roam, sliding down Fin's powerful back, onto his buttocks. He raised an eyebrow, and Fin knew his lovely advisor was up to something.
Erestor's fingers wandered, finding their way into all sorts of places. They crept down into the heated crevice between Fin's buttocks, and began nudging and teasing his tight opening. Then Erestor pushed two fingers into his husband. Fin cried out as he felt the fingers enter him, throwing his head back, which pushed him deeper into Erestor. He shuddered, trying to regain control as he thrust deep.
"Do that again and this will be shorter than either of us might wish!"
Erestor laughed, enjoying their coupling, loving not just the incredible pleasure, but also the pure joy of it, the lightness. This was their time, a moment that none would ever take from them. He permitted Fin to move off of him, rolling onto his back, pulling him so Erestor was straddling him once more, penetrating as deeply as he slowed his movements, torturing Erestor, who groaned in frustration.
"Fin…"
"Yes my love?"
"I've had enough abuse for one day!"
They both laughed, and Fin tossed Erestor onto the bed, moving over top of him once more. "Very sorry my love. Is this more to your liking?"
Erestor cried out and Fin began thrusting hard, driving in as deeply as he could. He kissed him hard, fingers clawing his shoulders as he suddenly uttered a sharp, almost rusty sounding cry, wrapping his jaws around Glorfindel's shoulder, grabbing onto him with more power that one would have though could be in that slender body. Erestor gasped and panted, eyes closed, his pleasure building to an overwhelming peak, suddenly exploding with passion, kissing Glorfindel so hard he cut his lips on his teeth, and he stifled a scream as he felt his husband climax inside him. Glorfindel shuddered, then slowly relaxed, settling onto the strong body beneath his and kissing him slowly, his hands creeping Erestor's hair. Then he rest his head on his collarbone, still inside of him, reluctant to break the connection. He grinned, his body damp and gleaming. There was something ethereal about the way the light touched Erestor; he was almost otherworldly.
"So," said Fin quietly, "has the day improved?"
"A thousand fold," whispered Erestor. He stroked Fin's white hair, and gently kissed him, then sighed. "Only one thing could make it better."
"Oh? And that is?"
"More tea and swan."
Glorfindel laughed and sat up, kissing Erestor again. "You wish is my command, my raven beauty."
Erestor smiled, pulling the covers over himself. The children were with Valaríamrûn, he was settled in a nice comfy bed, being tended to by the most loving, handsome, sexy Elf ever to walk Arda, and he could look forward to at least nine hours of peace before the morning and he had to start all over again. What more could he ask for? He closed his eyes to doze while he awaited Fin to return.
The voice he heard was clear, quiet, and definitely in the room with him.
"Oh come on, who's the new guy? The womb's full, buddy!"
Erestor's eyes shot open, and he looked around. The bedroom was empty. Fin was in the next room, singing quietly as he arranged a plate for his husband. He must have been dreaming. Then, he heard the voice again; an irate sigh, and a muttering tone.
"As if this place isn't too small already, now I'm going to have to share it. Thanks a lot, Sia and Ada."
Erestor slowly sat up. "Hello?" he said uncertainly.
"Where's the steak and lobster and dark bitters? If I don't get it within a half hour I'm gonna start dragging my foot right... along.... HERE!" With frightful accuracy something tickled him from the inside.
Erestor shrieked. "FIN!"
Glorfindel dropped the plate and ran into the room, seating himself on the bed and taking his hand. "Darling what is it, what happened?"
Erestor was shaking and fearful. "I heard a voice! I heard a voice and then something tickled me from the inside!"
Fin almost laughed, but realized his husband was not joking; he was genuinely frightened. He drew him close and gently held him.
"There, there darling, I'm sure it's nothing. You've had a very stressful day."
"No! I heard a voice! It demanded steak, lobster, and dark bitters, and said if it did not receive them then it would tickle me. And it did!"
Fin held him close, stroking Erestor's long dark hair. "You were probably dreaming, there is no need to fret."
Erestor was not so sure about that, but he did not hear the voice anymore. Perhaps it was as Fin said; he had been dreaming. Glorfindel kissed him again.
"I'll bring you some tea, and your swan if you still want them, and then you are spending all day tomorrow in bed."
"But I…"
"I'll hear none of it. If Lord Elrond needs something done he can send for Rhimlan."
Erestor nodded. "Very well." He smiled and touched Fin's face. "Tea and swan sounds lovely."
Glorfindel gently kissed him, then left to fetch Erestor's plate. Erestor meanwhile slid out of bed and walked to the case full of books in the room. He selected one, and walked back to the bed with it, opening it as he settled himself in the deep, soft bed. He heard Glorfindel come in, carrying a tray for two.
"Now darling that's a large book, if you wanted it you should have asked me."
Erestor smiled. "And disturb you from bringing food? Never."
Glorfindel seated himself on the bed, setting the tray down, and looked at the cover of the book. "The Reborn Fëa'? Rather intense reading before bed, is it not?"
Erestor shook his head, and opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly his eyes grew huge. Sitting up straight, he plopped the heavy book down before Glorfindel and pointed triumphantly to a passage. Fin picked the book up and read.
"Now what is this you are showing me? Ah. 'Little is known about the reborn fëa while still in the womb, but there have been instances of pregnant elleths insisting that the fëa was not only self-aware and retained its old identity, but indeed spoke until mere days before… she… birthed.' That can't be true."
"I heard a voice," insisted Erestor. "Clearly as I hear you now. It demanded steak, lobster and bitters."
"… and did not get them," muttered a voice.
Erestor gasped. "I heard it again!!"
"I heard nothing," said Fin.
"Well I most certainly did!"
Fin gently took Erestor into his arms and kissed him. "Darling you are overwrought, and very tired. You've had a frantic day and you've no business being pregnant again so soon after Silivren. You are not hearing voices."
Erestor sighed. "Perhaps you're right. Still, I was certain I did."
He ate his swan meat, drank his tea, then, as Glorfindel put out the lamps, Erestor snuggled down into the bed and pulled the covers up. Moments later, Fin joined him, and together the pair settled into a peaceful sleep. Still, just before Erestor nodded off, he could have sworn he heard a voice giggle mischievously.
"Won't Fin be surprised to see ME again!"
***---***
The Elf and Dwarf lay in a comfortable tangle in their bed, hearing the wind bang against the shutters, the rain slam in gusts against the roof. Legolas shifted and pulled the covers up further, then made a small sleepy noise as Gimli pulled him a little closer.
"So are we pregnant?" the Dwarf asked.
"I do not know," said Legolas. "I do not know what pregnant feels like." He smiled. "Perhaps we shall just have to make love again."
Gimli winced. They had made love three times already; he wasn't sure he had strength enough to do so again.
"Perhaps a bath and a bit of a rest? I know Plains Elves can do it for hours on end but I'm nae one of those!"
Legolas raised an eyebrow as he thought about what it would be like to have one of the massive, feral beings pinning him to the ground, and driving deep…
"Are you sure you need a rest?" Legolas asked.
"Very."
"How sure?" He softly nipped Gimli's ear.
Gimli felt his body make a valiant attempt to respond to his lover, then collapse. "Very sure."
Legolas sighed. "Fine, a bath and a rest it is."
He pushed back the covers and sat up, and Gimli felt a thread of worry as he looked at him. Legolas had never looked so small to him. True he was tall as was common for his kind, and the delicacy of his frame was deceptive; Gimli had seen Legolas in battle and knew there was a difference between how delicate the Elf looked and how powerful he actually was. But now his eyes rested on his husband's small midriff. It did not look large enough to contain a child sired by a Dwarf.
This was such a bad idea. Gimli wished with all his heart the Valar had not granted Legolas this wish. He had no desire to see his husband die in childbirth.
Legolas stepped off the bed, naked, his white skin shining softly in the candlelight. He stepped into the stone bath Gimli had made for him; a pool that let in runoff from a small stream that fed the reservoir, and was heated from beneath by coals. Legolas sank into the warm water and sighed contentedly. Then he looked at the Dwarf still on the bed; a sly, come hither look. Gimli groaned.
"Oh come," said Legolas, "you must have one more left in you."
"More than one, but I need to recover!"
Legolas clearly did not want to wait. He tossed his head and put his fine aristocratic nose in the air, pouting. Gimli decided to refuel and reached for the remains of his dinner. A little salt pork and beer and he would be ready to go again. Legolas stared at him the whole time, waiting, one fine hand resting on the back of the pool, fingers drumming.
"I wonder if Haldir and young Elrohir have to endure this," muttered the Dwarf.
"I'm not pregnant yet," said Legolas, his tone petulant.
"You might be, you just said you didn't know."
"And I might not be. I thought you Dwarfs were notorious for your stamina."
"We are. We just never compared ours to that of an Elf determined to get with child. I'll tell you one thing, the next time we do this, I'll make sure I'm well rested and have nothing planned for a month. And you had best be prepared to rescue my weary and withered hide from your father when he learns of this."
"Nonsense," said Legolas. "Ada will not be angry."
"Yes he will," said Gimli.
"He loves you."
"He hates me, he just tolerates me."
"Oh that's just his way, he's gruff."
Gimli was not sure he agreed with Legolas. He was pretty sure that once Thranduil learned his little princeling was filled with a Dwarven baby, the former King of Mirkwood would be demanding Gimli's testicles presented to him on a spear point. He certainly remembered King Thranduil hoisting him up and breathing rage in his face when he told him in very clear detail he would hunt the Dwarf to the ends of Arda should he harm his child.
Gimli ate slowly, washing the meat down with beer. At last he stood and walked over to the pool, stepping down into the heated water, feeling much better. He chuckled quietly as Legolas moved into his arms and kissed him.
"Your father will strangle me," said Gimli softly.
Legolas kissed him again, stroking his lover's long hair. "I doubt yours will be any more pleased, weakening his good, strong family line with Elf blood."
"Well my father and your father can go get drunk together and complain about how rotten their children are." He kissed Legolas, a little more passionately this time. "I believe I have something you want."
He gently guided the tall Elf onto his lap, and slowly pressed deep his large penis, smiling as Legolas gasped softly.
"Aye, that you do," Legolas said quietly, and kissed him. He sighed quietly and closed his eyes, moving himself slowly on the huge penis deep within him, head flung back, lips parted, moaning quietly as Gimli kissed his flesh, supporting him with his strong hands.
"Thranduil is going to kill me," Gimli muttered.
"He's not allowed, I'm not raising a child by myself."
Gimli chuckled, and kissed him passionately, caressing the Elf's beautiful body. But Legolas was not so interested in his own pleasure as he was in Gimli's He was an Elf with an agenda, and his blue eyes almost glowed with mischief as he bent his will to pleasing his husband, enticing him to spill his seed. He kissed and nibbled him, his hands wandering, caressing Gimli's powerful body, whispering soft obscenities into his ear, using his entire body to drive the Dwarf to distraction, wrapping his arms and legs around him in a passionate embrace as he felt Gimli suddenly reach his climax, thrusting deep into the Elf, crying out. Legolas gasped loudly and uttered a loud cry himself, then, to his complete outrage, the stone bench on which Gimli was sitting suddenly shifted. The Elf was dumped backwards into the water, their connection broken.
He regained his footing and once more embraced his husband, reaching down with his hand to take hold of Gimli's penis and return it to its place, only to find it rapidly becoming flaccid, and the seed it was meant to spill deep into his body now gone down the run-off vent.
Legolas. Was. Pissed.
Gimli could see it. He could almost smell the hot sulfuric rage the enveloped him, could see the blazing red light in his eyes, and that oh-so-telltale burning white luminescence emanating from his body. Gimli hastily hopped out of the bath, threw on a nightshirt and a robe, and made his way to the door.
"I think Mauburz is making cookies. I'll go see if she has some." Then the Dwarf darted out of the room.
Frodo had been coming to see how Legolas was feeling, accompanied of course by Sam. Both Hobbits were startled to see Gimli, still dripping wet, hastily step out of the room and close the door behind himself.
"Believe me," said Gimli, "Ye nae want to be in there."
Frodo was about to ask why when there came a strange sound, like a demonic cat having its tail yanked. The sound started out as a wail and rose to a piercing shriek of pure rage and frustration. Gimli grabbed both Frodo and Sam by the arm and led them quickly away just as something large shattered against the wall. Then the door splintered as the remains of what may have been a stone bench came through the wood like the point of a javelin. Frodo was utterly astonished.
"Did Legolas do that?" he asked, his huge blue eyes larger than was common.
"He's a wee bit miffed," said Gimli.
There was another scream, one that would have made a Nazgûl think twice, and a Dwarven war hammer flew out after the bench.
"More than a bit," said Sam. "What's he so mad about?"
Gimli cleared his throat. "I spilled something he wanted."
"Well can't you just pour him some more?" said Sam.
Gimli blushed profusely. "In a while," he muttered.
Frodo grinned. Sam looked mildly puzzled for a moment, then turned bright red.
***---***
Thranduil meanwhile was unaware of what his son was currently was doing, and throwing. He had taken Amaris to see the harpsichord he had commissioned, and now they were making their way to his bedchamber to check on Baby Balin.
Thranduil knew something was wrong the moment he opened the door, and smelled the cold wet air that escaped. He pushed the door opened further, and felt his heart strain as he saw the crib with the side down, the new baby-lock opened, and the blankets tossed to the floor along with a toy unicorn, a set of pajamas and a nappy. The bedroom window hung open, letting in the violence of the storm.
Thranduil gasped, clutching at his heart as he felt a squeezing in his chest. His left arm began to tingle, and he felt a pain in his back. He began to pant, his breathing becoming laboured and difficult.
"Amaris. Amaris he's gone!"
Amaris became alarmed as he watched his brother. "Thranduil calm down, we will find him!"
Thranduil panted, and felt the squeezing sensation in his chest increase. Amaris picked him up and carried him over to the bed, placing him down on it.
"You wait here. Wait here and calm down. I will get Elrond, and Gaelemir and I will find Balin!"
Amaris ran as fast as he was able to the room where he had left Gaelemir and Ilinuil. Grasping the handle he tried to open it, and found it locked. He banged on the door.
"Open this door at once! Open this door!"
Gaelemir could be heard scrambling around inside. "In a moment!"
"In a moment?! You open this door at once! Thranduil is having troubles with his heart and baby Balin is missing!"
Amaris threw himself against the door repeatedly, finally succeeding in breaking the small lock, which had never been designed to take such violence. He staggered into the room, and looked around, eyes wide, and he heard himself draw a loud gasp at the sight before him. The window was shattered, and the velvet curtains blew in the wind and rain. Gaelemir was scrambling after the remains of his clothing, and Ilinuil was gone.
"Gaelemir! What happened? Where is Ilinuil?" He looked around.
"It is not what you think!" Gaelemir picked up his breeches, and sighed as he saw how shredded they were.
"You tried to violate my lover!"
"I did no such thing! It was he who attacked me!"
"LIAR!" screamed Amaris. "You… swine! Make no mistake my brother shall hear of this outrage!"
"Amaris I did not harm Ilinuil, if you will just listen…!"
"I have no time for your lies! Balin is out in the storm and Thranduil's heart is strained to the utmost. I shall deal with you later."
Amaris fled the room, heading out into the storm, shouting for help. Gaelemir swore, then wrapped a cloth about his waist and went in search of some clothing.
***---***
Thranduil closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Then, as he heard the sound of Amaris' footsteps fade in the distance, he climbed off the bed and went out the window in search of Balin. Thranduil stepped out of the window and looked around, panting, his chest becoming tighter as he gasped. He closed his eyes and tried to will the pain away, to no avail. Filling his lungs, he screamed his child's name, searching the night for anything that might be his baby. Listening, he thought he heard a child's voice near the cliff, and he began making his way towards the sound.
He saw a small, fast-moving flash of white, and he headed after it. It was Balin, and the toddler was confused by the storm and driving rain. The thunder boomed so hard that Thranduil flinched in pain, then once more began making his way after the child. He saw Amaris run out of the house, and pause, gaping at him.
"Thranduil go back…"
Thranduil felt his strength begin to fail, but he refused to give in to the weakness. "He went that way! Come on!"
"Thranduil…"
Thranduil ignored him and, gathering his remaining strength, began running after Balin; Amaris close behind him. Ahead of them, the naked and disoriented baby was running also, heading straight for the cliff.
"Balin!" Amaris screamed, but the child did not seem to hear him. Then Thranduil's strength failed him. He staggered to a halt and collapsed to the grass, eyes squeezed shut. Amaris did not see him drop to his side; he was too busy running after the child, and knowing in his heart he would not be able to catch him in time.
Amaris caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye: something huge, and moving with incredible speed. He watched the massive being race after Balin, closing the distance between them. He suddenly recognized the Plains Elf as Mari-Ton, and he watched as the massive Elf leapt straight for Balin, catching him just as he reached the edge of the cliff and heading straight out into the darkened night beyond the cliff's edge. Amaris watched in horror as Mari-Ton spun, wrapping the baby in his own body and plunging to the beach below without a sound. Amaris screamed something, then fled towards the beach, slipping his way down the path to the seashore.
He reached the shore, and uttered a sob of relief as he heard Balin wailing in fear and outrage. He ran in the direction of the cries, and found Mari-Ton, lying on his side, still holding Balin close.
"Oh praise Manwë," he whispered, reaching down to pick up the baby, wrapping him in his cloak. Then he bent down to look at Mari-Ton, gently touching him.
"Mari-Ton," he whispered. "Mari-Ton, please be all right, please. Let me know you are alive."
Mari-Ton lay, still and silent, eyes rolled back in his head. Then with an unexpected suddenness, he bit Amaris before scrambling to his feet and loping away, shaking his head. He was dazed, but he seemed all right. Amaris muttered a few choice curses as he felt blood running down his hand. Holding the chilled baby close to his breast, he ran back up the cliff, passed Thranduil's still form on the grass. He ran into the house, and shoved Balin into the waiting arms of Glóin, who had been summoned by the noise. Gaelemir appeared in the doorway then, hastily dressed.
"Where is Thranduil?" he asked.
Amaris did not answer him. Instead he ran back into the darkness to his brother's still form. He tried to pick him up, but Thranduil was too heavy for him. He felt Gaelemir push him aside just then, and lift Thranduil's body, carrying him into the house.
"I think it's his heart again," said Amaris. "Where is Elrond?"
"Here," said Elrond, looking weary and rumpled. "Take him to his room. Where is the baby?"
"Here," said Glóin.
"Get him dressed and warmed. I will look at him after I tend to Thranduil."
Glóin nodded, and stepped aside to let Elrond and Gaelemir pass. Amaris watched Gaelemir walk away, eyes angry, then followed after his brother. He yearned to go back into the storm and search for Ilinuil, but knew that such a search would prove futile. He would have to wait until the tempest ended, or Ilinuil returned.
***---***
The night was growing late. The Ambarussa were already asleep when Elrohir and Maedhros came downstairs, curled up together on a huge nesting chair. Elrohir had never liked the things, he privately thought they looked like an enormous dog bed, but for some reason First Age Elves thought they were fantastic.
Elrohir smiled as he looked at the two, snuggled together, a blanket pulled over them. Their hair was a loose red tangle, glinting in the firelight. They looked so innocent, almost childlike.
"They're so cute," said Elrohir, and noticed Maedhros giving him a sidelong look.
"You do realize that they, like all this family, are kinslayers."
If Elrohir had learned one thing about Maedhros this night, it was that he was the biggest, soggiest, and coldest of all wet blankets he had ever met. Though some of the blood had been washed from his family, he seemed anxious to hang on to every spilled drop and be sure it stayed put. Perhaps it was because he had lived with it so long, Elrohir did not know. But he felt in his heart that the sons of Fëanor would not have done the things they had if their father had not been driven mad and had called an oath so powerful it acted as a geas, forcing them to obey like puppets at the merest whiff of a Silmaril. There was madness in this family, certainly. He did not think there was evil.
"They're adorable. Aren't you two? Widdle cute snoogie-woogies all snuggly-wuggly in da puppy bed!"
Maedhros just stared at Elrohir as if he had completely lost his mind. Amrod squeaked in his sleep, and Amras batted at Elrohir before spooning closer to his brother, lapsing once more into sleep.
"I do hope you do not speak to Atar in such a manner."
"Are you kidding? Have you ever heard him speak to his horses? Where do you think I learned it?"
Maedhros rolled his eyes, then found a place on the nesting chair for himself. He smiled as he reached out to stroke Amras' hair.
"Fine. They are cute. But they are asleep. That means they cannot help us."
"No, they can't, but perhaps I can."
Maedhros lounged in the chair and watched as Elrohir went to retrieve a satchel he had brought. He drew out a number of items; potions, dried herbs, pots of pigments, a short kilt made of leather, embossed with silver, and a fine strand of leather. Hanging from it was a fox amulet, flanked on both sides by knot symbols made of silver, and three beads of white quartz. He next pulled forth a long, ceremonial dagger made of black metal, covered in strange runes, and then a small case. Unrolling it, he drew forth three short rods which, when screwed together, formed his tall ceremonial spear. Maedhros raised an eyebrow.
"Does your beloved know that you have taken a sacred weapon and made it compactable?"
"Sure, he showed me how."
Maedhros laughed quietly, and waited as the youngster briefly left the room, returning moments later, having slipped out of his riding clothes and into the short kilt. Maedhros tilted his head to admire Elrohir's lithe young body, and to study the strange illuminations all over him. He had fine, sweeping lines beneath each eye, giving him a sensual, crafty look. The lines began about halfway up his nose, moving up, then following the curve of his lower eyelid, finally terminating about a quarter inch past the far corner. In the pit of his throat was the stylized image of the fox, and on his upper left arm was the double fish and goose symbol of the shaman.
"Does that hurt?" he asked.
"Well let me put it this way," said Elrohir. "Find a sewing needle and drive it repeatedly into your flesh, and keep doing it for an hour."
"So in other words, yes. Ah, not that I have anything against scantily dressed ellons, but is there a point to all this?"
"Yes," said Elrohir. "I can take a vision potion, and cross into the shadow world where Celegorm is now trapped."
"And the short kilt is just eye candy."
"It's tradition."
"It's fantastic, I want to get one for Fingon. Is the lack of undergarments tradition too?"
Elrohir yanked down the hem of his kilt. "I didn't have any clean," he mumbled.
"Well don't apologize, it's most charming. Oh and if Caranthir is in there as well, do watch out."
Elrohir was busy arranging a place to perform his ritual. "Why? Because of his anger?"
"No, because one look at you with that hair, those tattoos and the short skirt with no panties and he'll give you a greeting you will have a very hard time explaining to your husband."
Elrohir sighed. "Lovely. What about Curufin?"
"He has slightly better manners. Slightly, mind."
"Well if they want my help they will keep their pants on." Elrohir finished arranging the herbs, and tossed some incense into the fire.
"Well they have been dead a few thousand years, that is an awfully long time for any Elf. Besides, if you are in the shadow world and they are dead, does it count?"
Elrohir sighed. "Maedhros, I am not doing this so I might pleasure your brothers, I am doing this to find answers; answers, I might add, that you wish for as much as I."
Maedhros laughed quietly. "Just be careful, child, they are a handful."
"I shall keep that in mind." Elrohir settled himself, and drank his potion. Spear across his lap, dagger strapped to his thigh, he closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and let himself drift.
***---***
Haldir lay in the darkened room of the cottage, listening to the wind howl and moan around the stone walls, shaking the windows as if trying to break into the little building. Beside him in the darkness lay Rabbit. He was making quiet mumbling noises, far away in drugged dreams, huffing at something. Suddenly he sneezed explosively, waking himself up. He sat up, his movements shaky, and he looked around the room, making a plaintive noise before somehow managing to end up on his face. Despite himself, Haldir laughed.
"You're supposed to be fierce and dangerous, not helpless and silly."
Rabbit arranged his long limbs and slowly forced himself back into a seated position, looking around the darkened room. He made a quiet sound at the darkness, and settled once more beside Haldir. He yawned mightily, eyes rolling back, jaw gaping wide, the blades briefly revealing themselves. Haldir felt his stomach roll, and his eyes grew wet. He did not want to fear his husband, yet he did. He felt heartbroken and ashamed as well as desperately afraid.
"It's not fair," he said softly. "We were so happy. Why would someone do such a thing to you?"
Rabbit snuggled close and grumbled face down at the blankets. Haldir rolled his eyes.
"You really are dreadfully silly right now. Tell me true, it is but a ruse to make me love you as I once did."
Rabbit burped, and Haldir was unable to suppress a giggle. He stroked the tangled black hair with his working hand, and sighed.
"I do love you, dear Rabbit. Sadly I also now fear you. Truly I did not understand the might of you, and now… now there is a stain on my heart. I hope you can forgive me, and that you will not lose patience with me while I do my best to overcome it."
The door opened a crack, and Elladan peered in. "Haldir? Are you awake?"
"We both are," said Haldir, "though I am not certain Rabbit has any idea where he is. What is the time?"
"Well past midnight, and the storm shows no sign of slowing. The children have fallen asleep at last."
"Has Orophin returned?"
As if on cue, the front door opened, and Orophin stepped in, trailing rivulets of water. He closed the door behind himself and bolted it, then began to slowly peel off his soaking wet clothes. Elladan went to help him dry off, leaving Haldir alone with Rabbit once more. The large Plains Elf was restive, and he clumsily sat up again, blinking at the darkness.
"Haldir?" he said, his voice quiet and uncertain.
"I am here," said Haldir quietly.
"I had a bad dream."
Rabbit's voice sounded confused and almost child-like, and Haldir felt his fear change to a different variety. He did not like the way Rabbit was acting, and he wondered if perhaps the poison had damaged him more severely than they knew.
"A bad dream? What about?"
"I dreamed a monster was eating you. But… it was I. I was watching myself tear you to pieces."
Haldir's throat became tight, and he felt his eyes grow wet. "It was but a dream, Rabbit."
"But it felt real, as if it were a memory, and not a dream."
"It was a dream. You have been ill."
There was a confused silence. "I did not harm you?"
Haldir was at a loss over what to say. He did not want to upset Rabbit with the truth, but he did not wish to lie to him, either. He was still struggling when Rabbit leaned over him, eyes bleary, sniffing.
"I smell… blood, I think, and antiseptic."
"You smell nothing. Lie down."
Rabbit was drugged and clumsy, but he was alert enough to know he smelled something disagreeable. He sniffed, and found the enormous cast that encompassed much of Haldir's upper body.
"What is this?"
"It is nothing. Rabbit, lie down."
Rabbit did not look convinced, but he was so dazed and shaky from medication that he was in no position to argue. He arranged himself and lay down once more beside his husband, blinking, eyes glazed.
"Is it raining?"
Haldir smiled. "Yes, Rabbit, it is raining."
"Good because if it wasn't then fifty Elves are pissing on the roof."
Haldir howled with laughter, then yelped with pain. Alternating between laughter and agony, he reached out with his one functioning hand and stroked Rabbit's hair.
"My love, you are hilarious when you're addled."
"I'm… very addled. I can't find my hands. Oh, there they are." Rabbit fell onto his face.
Haldir laughed, causing another jolt of agony. Elladan entered the room, followed by Orophin, and a little red bundle of fur. Isa the fox hopped onto the bed and curled up next to Haldir, his little sharp face peering around. Elladan seated himself on the bed.
"Haldir are you all right? I thought I heard you making some strange noises."
"I'm fine, Rabbit is the one having trouble."
Elladan sighed. "Oh what a mess, Orophin help me straighten him out, he's on his own hair."
Orophin helped Elladan to adjust Rabbit, who promptly curled up, grumbling quietly. He was asleep within a few minutes, breathing deep, his face buried in the covers. Elladan gently covered him over.
"I think Ada over-medicated him," said Elladan. "He seems more bewildered than he should be."
Haldir smiled. "He is rather confused. But I think for now it's best he not understand what is happening."
"What do you mean?" asked Elladan.
Haldir watched Rabbit sleep, curled on his side, still in pain from the poison of the Tower Fish. He drew a steadying breath. "I mean I have two children with him and I would really rather not have him learn of what he did to me."
"Haldir, he is going to find out," said Orophin. "It's all over New Imladris, and the Thrayre-Iyre village. Whether you tell him or not, he will find out."
"He does not have to find out right now," said Haldir. "Not when I still cringe at every move he makes, and he is still weak and ill. It can wait a while, until we have both recovered. I want him lucid when we discuss this. It will be hard enough for both of us."
"Very well," said Orophin. "Elladan and I will make certain no one mentions what happened, until you deem the time is right."
"Thank you," said Haldir quietly.
Elladan and Orophin left him in peace, closing the door, leaving Haldir in the dark, listening to the storm. He gently scratched Isa's ears, smiling at the bundle of red fur curled beside him.
"I would very much like to get my one good hand on the person who did this, Isa."
Isa snuggled a bit closer, then flicked his tail, as if agreeing.
***---***
It was Caranthir. Somehow, it just had to be.
He was beautiful, and had the slender, leggy built of his father, though he was far taller. Almost as tall, in fact, as Maedhros. His hair was black and very long, and his eyes were a dark, intense shade of blue. Elrohir watched him approach, his movements cautious as he stepped delicately across the scorched, bloody earth that had been the last place on Arda he had drawn breath. He was darkly beautiful, even smeared with blood and dirt, and smelling of the grave. His sword was shattered, and his armor split and broken. All around was the smoke of war, but Elrohir heard no sound at all, save for the distant song of a lark.
Elrohir shivered, though the air was not cold. He held his ground as the specter approached, curious and intrigued, walking around him. Elrohir had the strange feeling the Elf was scenting him.
"Long has it been since I have seen any beauty," he said quietly.
"You could see more," said Elrohir, "if you wished. The Halls of Waiting have much beauty."
Caranthir edged closer, examining the young Elf. Elrohir felt him dip his head and sniff his neck
"The Halls of Waiting are not for me. I am a kinslayer. I cannot even say my foul oath is fulfilled. So my fëa is doomed to stay here, amidst the blood I spilled and the death I wrought. I am where I belong."
Elrohir felt Caranthir press close. The tall Elf was against his back, hands resting on his hips, his breath warm on his neck. "You're lovely."
"I'm bound."
"Mmm… rather like to play with ropes myself."
Elrohir rolled his eyes. "Maedhros warned me about you."
"Did he? He could not have said anything too bad, you are here."
Elrohir gently brought his elbow back, tapping the tall Elf in his gut. "I came to find Celegorm," he said softly, "to learn why he walks the halls of his father's keep."
"Because he is as I am; trapped in this world of death." He pressed closer, and nipped.
Elrohir gently warded him off and began walking, all too aware that Caranthir was keeping pace with him.
"I do not believe you are trapped," said Elrohir. "Hear the lark sing, just beyond that ridge. Perhaps peace and rest await there."
Caranthir eyed the ridge. "Aye or the specters of the murdered, waiting another chance to rend my flesh from my bones. Oh no, I follow no false leads. Larks and poppies and songs; I have been tricked by them all, only to find myself surrounded by the angry dead once again. I shall stay here, and mayhap I shall stay for all eternity. Better that than to witness my own body being torn asunder and fed to the Orcs and the crows, and remaining alive to feel the agony."
Caranthir nudged him, and Elrohir darted, not permitting himself to be herded. The tall Noldo tried to head him off, change his direction, but Elrohir once more managed to head in the opposite direction. He was not afraid; he could sense that Caranthir did not wish to cause him harm. But there was something oddly familiar about this game…
Elrohir stopped dead and gasped. Caranthir had not anticipated such a move and only narrowly avoided crashing into him. Elrohir turned and looked at the ghost, eyeing the long frame, the black hair…
No, he was wrong. He had to be wrong. He had been wrong with Fingon, he was wrong now. He was seeing things, plain and simple. He spent far too much time with Plains Elves, now he was seeing them in his visions.
"Does something trouble you about my appearance?" asked Caranthir.
"No," said Elrohir quietly. "You are lovely."
"Then what? You seem frightened."
Elrohir swallowed. "I just had a thought. One I dare not voice."
Caranthir looked puzzled. Elrohir turned and continued on his way, but his heart was troubled, and his mind was working far too fast. Curufin had a child, but there was no record of a mother. Now Caranthir tried to involve him in a ritualized chase as a preamble to love making. Elrohir shook his head and addressed himself sternly. There was no record of Celebrimbor's mother because elleths were not considered of any note by many record keepers of that time period. Caranthir was chasing him because he had not had warm physical contact with another being in several thousand years. Elrohir wondered if he should stop and give the poor old ghost… oh Frost would just LOVE that.
He kept walking, and Caranthir followed; politely at first, but he was rapidly becoming more of a pest. He nudged and pushed and nipped, and if he was not a Plains Elf then he certainly did a fine impression of one.
"Do you bite?" Elrohir asked, stepping over the burned corpse of an Orc.
"I can if you like."
"May I see your teeth?"
Caranthir stopped and looked confused. "My teeth?"
"Please, my Lord."
Caranthir shrugged and opened his mouth. Elrohir peered inside. No cutting blades, no double tendons, and no appreciable drop in the jaw. Even Master Erestor had the double tendons in the jaw, though that was the only characteristic he shared with his wild ancestor: that and his ability to bear children. But Caranthir did not have even that. So he wasn't a half-blood, he was just a weary Noldo ghost looking for a warm place to sheath his sword. Of course the only way to make absolutely certain was to check for unusual openings. Elrohir didn't think Caranthir would mind, but he had a funny feeling Frost would.
"Satisfied?" Caranthir asked.
"Very."
"So glad my teeth meet with your approval, young lord. Would you now like to now measure my height in hands?"
Elrohir laughed. "Nay, though I am quite sure you would like me to."
Caranthir nipped, and Elrohir dodged. The tall Noldo was certainly lovely, even if he did play strange games. It was becoming harder to say no.
"Do you know where I may find Celegorm?" Elrohir asked.
Caranthir began to show signs of his famous temper. "No I do not, neither he nor Curufin. I am as I have always been, alone. There, are you satisfied? You came all the way to the shadow world to remind me that I am unwanted?"
"You are not unwanted," whispered Elrohir. "You have a father who grieves for you every moment of the day and night."
Caranthir exploded in outrage. "He should! He should grieve, in fact he should bloody hang himself, it is his fault I am here! He and his madness and his oaths! HE SHOULD WEEP BLOOD OVER MY FATE!"
Caranthir drew the remains of his splintered sword, eyes burning, ringed with red, and the light that blazed from him was not white, but a sickly black that seemed to suck light into itself and destroy it. Elrohir was no coward, but was no fool either. He was wearing only a kilt, and his ceremonial dagger and spear were not constructed for battle. Caranthir was a killer, and had wandered alone, punished over and over for his deeds. There was every chance he would lash out now, and condemn Elrohir to wander this dark world with him.
Elrohir fled, running as quickly as he was able, hearing a rising shriek from behind himself: a shriek of rage and pain, and a terrible, terrible loneliness. The shriek became a howl of agony and misery.
"Do not leave me I pray! I will not harm you. Please I can bear this no longer! I have paid! I have paid! I have nothing left to pay with! Kill me again if you must but do not leave me alone!"
Elrohir heard the cry, wondering to whom Caranthir was howling. Likely Caranthir himself did not know, but he could not leave him like that. Elrohir slowed, then stopped, looking back over his shoulder at the Elf behind him. Caranthir was seated on the ground, his back to him, weeping. Cautiously, Elrohir walked back to him, wary for any tricks. He had to be careful; he did not know what to expect from this Elf. He walked up to him, and gently touched Caranthir's shoulder, and felt his heart break as the warrior turned and wrapped his arms around Elrohir's knees like a frightened child. Elrohir reached down and stroked his hair.
"I won't leave you. But you can't stay here. You are right; you have paid. Perhaps even too much."
Elrohir let Caranthir get himself under control, and gently helped him to his feet. He reached for the buckles on the ruined armor and undid them, letting the pieces of ruined metal fall to the ground. Then he undid the belt that held the heavy scabbard, and let that fall as well. Finally he stripped off Caranthir's ragged cape and ruined shirt, leaving him in only leather breeches and boots. He smiled as Caranthir unbraided his hair and shook it out, giving his scalp a welcomed scratching prior to flipping the lengthy mane of black silk over his shoulder. Already the air seemed cleaner, and the lark seemed closer.
Caranthir put his head up and sniffed the air, and Elrohir raised an eyebrow. If this Elf was typical for a First-Age Noldo, Elrohir would eat his kilt. Add a few tattoos, change the eye colour… but where were the tendons? Where was the jaw drop, the cutting blades? Dammit was this Elf a half-blood or no? He played the games; he certainly had the bones, but how to be sure without taking his pants off?
Elrohir made a playful huff; a noise guaranteed to elicit some sort of a response from a Plains Elf. Caranthir gave him a strange look, but he did not huff back.
This could drive an Elf to distraction.
"Well, shall we be off?" said Elrohir.
Caranthir nodded, and Elrohir began walking. Within moments he was being nosed and nudged again.
"Did I not tell you I was happily bound?" said Elrohir, both amused and annoyed.
"Nay, you left out the happy part."
Elrohir paused and rolled his eyes, and was about to speak when he felt Caranthir against his back, warm and very much aroused. If he did not resume moving and fast he was going to have a very hard time looking Frost in the eye.
"I am," said Elrohir, "to a rare beauty, and I love him. I have two children with him, and he is with child again."
"That is some trick, to get a male with child."
"Not so great a trick as one would think," said Elrohir. "He is of the Thrayre-Iyre. Do you know of them?"
"Nay I cannot say I do. How do they feel about sharing?"
Elrohir waved Caranthir off. "They are a kind of wild Elf. One of them is reputed to have bitten Ilúvatar."
"A tale, no more," said Caranthir. "At least the biting part. Elves do not bite."
"I can assure you they do indeed bite. And I very much think you may share some distant blood with them."
"Indeed? Is it my charm and beauty that makes you think so?"
"Nay it is your continued persistent attempts to get up my kilt!"
"Ah! Then I embrace them into the family. Now stop running away."
"Lord Caranthir you are without a doubt the most randy and ill-mannered…"
"And yet you never tell me to stop," purred Caranthir. Elrohir blushed dark red, and kept walking. He could hear a faint whistle in Caranthir's breath. It was an especially bad noise to hear from an Elf; seldom did they make such a sound without it being the sign of a most serious malady.
"I love my husband," said Elrohir.
"Of that I have little doubt, though I confess I am less convinced of your tales of biting and babies. But I am dead, and you are in a dream. Does it matter what we do?"
Elrohir blushed again. "How could I face my husband?"
"You could look him straight in his beautiful blue eyes…"
"Green."
"You could look him straight in his beautiful green eyes and say 'My love I had the oddest dream.' As I said, I am dead, and you are but having a vision."
Elrohir walked, making his way towards the sound of the lark. He did not know how he knew, but he understood that if he could lead Caranthir to the place where the lark sang, the Elf would be all right. He would find safety and love, and gentle spirits to care for him. He had only to get him to where the lark sang…
"And what if he will not go?" Elrohir whispered, having the very odd feeling that someone other than Caranthir was listening.
"He will follow you. He desires what you have."
"Well he can't have that!"
The voice laughed quietly. "Your light. You are alive. He wishes life too, but he may not have it yet. His fëa is weak, and stained. He has paid, now he must be healed. Lead him to the lark."
"But I came for Celegorm."
"Caranthir first, Celegorm later," said the voice, gently but firmly.
Elrohir nodded. He paused, and looked over his shoulder at Caranthir. The tall Elf was breathing heavily, standing some distance away, his ribs heaving. He coughed: a wet, unhealthy sound. He tried a step, but he was shaking, and his knees nearly buckled.
"Look at him," said Elrohir. "He is so ill, and weary. He will never make it."
"He will. He must. Lure him in, Elrohir. He cannot stay here any longer. He has been here too long already. He was never meant to be caught in the shadow realm, this world of vengeful dead. His own shame trapped him here, and he has had every angry spirit he ever wronged take vengeance on him many times over. He has paid. But his shame and fear prevents him from seeking shelter. He does not believe he deserves succor."
"Can you not catch him?" asked Elrohir. He winced as Caranthir coughed again.
"We have tried, we have all tried. But our ruses do not work on him, and he will not heed our calls. He is afraid. And he is in grave danger."
Elrohir nodded. "All right. I will lead him in. But you will explain this all to my husband."
The voice laughed again, a gentle, loving sound. "Do what you can, young Elrohir. I promise you, no shame or hurt will befall you or your beautiful family."
Elrohir nodded once more, then called to the ghost. "Lord Caranthir! Do you abandon the chase so easily?"
There came a glimpse of the black light, and Caranthir coughed.
"Chase be damned, I am dying on my feet and you already told me no. It shall be dark soon, they will come for me, and you have led me too far from safety. My wants shall see my guts spilled."
Elrohir smiled, and reached for the belt of his kilt. He opened the buckle, and let the garment slip form his hips. Holding it in his right hand, his spear in the other, he stood naked, watching Caranthir struggle to catch his breath.
"If you chase but a little further, I can promise you the rewards will be well worth it."
Caranthir eyed him, not with lust, but suspicion. He glanced around, his expression wary, and Elrohir could see Caranthir had misgivings about what was happening.
"And what if I abandon the chase?" asked Caranthir.
Elrohir smiled. "It is up to you, my Lord. I came to find Celegorm."
Elrohir waited, stomach twisted, waiting to see what the Elf would do. He was a wary thing, and it was clear he had been stalked many times. Elrohir feared he would sense a trap and flee, but at long last, Caranthir's yearning for passion and companionship won out.
"And where shall the chase end?"
"By the lark. That is where I must go."
Caranthir seemed satisfied. He gathered his strength, and once more resumed his pursuit. Elrohir laughed and ran ahead of him. He did not move too quickly, for fear of leaving him behind, but he wanted Caranthir concentrating on the chase, not pondering what trap he may be falling into.
They reached the lark, and fled from a land of death and spirits into a garden, running between hedges of roses, the bloody scorched ground now soft green grass, and the sky overhead a crystal blue. The stink of rotting bodies was replaced with the scents of sweet water, and blooming plants, and Elrohir laughed, relieved to be away from the place.
He darted left, and suddenly found himself trapped in a little courtyard, surrounded on three sides by rose hedges. There was a small fountain, cut of white stone, the basin filled with polished pebbles of smooth glass to make the water sparkle, and there were little wrought iron benches upon which to sit. It was all very charming. But there was no way out, and Elrohir did not fancy climbing a rose hedge in the nude.
"Well, well, I see my fox has run out of room to run."
Elrohir sighed as he felt Caranthir press close, and tried to think what he would say to Frost. "I saved a lost fëa! I did it by offering him my body and then getting my fool self caught in a garden courtyard and letting him shag my brains out. How was your day?"
Elrohir did not think Frost would be impressed.
Caranthir edged closer, breathing softly on his neck, his dirty, scarred hands slowly caressing the younger Elf's soft flesh. He made a quiet growl, and nipped his shoulder gently. Elrohir sighed, and shook his head. Well it was his own silly fault, and he had promised Caranthir the chase would be worth it. The Elf had a gentle touch. There was no roughness to his caresses, no cruelty or meanness. He was careful and considerate, which Elrohir found rather odd. He had expected Caranthir to simply take what he wished without thought to his companion, but clearly that was not the case.
Elrohir closed his eyes, and permitted Caranthir to explore and caress him. Then Elrohir began to do some exploring of his own. He turned to face Caranthir and gently undid his breeches, slipping his hand inside. He found a very large erection, closing his hand over it and gently squeezing and stroking it. Caranthir growled quietly with pleasure, closing his eyes, delighting in the feel of the younger Elf's hand. Elrohir shook his head. Was this Elf a half-blood or not? Mustering his courage, he slid his hand down further, and carefully sought the passage that would clearly once and for all declare Caranthir's heritage.
He found nothing, at least, he found nothing that was not supposed to be on a male Elf. As Elladan would put it, "I found an exit but no entrance." So what about the nipping and the nudging and the sniffing? Well, perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for that. Perhaps Caranthir was just strange in the head. He certainly would not be the only one in his family.
Caranthir breathed a quiet sigh of passion, and slowly thrust into Elrohir's hand.
"Do you have any idea how lovely you are, or how long it has been since…?"
Caranthir suddenly froze, and his head shot up. He listened, then pushed Elrohir aside and hastily closed his breeches.
"Bastard! You trapped me! Do you have any idea what you have done?"
Elrohir stumbled backwards. He opened his mouth to speak, but Caranthir was in no mood to listen, he was far too concerned with saving his own hide. Elrohir gasped as the tall Elf ran into the courtyard, then leapt, catching hold of the hedge with its many thorns and climbed it like a wild thing. He was over the nine-foot-high obstacle in seconds, and off. Elrohir quickly put his kilt back on and ran after him.
"Caranthir! They only want to help!"
Caranthir clearly did not believe him, if indeed he even heard. He ran, dodging and darting, moving fast, heading over hedges and fences like a stag with a pack of hounds on his heels. He was clearly looking for the place from whence he had come, but there was no way back. He darted through the garden, terrified, then, noticing a gate, he ran for it. He leapt onto it and was over it in a moment, and he was off running again while Elrohir struggled to climb the great iron structure.
"Catch him!" called a voice.
"Ai! He is like a wild horse!"
"He is frightened," said a female voice. "Stop scaring him."
Elrohir managed to get over the gate, and went after Caranthir, cursing softly. Poor Elf only wanted warmth and passion, and now he was being chased all over Arda. Panting, he found the square where Caranthir was now, and saw several large beings attempting to confine the terrified Elf. Caranthir ducked and weaved and dodged, but it was clear he was running out of strength. He was coughing heavily, and his movements were slowing. Finally, a very tall woman stepped forward, and gently captured him, wrapping him in her shawl. She spoke softly to him, and stroked the black, sweat-dampened hair.
"I have him," she said, her tone gentle.
"Well done, my love," said a tall figure, robed in black. He drew back his hood and revealed himself to be a being of such beauty that Elrohir could but stare. The being walked to the woman and softly kissed her. "But then again so fair a maid as you could capture any Elf she fancied."
The woman laughed. "You flatter me."
Elrohir stepped forward, reaching out to touch Caranthir's hair. He was ill and exhausted, and shaking with terror. Elrohir had no idea why he was not standing in a puddle of his own urine; he was surely frightened enough. The other beings went off on their own business, while the figure in black looked towards Elrohir, and smiled.
"Well done young Elrohir, this little bit of mischief is no easy prey. We even sent Oromë after him a few times, but he knew him too well. We knew that if he were to be captured, it would have to be by one other than us."
Elrohir slowly knelt, bowing his head. "I am pleased to have been of assistance, Lord Námo. But if I may ask, what will be come of Caranthir now?"
Námo smiled as Vairë stroked Caranthir's hair, trying to calm him. "He will come to the Halls, and he will mend. In time, he will be reborn."
Elrohir reached out to touch Caranthir, relieved to see he was not so frightened as he had been. Námo smiled.
"You have earned our thanks, young Elrohir."
"Did I earn the right to ask a few questions?"
"You did. But wait here, I pray, and let me get our newly caught colt settled. He will feel better once he is warm and his belly is full. He has friends in the Halls, who will be glad to see him again."
"I shall wait," said Elrohir.
He seated himself on a bench, and watched as Námo slowly led the ill and battered fëa of Caranthir away. Caranthir was still pulling, but he had little strength. He seemed frightened and confused, and at one point he simply stopped and refused to take another step. Without realizing he was about to do so, Elrohir stood up.
"My Lord Námo, could… could I take him?"
Námo halted and looked at Elrohir. "Take him? Whatever for?"
Elrohir toyed with his spear, looking much like a child. "I think he and his father could very much use each other right now. They are both ill, and frightened, and I know Fëanor would dearly love to see him again."
Námo stared at Elrohir as if he had lost his mind, and he was on the verge of giving him a dressing down, when he caught a glimpse of his wife as she stood behind the young Elf. She had an expression on her face that gently begged for Námo to grant Elrohir's request, and spare Caranthir the Halls. He had paid for his crimes, and more heavily than he would have had Manwë himself sentenced him. Námo sighed, and caved. Against his wife, he was defenseless.
"Very well, young Elrohir. He is yours to look after, but heed my warning. Any mischief he creates shall be YOUR business. Since you have requested to care for him, he is your responsibility. I give him to you, and yours he shall remain for five hundred years. After that you may release him, or, if you do not feel he has fully repented the evil he hath wrought, you may send him back to me. But for the next five hundred years, Caranthir is YOUR BUSINESS."
Elrohir bowed respectfully. "Yes my Lord Námo, I will do as you say. Thank you."
Námo brought Caranthir back to Elrohir and departed, no longer in a mood for answering any of Elrohir's questions. Elrohir looked at the damaged and ill Noldo standing before him, his knees shaking, his breath whistling. Elrohir sighed.
"Well I always did want a pet," he said dryly, and smiled as Vairë the Weaver giggled at him. |
