I said "Mama, he's crazy and he scares me.
But I want him by my side.
Though he's wild and he's bad,
he’s sometimes just plain mad.
I need him to keep me satisfied."
Misguided angel hangin' over me.
Heart like a Gabriel, pure white as ivory.
Soul like a Lucifer, black and cold like a piece of lead.
Misguided angel, love you 'til I'm dead.
- Cowboy Junkies, ‘Misguided Angel’.
You'll never know, you'll never know
Which way to turn, which way to look, you'll never see us
As we're stealing through the blackness of the night
You'll never know, you'll never hear us…
- Al Stewart, ‘Road to Moscow’.
Faramir sat on the bed, sipping tea, watching the storm from the tower window. The distant flashes of thunder illuminated the pounding rain, the lashing trees, and the fields, their crops flattened by the wrathful wind. It was frightening, yet strangely beautiful.
Not, he mused, unlike the Elf beside him.
Fëanor slept, but he was restless, and uncomfortable. Occasionally he would speak in his sleep, but the language was Quenya, and Faramir did not know it. He watched the Elf toss, then thrash, and finally sit up abruptly with a yelp of pain. Faramir set down his tea and reached for him.
“It’s all right, I am here. Do you hurt?”
Fëanor held his side and winced, eyes wet with tears as he sucked in a breath of air. He swore in his own tongue, then looked down at his hand, wet with reeking pus.
“Let me tend that for you,” said Faramir.
Fëanor snapped his gaze towards the Man, blazing a sudden and violent blue-white, eyes turning to hellfire.
“I can tend my OWN wounds, Mortal!”
Faramir pulled back, hurt and frightened, his first glimpse of Fëanor’s legendary wrath proving to be rather cowering, though this in truth was little more than a fit of pique. Faramir hastily got off the bed.
“Then I am sorry to have troubled you. I shall leave.”
Fëanor eyed him for a time, then sighed, and the light dimmed. “Nay, do not go Faramir, please. I am sorry. I am exhausted and in pain, and my dreams are troubling. Please, help me with these fouled bandages.”
Faramir nodded, and went for the clean gauze, though he could feel his hands shaking. The outburst reminded him of a tale about a mouse who lived in a dragon’s cave. After long years, the mouse forgot to fear the beast, as the dragon had no interest in such a small animal. It was not until the mouse stole a single silver coin that he remembered, too late, who his companion really was. And Faramir had no illusions as to who was the mouse in this relationship, and who the dragon.
“Perhaps if you told me about your dreams, it would help.”
Fëanor shook his head. “I do not see how. I dream of my little Curufin, my little spark of fire. He was my favourite, I am ashamed to admit, though I tried never to let my other babies know it.” He laughed dryly. “Babies. Do you hear me? I sound like an old mortal woman. Seven sons, and all of them a damned sight taller than I, and most of them almost as crazy. Poor little Curufin. I dream I see him as a small child, and he is sitting on a dirty bed in the ruins of a great stronghold. I see him so clearly that I could swear he is there, and alive. He calls out to me and I want to take him home… but…”
Fëanor lowered his head, shaking it to chase out the painful memories. “Pass me the gauze. And where is my wine?”
“I was not aware that you asked for any.”
“I thought in my case the need did not require mentioning.”
“You may not have any. You are supposed to be mending.” Faramir turned and crossed the room, going for a basket of bandages, salves and ointments.
Fëanor sighed dramatically. “And how am I to mend without wine?” His eyes flicked about the room. It was very dark, and lit only by a few tongues of fire in the hearth. Fëanor’s eyes were not good to begin with, but in this light he was positively blind. He made his best guess at where Faramir was and fluttered his eyelashes. “Just a glass?”
“I find it unlikely that old suit of armour is swayed by your charms, considerable though they may be.”
“Oh bother.”
Faramir laughed. “Fine. A glass, then, but only because I have a soft spot for Elves with poor eyesight.”
“Then it is indeed a very good thing I happen to be one.”
Faramir poured him a large glass of wine, and brought it to him, smiling, looking into the cold, mad, and virtually useless pools of blue. “Did you know you’re lovely?”
“No. Tell me.”
“You’re lovely. And once you are well I am going to do all manner of naughty things to you.”
He gently kissed Fëanor, still finding it strange to be kissing another male. He tried to visualize kissing any male, Elf or Mortal, other than Fëanor, and failed. This was the exception to the rule; should their love fade he would not have another of the same gender. He decided he would write Éowyn and tell her all about Fëanor; she would be most amused to know he was in love with an Elf. Though their own love had never quite grown in the way he had hoped, she was still his dearest friend. And speaking of love…
Faramir drew back, and said softly; “I know you told me not to fall in love with you, as you did not think you could give love in return, and so would break my heart.”
“I still think this,” said Fëanor quietly.
“I love you anyway.”
Fëanor smiled; indeed he almost blushed. Then he laughed. “My former wife still lives if you would like to hear a comprehensive list of what a rotten spouse I am.”
“Nay I should like to learn all your bad habits first hand. It is more fun that way.”
“I talk in my sleep.”
“I know.”
“In fact I have been known to fight whole battles in my sleep.”
“I know, Maedhros told me a most charming tale about you sitting bolt upright, shouting “Slay the hamsters, death to all cheese!” and throwing yourself completely off the bed.”
Fëanor sighed and rolled his eyes. “I DO wish that child would forget that story. But yes. I am a most restless sleeper. I once apparently woke my wife up and asked her about that milkmaid’s uniform was she used to wear. Having never been a milkmaid, you can imagine the interrogation I awoke to.”
Faramir howled with laughter. He gently pushed Fëanor back to the pillows, and began cleaning the large sore. He was about to speak when, to his complete horror, he felt something move beneath the Elf’s skin. He leapt back, eyes wide.
“Something moved! I felt it! Beneath your flesh, it moved!”
“Oh. Probably just Roderick.”
Faramir looked at Fëanor, who was still sipping his wine. “Roderick?”
“My parasite. Picked him up at some Valar-forsaken place in my wanderings. I had no way to get rid of him, and he didn’t seem to be doing me any harm, so I left him.”
Faramir stared at Fëanor, horrified. “That’s positively ghastly! And I’ve been kissing you!”
“Oh Roderick is a very good worm, he never looks when I kiss.”
“But why have you not had this removed?”
“Oh and do what with him? Really Faramir, flushing one’s friends is hardly the thing done in polite society.”
Faramir shrieked with a combination of horror, disbelief and amusement. “Love you, love your intestinal parasites, is that it?”
“Well he’s actually more of a true worm, lives in mud and eats carrion. I suspect he slithered into me when I was lying in a mutilated heap, more dead than alive. He fed on the decaying flesh of my wounds, completely unaware that he was saving my life. By the time I knew he was in there, I was well enough to begin dragging myself home and mostly healed. I did not see the point in punching a hole in myself just to get one worm, whom I assumed would die once he ran out of food. Well he never did; Elves are immortal, and in order to remain agelessly beautiful we regenerate flesh at what I believe Elrond would call an accelerated rate. So! Roderick lives in my guts and munches old scar tissue and anything else I don’t need.”
“Fëanor, I hereby request that you set Roderick loose in a swamp.”
“I can’t. He’ll be lonely. And where is he going to find a fine port wine in a swamp? You know he gets very lively when I drink port. And it’s actually Sir Roderick; I had him officially knighted for saving the King’s life.”
“GET RID OF THE WORM OR I’M NEVER HAVING SEX WITH YOU AGAIN!”
“Oh fine, you big baby. As soon as I am well enough.”
“Now.”
Fëanor eyed Faramir sourly. “You expect me to put a worm out on a night like this?”
“Then I’ll make him a tank. He can live with you. He can even get drunk with you. He can have the other worms over for an orgy.”
“Fine. If you make Roderick a nice tank, I’ll have him removed. But he wants the nice mud by the pond, not the dirty stuff that the horses tread through. And toss him in a bit of steak.”
Faramir nodded and stood up to dress. Once properly clothed for a brief journey into the storm, he leaned over the bed and looked at the smallish Elf lying there.
“You’re mad.”
“Thank you.”
“And you scare me.”
“You’re very wise.”
Faramir grinned. “But I love you.” He kissed him. “And when I come back I want to see that sore has been cleaned.”
“Thy will be done. Top up my glass.”
Faramir did, and left the room, making his way down the stairs and passed a small group of tall Elves he did not know, gathered to keep Fingon and his new baby company.
“A mortal passes!” cried Fingon, and toasted him. “Whither do you go on such a night?”
Faramir paused, and thought about that. Finally he looked at the beautiful, dark-haired Elf.
“My Lord Fingon, trust me. You are much happier not knowing.”
***---***
Erestor was vaguely aware of Glorfindel rising from their bed and leaving the room, likely making his bleary way to the bathroom. Erestor smiled and immediately snuggled into the warm spot left by his husband. Wrapped into a cozy cocoon of quilts, he waited for Fin to return to the room, put another log on the fire, and nestle once more under the covers with him.
He waited, and waited. Finally he sat up and looked around. Fin was not back yet. Erestor felt a small knot of worry in his belly as he rose from the bed. The air was cold, so he pulled a robe around himself before going to the fire and building it up slightly. Then he went to the door and pulled the door open.
He sighed in relief as he saw Fin. Standing with him was Ecthelion, which explained the delay. He smiled and was about to approach them, when he saw something that stopped him dead in his tracks, and tied his guts into a sickly tangle of worms. It was Fin and Ecthelion all right, but they were not talking. They were kissing. Erestor watched in horror and agony as Ecthelion’s hands slid beneath Fin’s robe, running over his powerful shoulder, caressing his neck. Their eyes were closed, their tongues exploring one another. Erestor did not want to look, but he could not force himself to turn away. Fin and Ecthelion broke off their kiss, and settled into an embrace, Ecthelion stroking his hand over Glorfindel’s white hair.
“So when are you going to tell him?”
Glorfindel sighed, responding to Ecthelion’s caresses. “Oh who knows, eventually I suppose. I don’t suppose Lord Elrond will be amused about my walking out on a pregnant lover, but I can’t pretend to love him anymore. Honestly it makes my stomach turn to touch him…”
Erestor pulled back into the room, slamming the door, not caring who heard him. He turned and fled for the basin in the room, vomiting. It was all his horrors come home to roost, every nightmare he’d ever had, right there in the hall. He looked around the room, suddenly confused and terrified. What would he do, where would he go? How would he look after his children?
“Darling are you all right?”
Erestor turned and found himself face to face with Glorfindel, and the concern in his eyes was evident. Erestor felt the world begin to spin, and he was fast becoming incoherent. Behind him stood Ecthelion, his eyes also filled with worry. Glorfindel gave his highly distraught husband a slight shake.
“Erestor! Darling talk to me!”
Erestor gasped. “I saw you. I saw you in the hall with Ecthelion. You were kissing him, talking about how I disgusted you.” His eyes filled with tears as Glorfindel and Ecthelion exchanged glances.
“Erestor I can assure you that we were NOT kissing in the hallway, and you do not disgust me. You’re my husband, my love, my whole existence. My dear dull Erestor how in all Arda could you say such a thing?!” He tried to pull Erestor close, but the hysterical advisor struck out, hitting Glorfindel in the jaw and knocking him back into Ecthelion’s arms.
“How could I say such a thing?! How could you DO such a thing! I saw you! I heard you! You said it turned your stomach to touch me!”
Fin blinked, surprised at the amount of force Erestor had put into the blow. “Darling I don’t know what happened but…”
Erestor ran to the door and yanked it open, then stopped. There were two Elves in the hallway, one an ellon with long black hair, one an elleth with hair the colour of snow. They were kissing and caressing, and speaking in hushed tones about eloping and abandoning a pregnant wife. Erestor looked from the pair to Ecthelion and Glorfindel, eyes welling with tears of shame and confusion.
“I… I saw…”
Glorfindel ran forward and pulled him into his arms, weeping. “Oh darling I don’t know what you saw, but it was not me, I swear. I would never do something like that to you, never. I love you.”
“Fin, I don’t feel so well…”
“I’ve got you, my love. Don’t worry.” Fin gently picked him up, and Erestor burst into tears.
“What? Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
Erestor drew a sobbing breath. “I punched you in the face!”
Ecthelion snorted with scarcely-restrained laughter, and Glorfindel held his upset husband closer.
“Oh it’s alright love, you were distraught, and had I actually been kissing Ecthelion in the hall I would have certainly deserved it.”
Erestor drew a shivering breath. “Well it may not have been you and Ecthelion, but those two in the hall are speaking about leaving some poor woman in a dreadful position.”
“I shall deal with them,” said Ecthelion. He leaned forward and gave Erestor a kiss on the brow. “Be well, my friend. And allow me to assure you that Fin and I would never, ever, do anything so unspeakable to you.”
Erestor nodded, and watched as Ecthelion left the room. He then turned his head to look at Glorfindel.
“I don’t know what I saw. I was so sure…”
“Hush,” said Glorfindel gently. “You are under a great deal of stress. Come on, let me put you back to bed. I’m sorry, I should not have left you alone, I ended up talking to Ecthelion and… oh darling I am so sorry.”
Erestor settled in his husband’s arms and closed his eyes, shivering. “Just so long as you are here,” he whispered.
“I am here. And I am never leaving.”
Glorfindel carried Erestor over to the bed and laid him on it, covering him over. He then slid into bed and drew Erestor into his arms, holding him against his chest. Eventually, Erestor calmed down and fell asleep.
***---***
Elrohir drew his breath and opened his eyes, awakening from his vision-journey to find himself in the same room as when he began. Nothing had changed; Maedhros was still asleep in the nesting chair, his arm flung across the twins, who were spooned into a tight bundle. All was silent, save for the moan of the wind, and a strange, gasping whistle…
Elrohir rose to his feet and looked around. He found Caranthir not far away, huddled in a chair, rocking in a desperate attempt to get warm. It only took a cursory glance to tell Elrohir that Caranthir was burning with fever.
“I’m so cold…” he whispered.
Elrohir nodded. “Wait here. We will get you seen to.”
He turned and ran to Maedhros, gently shaking his shoulder. One green eye opened to regard him sourly.
“This better be good.”
Elrohir hauled him into a sitting position where he could see the Elf. Maedhros stared, then drew an audible gasp, leaping out of the nesting chair and running to his brother.
“Caranthir is that really you?”
Caranthir coughed miserably, wiping blood from his mouth. “Maedhros?’
Maedhros stroked the dirty black hair, eyes brimming with tears. “Where in the name of Manwë did you come from?”
“Elrohir led me out of the shadow world,” he whispered, his voice a breathless rasp. “Maedhros I’m so sick…”
Maedhros looked towards Elrohir, who began quietly giving him instructions. “We need to get him cleaned up and get the fever down. I have some willow bark and a few other things we can use; you take him upstairs and put him in a cool bath.”
“Cool?” said Caranthir, the distress obvious in his voice. “I’ve freezing already!”
“You feel cold because you’re burning up. We’ll get you clean, in bed and take care of your fever. In the morning I will get my father and my husband; they will know how to treat the pneumonia.”
Maedhros picked Caranthir up and began carrying him up the stairs. Caranthir coughed.
“I don’t want you giving me a bath.”
“Oh I’ve seen your skinny naked backside before.”
“When were you looking at my backside, you pervert?”
“Oh we all saw your backside, Naneth couldn’t keep you dressed no matter what she did, you little nudist. Come on, we’ll get you clean, then we’ll all go sleep in Atar’s bed, like when we were kids.”
“Hopefully that does not mean you will be wetting it like you did when we were kids.”
“I never wet the bed; that was Celegorm.”
Caranthir coughed. “He was shagging Curufin, you know.”
“He was NOT, and if Atar hears you spouting that hackneyed myth he’ll send you back from whence you came.”
Maedhros carried Caranthir into the bathing chamber, and set him in a chair before pouring the tepid, scented water, adding a large amount of bubble bath. Caranthir could barely undress himself; he was shivering uncontrollably, and was almost too weak to rise to his feet. Maedhros distastefully helped him to remove the filthy, tattered rags, wincing at the old healed scars that covered his brother’s body, and the paper thin skin over the broken ribs. Tears came unbidden to his eyes as he helped Caranthir into the bath.
“Oh Caranthir… I am so sorry…”
“For what? ‘T was not you who began this madness.”
“But…”
“Maedhros, I can assure you, the last thing I want to talk about is the Silmarils or the past or who should have done what and to whom and how. I have paid for every stupid thing I ever did twenty times over. Now I just want to take a bath and master the fine art of breathing.”
Maedhros had to smile despite the dressing down, remembering well Caranthir’s famous temper.
“I’m sorry. I am just grieved to see you thusly.”
“What? Naked? And Celegorm was too shagging Curufin.”
“He was NOT!!”
“How do you know?”
“I asked them.”
“And of course they denied it! What are they supposed to say?”
Maedhros rolled his eyes. “Do not spread such fibs about your brothers.”
“Oh one fib is as good as the next, this whole family lives in a nest of lies, you know that.”
“Caranthir, you have only been home ten minutes, please do not make me drown you.”
Caranthir smiled. “Dear Maedhros. You were always far too easy to tease.” He reached up one shaking hand and touched his face, his eyes filling with tears. “I missed you so very much.”
“As I missed you, little brother. Come, let us get you cleaned and snuggled in bed. When is the last time you had food?”
Caranthir shook his head. “One does not eat where I have been. One merely endures the passage of time, and awaits the next beating. Over and over again, the vengeful dead came for me, and over and over again I lived through my own execution. Námo released me because the Valar had no punishment worse than the one I gave myself. So when Elrohir asked to bring me home, they gave me to him. I fear I must answer to him for the next five hundred years, but after the thousands I have endured, I do not think myself badly off.” He looked at Maedhros. “And what of you? Did you die?”
“I did,” said Maedhros. “I threw myself into a chasm of fire.”
“And did you go to the Halls of Mandos?”
“I…” Maedhros paused and looked confused. He pondered for a moment. “I… I’m not sure. I don’t remember.”
Caranthir raised an eyebrow. “You… do not remember? How could you forget that? Who are your rebirth parents?”
“My…?” Maedhros looked puzzled. “I didn’t have any. I walked home from the Halls.”
Caranthir rolled his eyes and coughed, wiping a trace of blood from his lip. “Maedhros, one does not walk home from the Halls.”
“Well that’s what Fingon said I did.”
Caranthir smirked. “I hardly think our dear cousin is an unbiased witness when it comes to you.”
Maedhros found himself blushing furiously. “Shut up and let me wash your hair before I drown you.”
***---***
Rabbit lay in the dark, blinking sleepily, like a great cat, growling very, very softly.
Haldir made a quiet sound in his sleep, and Rabbit raised his head, watching his husband; his poor, beautiful and beloved husband, bound in a cast. Rabbit had heard Haldir speak to Orophin, had heard every word the pair had exchanged. Haldir loved Rabbit, but he, like most people, tended to underestimate him. Haldir viewed him as wild and innocent, and not capable of deception. But Haldir had not survived the dungeons of Barad-Dûr, had not been forced to hide and live on vermin. He did not know that his feral husband could, if need be, play lame, or sick.
Or drugged.
Oh no, Rabbit was not drugged. True, he did still very much feel the pains of the poison’s damage, and he was weak, but he was sober and awake, and he was angry. He had played the helpless patient, had even managed to coax a laugh out of his beloved, but he had heard. He knew Haldir’s injury was of his doing, and why he had done it. He had been poisoned by the Tower Fish, and driven mad.
Rabbit growled softly to the night, but his guts were sick inside of him. What if it had not been Haldir he had attacked? What if it had been Bramble, or worse, little Rivil, just learning to walk? Rabbit flinched as he unwillingly pictured himself arching through the air, landing on the baby, and unslinging his jaws to rend the tiny form limb from limb, massive blades cleaving through the small body…
Rabbit leapt off the bed in a smooth, graceful motion, heading out the window and into the dark storm to be sick. He had seen his own kind turn on their children and devour them; had witnessed it during his time in the dungeons, vowing and swearing oaths to Titania he would never do such a thing. Praise Titania that Rivil and Bramble had not come into the room. He had much to make up to Haldir, and he was not sure the relationship would survive this, but he meant to do whatever he could to earn Haldir’s trust once more.
Rabbit shook, then snapped playfully at the rain, loving the power of the wind and the soul-cleansing rain. He rose to his feet and loped away, naked and wild, from the cottage, finding a place to roll in the wet grass and the clear pools that formed in small depressions on the lawn. Titania’s Mirrors, the Thrayre-Iyre called them. Elflings believed that to gaze into them after the rain was to see the Faery Realm. Rabbit was currently using them to scrub his huge frame free of all the odours of the sickroom. He would need his senses this night.
He rose, naked, soaking wet, covered in debris, his hair hanging lank and wild. He shook, then began loping towards the cliff, where he had been shot with the thorn of the Tower Fish. He reached the place where he had been standing, and began scanning the area, trying to sort scents, making loud sneezing noises to clear the faint remaining traces of sickroom odour from his nostrils. Convinced at last that the shooter had not been on the cliff with them, he rose to his feet and looked around, trying to determine the best place from which to fire a dart.
Rabbit narrowed his eyes as he noticed an outcropping of rock not far away. The Dragon’s Claw it was called, though lately it was becoming more widely known as Syrdanna’s Perch. The green dragon was often seen on the great grey outcrop, lying on her back, wings and head dangling, toes curled in the simple joy of having a warm tummy. It was a wonderful place for a dragon to sun.
It was an even better place to fire a dart at the back of an unwary victim.
It would be a difficult shot, aye, but not impossible. Not for a skilled archer. Rabbit growled and loped towards the outcrop, seeking odours too diluted by the rain for the noses of even King Thranduil’s finest hounds to detect. Slowly, meticulously, with the care and patience of a great cat, Rabbit examined the stone. He sorted scent by scent with a careful precision vultures would give their flight feathers for. Much of what he smelled was dragon, and seagulls. Then the unmistakeable odour of Ecthelion and Ithilian, their passion spilled across the stone. Why in the name of the Faery Realm would anybody make love on a rock? Still, it was a lovely scent…
Rabbit shook his head and made his mind return to the business of sorting odours. Then he paused, returning to a small spot, mentally categorizing each faint scent, isolating the one he wanted, and breathing in. And suddenly, he recalled where he had smelled this scent before. It was faint; most likely not the actual shooter, but transferred to him from another. His body began to shake, and his lips drew back, growling quietly. Suddenly he sucked air and snarled, then bounded off with all speed, tracking the scent back to the source.
The storm raged, and Rabbit would have long ago turned back, leaving the wind and rain to play their wild games and seek the warmth of his husband. Rabbit would have, but not Ta’Na Yar, who had led his suitor Wolf Hunter on the longest chase ever known in the history of his clan, who had slain Auroch to feed his pregnant Sia and prove his worth to his lover. He had been Rabbit only a little time; he had been Ta’Na Yar much longer, and this was the Elf who hunted in the darkness. Clan Warrior, and protector, slayer of a servant of Sauron, he was not an Elf to be underestimated. The handful of years spent with Haldir were not enough to undo the centuries upon centuries of hiding, and hunting, and scheming needed to save his own life. Nor was it enough to quiet the cold rage he still harboured in his breast over all the things that had befallen his clan, family and children.
He loped through the night, moving fast, demonstrating the power and stamina that had astounded Wolf Hunter millennia ago. He reached his destination winded, his joints on fire, but more angry and determined than ever. He found a place to observe the area, hunkering down in the long grass. His eyes shone yellow-green in the darkness, occasionally briefly rolling back in his head to show white, hiding their gleam whenever he thought he heard something.
It was a small village, but a wealthy one. Wealth meant guards, but well-fed guards in times of peace were less likely to be alert than hungry guards in times of war. Rabbit had little time to plot, and less time to get back home. The sun would be up in two hours, and twenty miles now lay between himself and his bed. He knew the gravity of what he was about to do, and how it would be viewed, but he was not starting the fight. He was finishing it. It was not he who began this battle, it was Hannilgil’s mother. It was she who had killed the child Frost would have born her son, and four others with her lies and poisons. And when that was not enough, she showed up to taunt him, for which the Valar had punished her soundly. Rabbit would have thought that the end of the matter, but no. Alinuia had sent an archer to poison him, to turn him into a killer, and though her scent had been faint and mingled with that of her archer, it had been there. And had not Oromë said should she harm his kind again, no Vala would come to her aid?
Alinuia had harmed him again, and she had done it in the most cowardly manner possible. Likely she thought herself very clever, hiring an archer to use as a cat’s paw. But she, like so many others, underestimated what he was capable of. Scent was a fickle thing; it leapt to another so very easily. All it took was a touch, a caress, a passing in close quarters. Or a handful of gold coins in a small velvet bag that had once spent time between a lady’s breasts.
Rabbit slipped down the hill like a shadow, finding a pine tree and rolling himself in the fragrant needles; he had to be careful to keep himself and his scent hidden. He carefully followed the trails of fragrance into a garden, pausing as he found a new odour. Dogs; tiny ones, judging from the scent trail and the lumps of scat the gardener had poked under a bush. Even tiny dogs could alert a mistress to danger, and they were often more fierce than their larger counterparts.
Rabbit slipped through the garden towards the large manor house that Alinuia called home, seeking and finding the balcony to her bedchamber. It was on the ground floor, surrounding a great glass door, heavily curtained. He slipped over the railing, and slunk across the stone to the door, sniffing, casting his head about to track the odours. She was there, all right, sleeping the sleep of the self-justified.
A small dog suddenly shot out of a tiny doorway, growling and yapping. Its life ended silently and suddenly, massive jaws severing its neck. Carrying the limp body in his mouth, Rabbit went over the balcony railing and hid in the garden, hunkering low, watching the door, waiting. He saw a flicker of movement, and crouched lower, rolling his eyes back into his head to hide the gleam.
The balcony door opened, and a female voice called out into the storm. “Button? Button get back here you silly dog, I’ll not have you trailing mud all over the rugs!”
Rabbit lowered his head, letting the corpse of the small dog fall from his jaws. The green eyes flickered light as he let them roll down long enough to see what the elleth was doing. She was glancing about, wrapped a heavy house coat.
“Button!”
Rabbit growled very softly, lips drawing back, his body almost invisible as he crouched amidst the bushes. Then he began making small distressed sounds, high-pitched cries like those of a small dog. Alinuia sighed.
“Button what have you done to yourself?” She turned as if to go into the house and find a servant, but Rabbit made a short, sharp sound, and Alinuia rose to the bait.
“Button? Are you all right?” She stepped over the low railing surrounding the balcony and began making her way towards the cries.
Rabbit coiled like a spring, eyes rolled back so not to give away his position, holding absolutely dead still, listening as she drew near. Then he let his eyes roll down, and watched as she stopped short, eyes growing wide in fear as she saw the bright lamps of yellow-green light.
“Button?” she asked, hopefully.
Rabbit leapt straight up, catching her around the throat, eyes rolling back in his head as his jaws sprung shut, bisecting her neck neatly with two deep, clean slices, his great weight throwing her to the ground. She flailed wildly, small fists pounding on his shoulders in a futile effort to throw him off, but she did not struggle long. Her movements slowed, and in mere moments she was gone. Rabbit growled, and began backing away, dragging her body deeper into the garden, paying no heed as her head fell off, torn loose from the few rags of skin. Dropping her lifeless white body beneath a tree, he began using his teeth to shear through meat and bone, finding her heart, and her liver, swallowing them in massive chunks, using her body to fuel his own for the long run home. The guards saw nothing, reluctant to go into the storm after a small yappy dog that had bitten each of them in turn. They were even less willing to venture into the darkness when they began hearing a soft, high-pitched, hellish giggling...
Rabbit ate what he needed, knowing her blood would force his own body into a fertility cycle. He would just have to suffer through that. Finally he slipped away, following his own route back up the hill. He found a few large puddles to roll in, cleaning himself thoroughly, then loping back home, clearing twenty miles in just under an hour, hopping in through the bedroom window of his little cottage with the innocence dogs seemed to be able to muster after a night of running deer and fornicating. He shook himself, then dried his naked body as well as he was able. Finally he burrowed under the covers, and sighed contentedly, the images of himself rending Rivil limb from limb gone from his mind. The green eyes closed, and Rabbit fell into a heavy sleep.
***---***
Elrohir was dreaming. He was exhausted from the long day, and his spirit journey into the shadow world. He lay in Fëanor’s enormous bed, surrounded by his friend’s sons, his thoughts far, far away, in another age, in another bed, in a house than no longer stood, saved for a few ruins.
Elrohir watched Celegorm sleep, his breathing deep and regular. He was a large Elf, and beautiful, swathed in a living mantle of long, thick golden hair. He was asleep face down in a pile of pillows, knotted into an untidy pile of blankets, one foot sticking out and hanging off the edge of the bed. An enormous hound, easily the size of a war horse, was licking it. Elrohir sighed and shook his head. Funny how even the notorious lost their aura of awe and power whilst asleep.
“Huan piz orf,” muttered Celegorm.
Huan did not stop licking. Celegorm did not pull in the foot. In fact he seemed to fall back to sleep, and the dog only ceased his washing of his master’s foot when the door opened. The gigantic beast thumped his tail, and the noise was like a troll flogging a drum. He sneezed, then wrinkled up his nose in a doggie smile. His greeting was rewarded when a tall, graceful Elf walked over to him and hugged him.
Curufin was taller than his father, more slender, almost wispy, but there the differences ended. He had the same intense blue eyes, the same waterfall of blue black hair, the same face… if the two were stood side by side, Elrohir was not sure he could tell the pair apart at first glance.
Curufin played with Huan, gently roughhousing with the massive animal, making dog noises at him. Elrohir had heard Huan was supposed to have the gift of speech, but if he did, he did not use it then. Curufin kissed the dog on the top of his head, then rose to his feet. Quietly he undressed; changing into a nightshirt, then began untangling the blankets from around his brother, until he had enough bedding to cover himself. He then slid into the bed beside his brother, draping an arm around him, resting his head on his back. Huan resumed licking Celegorm’s foot. For a brief time, no one moved.
“You know,” said Celegorm, “it’s small wonder folk are beginning to talk.”
“Let them. I do not like my bed. There are demons beneath it. They torment me at night. Your bed is quieter.”
Celegorm made a small sound; it may have been sympathy, it may have been acknowledgement. Huan kept licking.
“Let’s get married,” said Curufin brightly.
Celegorm slowly raised his head and looked at his brother. “I beg your pardon?”
“Let’s get married.
Celegorm sighed, clearly wanting to sleep, but humouring his sibling. He rolled to his back so he could look at him, Curufin raising his head to allow him to turn over before snuggling close once more. When Celegorm spoke, there was a bemused tone to his voice.
“Roo, we can’t get married. I’m your brother. And you’re my brother. And I’m pretty sure there is a law.”
“But I love you.”
“Yes and I love you too, but that’s different.”
“Why?”
“Well, why do you think people get married?”
“They love each other?”
“Yes, and why else?”
“They want a family?”
“Yes. And what does making a family involve?”
“Copious amounts of fornication.”
“Brilliant. So if I marry you, what do you think all of Arda is going to think we are doing?”
Curufin’s blue eyes glittered with mischief. “Coupling like mad rabbits?”
“That would be it.”
“Oh.” Curufin thought for a time. “Well I don’t want to have sex with you.”
“I am MOST relieved to know that.”
“I just want to get married.”
Celegorm sighed. Something about the tone suggested he had experienced many such conversations as this with his brother, and currently he was just waiting to find out what the punch line would be.
“Roo-bunny, why in the name of Manwë do you want to get married?”
Elrohir did not hear what Curufin said in response. He heard nothing further at all. He saw Celegorm sit up, and the two began discussing something with great intensity. Then the room began to fade, to darken. The walls became old and crumbling, the tapestries rotted away to filthy scraps, and the glass in the windows became broken shards. Soon all that was left in the room were the remains of the huge bed, and a very small, very dirty Elfling was seated in it. His long black hair was a wild mess, and the intense blue eyes were huge and frightened. In the corner stood the ragged spectre of an Elven warrior, clad in bloody, rusted armour.
“Celegorm,” said Elrohir softly. He looked towards the child on the bed. “Is that what you have been trying to tell us? Something having to do with this child?”
The scene went dark, the image blown away by a fell wind, and Elrohir sat up, blinking. He looked around at the sprawled heap of Fëanorians, smiling despite himself. Amrod and Amras were a tight bundle beneath the covers, having somehow made their way to the foot of the bed; likely an attempt to escape Maedhros, who did not wish to be parted from the pair lest they vanish. The twins had substituted Caranthir, who was twice their height and half their width, but Maedhros did not seem to have noticed.
The storm was still raging, but it would be daylight soon. Elrohir lay down once more, closing his eyes and trying to sort the dream. He then felt Maedhros roll up against him and drop an arm around him. Elrohir sighed, then elbowed him in the gut. Maedhros didn’t move a hair, but he did start to snore.
“This has easily been the most bizarre night of my life,” he muttered.
Elrohir slowly extracted himself from Maedhros, climbing out of bed and stretching. He then seated himself to examine Caranthir. He winced at the audible whistling noise he heard in his lungs, and wished the storm would break so he could fetch his father and husband.
Caranthir opened an eye and looked at Elrohir. “I’m cold,” he whispered.
“I’m not surprised you feel cold, you are burning up with fever. Here, have some of the tea I made you earlier. It’s cold but it will still help.”
Elrohir helped Caranthir to drink, then waited for him to settle once more. Once he was breathing a little easier, Elrohir slipped out of the room to make more of the healing tea. He was only half way down the stairs when he saw a familiar tall figure, gleaming with rain water, crowned in black hair, dripping wet, his body touched with stripes.
“Frost! Frost how did you get here? Oh I am so glad to see you, you have no idea! Where are the ink spots?”
“With your brother,” said Frost. “I became worried after the storm blew up and you were not home, so I set out for Fëanor’s keep. How are you?”
The two met and embraced, holding each other tightly, kissing. Elrohir buried his face in Frost’s hair and poured out the entire story, omitting nothing. Frost was not pleased about what Elrohir had almost done with Caranthir, but he understood the motive. He was less pleased that the Elf who had chased his husband for miles over a field of death was coming to live with them.
“Frost there is something very odd about this family,” said Elrohir as they continued walking down the stairs towards the kitchen.
“What do you mean?”
“Well when I was… luring…. Caranthir out of the shadow realm, he… he was doing the nip and bump thing. Like your kind do when they are young and unbound.”
“Are you certain he was not merely being silly? I have seen Glorfindel and Ecthelion engage in games very similar with their husbands.”
Elrohir shook his head. “No. It was Plains Elf behaviour, I am certain of it. He sniffed, he nipped… he was behaving like a Plains Elf!”
Frost looked puzzled. “Well if he is a half blood it is possible his female organs are simply dormant.”
“But he has no blades, not even the dropping jaw or the tendons. Even Master Erestor has the extra tendons in his jaw, though he has no blades and cannot bite. And there is more. Curufin had a child, but there is no record of a mother anywhere. Gil-galad, the last high King of the Noldor, an Elf whose genealogy should be mapped to a fine degree, has instead a very murky history. Some records indicate his father was Orodreth, but others say Fingon or possibly Maedhros is his father. I can understand record keepers thinking the mother of what is possibly the illegitimate child of a disposed prince to be of no importance. But not the family of the last High King!”
“It is odd,” agreed Frost. “Is it possible there is a strain of Plains Elvish in the line?”
“I do not know. If there is, I think they are hiding it. I think most likely they would believe it to be some flaw in the family line; an ailment passed from father to son. I think they do not know what they are, and so are hiding it. This is a royal line; they would not want it widely known they are anything but pure Noldo blood.”
“And our people have only recently returned to Valinor, and outside the House of Elrond, we are not really known.”
Elrohir looked up at his tall husband. “If you saw Caranthir would you know if he had the blood of a Plains Elf?”
Frost looked doubtful. “I do not know, Aia-Nen. My senses are sharp but even I can be fooled.”
“I just wish for you to see him.”
“How long are his bones?”
“Long. And I do mean long. He’s a tall Elf, and leggy, and he moves with that… slow sway I have noted among your kind.”
Frost nodded. “Well the Glaur-Iyre have long held the art of healing. I suppose it is possible a skilled healer could hide the perceived abnormalities. The jaw tendons could be removed, blades filed down, the jaw could be broken and reset to hide the drop.”
“But what about the other things?”
“Uteruses can be removed, a simple operation can close and hide a vagina.”
Elrohir sighed. “So we have no way of telling!”
“No. There is one last test, and though it is the most overlooked, it is the most telling, and the most skilled healer would not be able to hide it.”
Elrohir’s head snapped up. “What is it?”
Frost smiled wickedly. “If he had the blood of our people in him, and he meets another Thrayre-Iyre who is in cycle, he will know it.”
Elrohir stopped, and stared. “What?” he asked, blinking.
Frost laughed. “They will sense it. They will know it. And they will react to it. Your kind do not react to the hormonal changes of one of my kind in cycle, because you do not sense it. You do not smell it, and you are blissfully unaware of the mysteries surrounding it that would draw a Plains Elf near. A healer can hide their blades, remove their tendons, and cover their openings. But even your father cannot hide what is in the blood.”
“Well that’s a great idea, but where are we supposed to find a Plains Elf in cycle?”
Frost smiled. “Well it just so happens my assistant is in full cycle as we speak.”
“And your assistant would be…?”
“Mouse.”
Elrohir rolled his eyes. “Mouse. Of course! Is there ever a time when he is not in cycle?”
“When he’s pregnant.”
“Someone should spay the poor guy and give him a break.”
“I will have you know he is very proud of his ability to get pregnant just passing a painting. Besides, he’s going mad locked up in the house. Mari-Ton is watching his children, and Mouse has often assisted me as healer in the past. And you are most fortunate I did bring him; none know the particulars of treating pneumonia better than Mouse.”
“So all we have to do is let him come up to treat Caranthir’s pneumonia and see if anyone reacts.”
Frost nodded. “That is all we must do.” He glanced at his husband. “I do not like saying this, but I must let you know I am really not pleased with what you did with Caranthir.”
“I know,” said Elrohir. “I did not for one moment think you would be. I am sorry. I… I just did not want to see him damned forever. You forgive me, do you not?” He looked at Frost with worry in his eyes. Frost sighed.
“There is nothing to forgive, my little Aia-Nen. You were thinking like a shaman, and you did right. I however am thinking like a husband, and if he lays a hand on you, I shall do to him what Sia did to Haldir. However I shall not be able to plead innocent.”
Elrohir halted abruptly, and blinked, confused. “You… what?”
Frost paused on the stair and looked at his husband. “I said I would rip his arm off with my teeth.”
Elrohir stared at Frost. “You… you’d kill for me?”
Frost gazed back at him with green eyes. “In a heartbeat.”
Elrohir stared for a long moment at the large beautiful Elf. Then he leapt into his arms, wrapping himself around him and kissing him passionately.
“Take me now.”
Frost made a heavy, primeval growling sound, and moments later Elrohir was on his back on the wide stairs, Frost on top of him.
“It’s bad form for a healer to be aroused by violence,” remarked Frost.
“I’ll worry about it later. We need…”
“Lubricant, I know. I have a pot of anti-fungal…”
“If it will work.”
“It’ll work.”
Elrohir cried out as Frost thrust deep into him. The coupling was brief, uncomfortable and exceedingly passionate, leaving bruises and straining backs, but was well worth the effort. Rumpled and VERY pleased with themselves, they met with Mouse in the kitchen, and prepared the concoctions they would need for treating Caranthir’s pneumonia. Elrohir shook his head as he placed the last item on the tray, and Frost picked it up.
“Pneumonia is no joke in any race, but in Elves and especially Elves of the Noldo race I have never known it to be anything but fatal.”
Mouse smiled, trying to reassure Elrohir. “That is only because they did not have me there. I shall make him well, you’ll see. I’ve not lost a baby yet to this ailment.”
Elrohir hoped Mouse was right. They reached the door, and Elrohir opened it for him, leading Frost and Mouse into the mighty chamber that Fëanor called a bedroom. Both Plains Elves halted and looked around.
“This isn’t a bedroom, it’s a place to hold the next greeting of the Horses,” muttered Mouse.
Frost laughed quietly, and the trio walked over to Caranthir, carefully helping him to sit up, watching as Maedhros also stirred and sat up. The Ambarussa did not so much as twitch. Frost and Elrohir stepped back, and watched as Mouse and Caranthir interacted, waiting, holding their breath. For a long, tense period, nothing happened. Then Caranthir forced his weakened and ravaged frame to lean forward. Frost and Elrohir waited to see what he would do, the suspense like a crushing force.
Caranthir nipped the underside of Mouse’s jaw, and Mouse gently rebuffed him with a quiet huff. Caranthir retreated, and Frost and Elrohir exchanged knowing glances.
***---***
It was mid morning, and the storm had at last subsided. The air was clear and pure in a way that only comes after a great storm. The gulls wheeled in the sky, dancing in the warm winds, and the sea was a deep jade green.
Ilinuil stirred, and opened his eyes, puzzled as to where he was. Gradually the pieces all fell into place. There had been a storm off the sea, on the night of the full moon. That could only mean one thing.
“Harry you bastard what have you gotten me into?” he muttered, slowly sitting up.
Ilinuil was stiff and sore, and there was something sticky and half dried between his thighs and buttocks. He trailed his long fingers through it, and looked at the matter, then sniffed. Semen. Lots of it. Slowly he glanced left to his companion, finding a smiling, blue-bearded Dwarf, asleep and very content. Ilinuil sighed and dropped down to the pillows.
“How am I ever going to explain my way out of this?” he whispered to the ceiling. |
