The Last Homely House
Chapter Twenty Four

Rating: NC-17
Category: Humour, Drama, AU
Pairing(s): Erestor/Glorfindel, Haldir/Rabbit, Legolas/Gimli
Warnings: Slash (means: two male Elves in some kind of love) Mpreg
Summary: Thranduil tells a secret to Rabbit, Gimli thinks on old times, and something wicked appears in the halls of Imladris.

Thranduil sat in a chair in Elrond’s new golden hall, drinking and sulking, and watching the three beings before the huge fireplace not far from him. Rabbit lounged on a rug like a great cat, lean and long, his large body so relaxed he almost seemed a rug himself. Beside him sat his little daughter, Bramble.

‘A fearless little thing,’ thought Thranduil, ‘but considering what she has for parents that’s not strange.’

Next to Bramble sat another ‘fearless little thing’: Rosie. Bramble had led her into the room to sit on the rug beside Rabbit. For what purpose, Thranduil could not imagine. He watched Bramble tug at her Sia, trying to get him onto his back. It was no easy feat, and Rabbit’s lazy snoring growls implied he would much rather be left alone.

“Sia!” said Bramble impatiently, and with a heavy sigh, Rabbit rolled onto his back. Thranduil mused he would give much for guards who were built like this sinewy creature. He watched as the child put her ear to her Sia’s belly.

“Listen, Rosie! You can hear it!”

Rosie placed her head down on Rabbit. Thranduil felt his tendons shrink at the thought of what Rabbit could do to the both of them if he decided he’d had enough of this.

“You can!” said the Halfling woman, a smile on her face. “Just a wee patter!”

Thranduil’s curiosity finally got the better of him. “Might I inquire as to what the both of you are doing?”

“Listening to the baby!” said Bramble. She raised her head and looked at the King of Mirkwood. “You want to come listen too?”

Thranduil thought about Rabbit suddenly turning on him, ripping his throat out. “Ah, thank you, but no thank you, child.”

Bramble was very young, and ‘King’ was a word that held little relevancy for her. She stood up and marched over to him, taking his slender wrist in her little hands and tugging. “Come on! Come hear the baby!”

If Bramble had no idea who Thranduil was, Rosie knew exactly who this Elf was, and her face was a mask of shock. She was further surprised when he relented and stood up, coming over to the prone form and seating himself on the floor. Bramble patted Rabbit’s stomach. “Here.”

Thranduil looked at Rabbit. He was very tall, well over seven feet by his reckoning, and solid cable-like muscle from jaw to ankle. His fair skin was faintly gold in the firelight, which played over the odd tattoo on his chest. His hands were long and broad, and for an Elf he was very large-boned. He was as his gods had created him: a being meant to roam at length over the great plains of Mordor and Rohan, and no light and dainty tree-dweller. He could snap Thranduil’s neck at a whim, though his current pose suggested such a move would be too much work. Slowly, carefully, watching for any sign that the Plains-Elf was going to lunge at him, Thranduil lowered his head and listened.

He placed one ear to the flat stomach, and his expression became one of wonder as he heard the faint, rapid patter of an indescribably tiny heart. He actually laughed. “My goodness, there’s a baby in there. How long until the birth?”

“Five months exactly,” said Bramble. “Ada says he should know. How would he know?”

Thranduil smiled slightly. “I suppose because he was there.” He sat up and looked at Rabbit’s lean body. If there were a baby in there, an Elf would never know by looking. Master Erestor at least had a small round belly under his robes. Rabbit gave no indication at all.

Suddenly Meril appeared in the doorway of the Hall. “Hey Bramble! The Nazgûl made ice cream, you want some?”

“He’s not a Nazgûl, Meril,” said Rosie tiredly, getting to her feet.

“Fine, half- Nazgûl. Come get some!”

Rosie and Bramble left for ice cream, leaving Thranduil alone with Rabbit. Without thinking, he leaned down to hear the child within Rabbit’s body once more. He closed his eyes, listening to the faint patter. Rabbit, surprisingly, did not stop him. The two sat in silence for quite some time before Rabbit spoke.

“Long has it been since your children were so small.”

Thranduil started in surprise, sitting up. He pulled his long hair back, then sat cross-legged on the rug, watching the fire. “Yes, it has been a very long time. Veet and Liritar were my first, then… Legolas.”

“He is a good child.”

“Yes, he is a very good child, and I love him dearly. I suppose some day I should tell him that.” He watched the fire and smiled at old memories. “Skinny little thing. When he was but a wee child he looked like a collection of sticks.”

Rabbit rolled lazily onto his side once more. “If you love him why do you shun him?”

“It was not meant to happen this way. I had thought it would force him to give up the Dwarf. I had no idea that I would be the one dropped.”

“I know you do not wish to hear this, King of the Spider Realm, but his love for ‘the Dwarf’, as you put it, is very deep and intense, a binding of feas more than hearts. He will part with Gimli for nothing.”

“I know. I see that now. I was foolish to try to part them. But… I feared for him. He does not know that is why I did what I did. But it was fear and love that moved me. His mother made some very foolish choices, and it cost her dearly.”

Rabbit raised his head. This was the first he had ever heard a word about Legolas’ mother. “What became of her?”

Thranduil sighed and shook his head, looking down at his fingers as he plucked at a strap on his boot. “Our love was like that of Elrond’s and Rúmil’s. I was the newly crowned King, and she my most loyal archer. I risked much binding to her, but could not help myself. I loved her, and she loved me. But the years in Mirkwood, being a Queen in the shadow of me and of the forest, wore on her. Warriors are not meant to be submissive mates. Shortly after Legolas was born, she abandoned me, and our children, to run off with a mercenary from Gondor. I was hurt and ashamed, and there was a merry scandal. In my wrath I had all mention of her stricken from the tomes and writings of Mirkwood, and forbade her name be uttered in my realm again. But in my heart, I wished her well. I hoped she would be happy with her Mortal. More than that, I hoped she would weary of him and his wanderings and return to me. But it was not she who wearied of him, it was he who tired of her. He killed her. And thus ended the life of the only Elf I ever loved.”

Rabbit listened to the tale, not knowing what to say in the light of such tragedy. He watched the King of Mirkwood pick at his boot, his face lost in the shadows of his long pale gold hair. “I was hard on Legolas because I feared his coming to such an end. It would surely be my fading if he met a cruel fate. I have fought against Durin’s folk and alongside them and I know that, whatever one may say about them, they are honourable. But what did I know of THIS Dwarf, to whom my son had given himself so utterly? I am quite certain my wife believed her new love to be a man of honour: she would not have fled with him otherwise. How can I be sure this Gimli will not do as such also? I wished for my son to come home so that I might look after him, but the whip has missed its target and struck the wielder instead. Now I am at a loss over what to do, and I sit in Elrond’s hall, drinking his wine and listening to Rabbit kits.”

Rabbit slowly sat up and reached out his broad, scarred hands, gently taking Thranduil’s face and raising his head to look into his eyes. “Take comfort in this, King of the Spider Realm. Gimli would suffer the torments of Barad-dûr before he allowed anything to harm your son. As much as Legolas has given up to be with him, Gimli has given up more. He has agreed to be parted from his home, his clan, his lands, his people, all the things that he holds dear, to go to Valinor to be with Legolas. To be granted his immortal life, he had to give up his mortal one, and he did so freely, with no regret. This is not the doing of one who will tire of Legolas as one may a pretty bauble. I do not pretend to understand what one sees in the other, but they love each other on a level many of us will never know.”

Thranduil smiled slightly. “I do take comfort in that, and it tells me much of Gimli I did not know. Perhaps my son chose wisely after all.” He looked into Rabbit’s green-gold eyes. “Thank you.” Thranduil put his hand on Rabbit’s wrist and leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on his lips. “Now I will go to my chambers. I have much to ponder.”

Thranduil rose to his feet and departed the Hall, leaving Rabbit to settle once more on the rug and dream to the sound of the fire.

***---***

It was a quiet night in Imladris. The night was sharply cold, and most of the household was heading for their beds early, more for warmth than rest. Even Frost’s clan had come up to the house; their little village presently needing repairs after the troll attack. They settled in rooms in small groups, unused to sleeping in a house. All over the great building, lights went out one by one, and a pleasant silence fell.

Except in Haldir and Rabbit’s room.

“Rabbit, stop fussing, please.”

Rabbit squirmed under the covers, trying to decide what was bothering him. It was not being in the house; the cave right now was far too cold. It was something else, a strange intangible, feeling that kept him from rest. He shifted once more, then sat up, looking around the dark room. In a small bed nearby Bramble slept, holding her Hobbit-doll and oblivious to whatever was disturbing her Sia. All around was moonlit silence and peace. Everyone else seemed to be resting, why couldn’t he?

Rabbit felt Haldir gently draw him down, and he went, snuggling close to his fair husband. Inside of himself, he felt his child do a lazy turn, then grow still once more. Even the unborn baby was asleep it seemed. Haldir sighed and stroked Rabbit’s heavy black hair.

“What plagues you my love?”

Rabbit shook his head. “I do not know. But I distrust this silence.”

Haldir held Rabbit more closely, nervous himself now. Together they lay in the dark, listening.

***---***

Legolas and Gimli were having no such troubles. Gimli was in his cotton nightshirt, flat on his back in the large soft bed, quietly snoring. Sprawled comfortably across his chest was Legolas, in the depths of a peaceful reverie. Not far from the bed was little Balin, settled in a crib that once belonged to Elrohir, a soft quilt pulled over his little frame. All around was silence.

Legolas at first thought the screaming he heard was part of his dream. It was not until Gimli jumped up that he realized the sound was very real. Gimli threw his chain armor over his nightshirt and snatched up his axe. Legolas slid into boots and breeches, grabbed his bow and fighting knives, then both went into the hall.

There was blood everywhere, pools of it at their feet, sprays of it painting the walls. Orcs were in the hall, consuming what had obviously once been a living Elf. Some were so ravenous they did not even bother to attack the Elf and Dwarf who now appeared before them, but kept eating.

Legolas shot three of the foul creatures, wondering how they could have possibly entered the house. The patrols had never let Orcs enter Imladris before. There was no time to wonder at it however as the rest of the shrieking, disgusting beasts lunged towards him. He watched Gimli fell two more, and was drawing his bow to shoot when he was struck.

Legolas flew backwards down the hall, the force of the cave-troll’s club sending him flying like a rag doll. The young Elf prince struck a wall with an audible sound of bones breaking and dislocating. He landed in a bloody heap and lay very still, blood trickling down from his head and staining the gold hair red.

Gimli did not see Legolas struck down, and was not concerned when he turned to face the troll, and did not see his fleet husband. He had seen Legolas run up ropes and chains; surely he was fast enough to avoid a troll. The question of where exactly the troll had come from could wait until after he killed it. He dodged beneath the swing of the great club, hearing the shrieks of the Orcs it had struck instead. Then he hacked at the legs of the creature.

A sudden hail of gold-shafted arrows felled many of the Orcs, and Gimli was never so pleased in his life to hear the bellow of an Uruk-Hai.

“Me teach you stooped Orcs what it mean to come in here!”

The troll brought down its club it an effort to crush Gimli, and the Dwarf managed to sink his axe square into its fist, severing fingers. Screaming with rage and agony, the troll again tried to crush him, and was shot with several arrows. Gimli had just enough time to get out of the way before it fell, landing heavily on several Orcs.

Gimli scrambled onto the corpse of the dead troll to get a better vantage on the Orcs, and was nearly knocked off as something shot by. It was Firespark, armed with a pair of black fighting knives. He hacked down two of the Orcs, then went after another.

There was a sudden bellow behind him, and Gimli abruptly turned to find himself facing another troll. He raised his axe, then watched in amazement as Rabbit leapt onto the creature. He bit down onto one ear, then flung himself with all of his might, twisting the troll’s head to the point of where the huge beast fell over. Gimli finished it by putting his axe into its throat, nearly severing its head.

By now the fracas had been heard all over the house, and Gimli was literally knocked onto his backside by two flaming white forms brandishing swords. They leapt into the midst of the Orcs, who screamed and began fleeing wildly in all directions. Gimli sat up and tried to figure out who these blazing creatures where, then suddenly realized it was Glorfindel and Ecthelion, fighting together as they had so long ago. Gimli scrambled to his feet, yelling encouragement, then began hacking down the Orcs who fled in his direction. From the opposite end of the battle, he heard the scream of a Nazgûl, and he knew the Orcs who fled that way had been dealt an icy fate by Ilinuil.

Elrond shot by in golden armor, Rúmil close behind him, followed by Thranduil. Then, as Gimli watched, another troll appeared in their midst, and the Dwarf suddenly realized what was happening; some force was bringing these creatures here by magic. That was why the patrols had not seen them go by. They had not passed the patrols, they had appeared in the middle of the hall.

A slingstone whizzed by, and another. Gimli glanced over his shoulder and saw Merry and Pippin behind him, slings at the ready, picking off Orcs with deadly accuracy. They shouted something to him, and pointed down an adjoining hallway, but Gimli could not understand them. Instead he turned and continued to fight the Orcs.

***---***

“He can’t hear us!” said Pippin. “Merry, what do we do?”

Merry glanced down the hall at the bleeding form of their friend. “We’ll have to move him ourselves. He could be crushed or eaten lying there.”

Pippin had serious doubts about the two of them picking up Legolas, but it was the only way. They had to try; they had to get him out of the hall before something got to him.

The two Hobbits ran to Legolas’ bleeding body. Pippin had certainly seen bloodshed, but this time it was different. He wanted to vomit at the sight of the young Elf-Prince they had become so fond of lying bleeding, his blue eyes glazed and seeing nothing, his slight body convulsing. Pippin forced himself not to think about it as he grabbed the Elf by his boots. Merry lifted his upper half, surprised at how little he weighed. If Legolas had not been so tall he could have carried him by himself.

They half-carried, half-dragged the Elf into the room he shared with Gimli. They could not get him onto the bed, so instead they pulled down the quilts and pillows and piled them on the floor. As Merry ran to bolt the door, Pippin crouched down before Legolas, looking into his eyes.

Even during the time of the Fellowship, Pippin had not spoken to Legolas much. Not that the Elf seemed unfriendly, but like most Elves he had an air of permanent distraction, his mind on other things, and the Hobbit had always felt as though he was bothering him. Now he wished he had made more of an effort to know him, as he was certain he would not live to see the morn.

“Legolas,” he said softly, moving the bloodied hair back from his face. The Elf did not see him, but made strange burbling noises as he fought to breathe, and a thin trail of blood began working its way from his nose. Quietly the two Hobbits sat with him, helpless.

***---***

Erestor watched Glorfindel and Ecthelion run towards the house from the warm interior of the cottage. Both were in gold and crystal armor, looking like an image out of centuries past. He wanted to go with them, but judging from the noise coming from the house, this was no small fight. This was a battle.

Erestor closed the door and bolted it, then walked over to the crib to pick up Estorel, holding the Elfling close. Nearby Ithilian stood, armed with a sword that looked too large for the little Elf to use. But years of hammering and forging weapons had given him a great deal of strength, and Erestor felt safe with him close. Then there was faithful Sam and his cast-iron fry pan. Erestor found his choice of weapon amusing, but apparently in Moria the Hobbit had killed eight Orcs that way.

“Sam would you not prefer a sword?” asked Erestor.

“Oh I have one, Master Frodo’s Sting. I let Rosie use it.”

Erestor smiled wryly, then peered out the window. He could not see much, and could not tell if the fight was still going on, but he did not wish to take any chances. He began closing and locking the shutters. Once finished, he sat down heavily in a chair, listening to the night, trying to hear if the battle was still going on. He cradled Estorel against his chest and sighed. Whatever was occurring, Fin and Lord Elrond would tell him later.

“I would give much to know what is going on up there,” said Ithilian.

“As would I,” said Erestor, “but our curiosity will have to wait.” He looked down at the baby asleep on his chest and wrinkled his nose. “I think someone needs a new nappy.”

Ithilian shook his head. “Then Sam needs one too. There seems to be an odor coming from somewhere.”

“It ain’t me!” said Sam.

“It’s getting stronger,” said Ithilian. He got to his feet and drew his sword. Erestor stood also and set Estorel back in his crib, then pulled his knives. He and Sam and Ithilian waited nervously within the cottage as the smell grew stronger, and they began to choke on its vile stench.

“I think we should get out of here!” said Sam.

Erestor shook his head. He had been in battle before, and he knew he was being flushed like a rabbit. Something wanted them to leave the cottage. “No! We have to stay!” He tied a scrap of fabric over his face to keep out most of the stink.

Ithilian began to gag, then vomit. Erestor felt his stomach roll, and his eyes began to stream. The stench was getting worse, and he grabbed up Estorel and fled into the bedroom to get away from the smell, hearing Sam choke. However once he pulled the door open the odor became so overwhelming that he felt his head begin to ache. Then he passed out.

***---***

“Orcs! Trolls! Goblins! What’s next, a Balrog?” yelled Ecthelion as he hewed the head from a goblin.

“Don’t give anything any ideas!” Glorfindel called back to him. He saw another troll appear, and the warrior made a sound of despair and exhaustion. He saw the massive creature crush an Elf to bleeding rags, and the body was promptly torn apart and devoured by the Orcs.

Glorfindel waded into the fray, slaying Orcs and goblins too busy eating to notice him. These creatures were ravenous, so desperately hungry that they were far more dangerous than any Orcs he had fought before. Glorfindel did not think this was an accident.

He was abruptly knocked over by an Orc from behind, and slammed to the blood-covered floor. He felt himself being bitten, and he tried to twist around and get his sword up. Then he saw a huge black first punch one Orc in the face, and pull another one off of him and throw it out the window. Then he was hauled to his feet by the back of his armour.

“You tired!” said Mauburz. “You rest!”

“I’m fine, I was surprised is all.”

She nodded, then turned and drove her fist into the face of a goblin before grabbing it and tossing it out the window as well. He saw Faramir leap by, sword in one hand, dagger in the other, and take the head off of an Orc without breaking stride. Glorfindel noticed that there were no Uruk-Hai in the fray, apart from Mauburz, and he was glad indeed.

He saw Ecthelion somehow get onto the shoulders of the troll and drive his sword down into its skull before leaping away. A rain of arrows shot by, felling several Orcs, but there seemed to be no end to their numbers, The bodies were piling up, and the blood was running down the walls, but still they kept coming. Small groups of them, never so many the Elves and Dwarfs were overwhelmed, but enough to keep them busy….

“It’s a diversion!” yelled Glorfindel. He looked around, and spying Orophin close by, grabbed his arm. “Orophin it’s a diversion, I think this is the work of the Buyer. Gather some Elves and go check on Frost, I’m going to get Erestor!” He glanced around and saw Rabbit tearing some goblin to bits. At least he was all right. Glorfindel turned and ran back to the cottage as fast as his legs would take him.

***---***

Elrohir had been comfortably asleep when he was yanked out of bed by his hair and thrown across the room and into a wall. He struck the stone hard, feeling something inside his face break. Then the world went grey and distant, and he slid to the floor, semi conscious and bleeding.

The stinking thing that tried to do the same to Frost watched as the white Elf came up like a great cat and ripped its arm clean out of the joint, snapping tendons like old thread. He clubbed the creature across the head with its own arm. The monster drew back, unhurt but puzzled. Then its head was torn off, and it wondered no more.

Frost tossed the skull-like head at the second monster, gagging on the overwhelming stench before snatching up his spear and driving it into the face of the creature. It shrieked and fell, turning to smoldering dust.

“Elrohir? Are you all right?”

Elrohir lay crumpled on the floor, his long dark hair wet with blood, one side of his face turning strange colours. Frost choked as the stench grew more powerful, and he turned to see a third undead thing lurching towards him, eyes blazing with a putrid light. With his highly refined senses the odor was near-lethal, and he staggered, his consciousness leaving him. Then he dropped to the crystal floor.

***---***

“Why is he convulsing like that?” asked Pippin, wrapping strips of cloth around the bleeding wound in Legolas’ head.

Merry shook his head. “I don’t know Pip.” He tore open one leg of the Elf’s breeches, searching for the source of the blood pooling beneath Legolas. He found the wound, and felt his stomach roll over as he saw the broken spear of bone poking through the white skin. He shook his head. This was too much for them to deal with. Strider had taught them a few things about wound care, but this was far beyond their limited skill. This called for Elrond, but he was deep in the battle raging in the hall. They would have to look after their friend themselves.

“Pass me some of that cloth you’re using, I have to wrap this.”

Pippin looked about. “That was all of it, I’ll look for more.”

“Hurry Pip.”

Pippin stood and looked around, then ran to a wardrobe, pulling it open. He grabbed a cotton shirt, and was about to tear it up when he realized it was the one Gimli had hauled all over Middle-Earth while they were traveling. He let it fall to the floor. The next garment he dragged out was a light Elven shirt of white silk.

The Halfling looked at it, as though suddenly realizing where he was. He was standing in the personal quarters of two of his dearest friends. Fine Elven garments hung next to rougher Dwarven ones. A knife for fletching arrows lay on the floor of the wardrobe next to a grinding stone for an axe. A ratted journal Legolas had kept of their exploits sat on top of a box of raw gems and unusual stone chips. This was their room; where they slept, dressed, made love. Pippin suddenly felt like a spy, and he closed the door hastily, not wanting to snoop. He carried the silk shirt over to Merry, who began wrapping it around the bleeding break.

There was a great crash of something or someone hitting the door, and Balin suddenly sat up, making a small, frightened sound.

“We can’t let him see this mess,” said Pippin. “I’ll sit with him on the bed and draw the drapes. Let me know if you need me.

Merry nodded, hopping he was not making things worse as he tied off the wound. Pippin took Balin and sat with the baby on the curtained bed, hoping things would somehow work out.

***---***

Elrond watched Rúmil get slammed into the door to Gimli and Legolas’ room by a troll. It was felled by a hail of gold-shafted arrows, but before Elrond had a chance to go check on him, he felt an Orcish scimitar cut a glancing blow on his armor. He turned and stabbed the Orc, then screamed as he was speared in the leg by a second. Rabbit flashed by, tearing the Orc’s throat out, then raced off down the hallway in pursuit of five shrieking and terrified goblins. Elrond staggered back, clutching his bleeding leg, then looked around. Three Orcs descended on Rúmil, dragging him up and beginning to bite him. He shrieked in pain, then drove his fist into the face of one Orc. Elrond dove after them, killing the Orcs and dragging Rúmil to his feet. He tried the door, finding it barred. He knocked, and, moments later, Merry opened it. The two Elves went in, and barred the door once more.

Elrond carried Rúmil over to a couch and laid him down on it, then took his face between his hands.

“Rúmil! Rúmil speak to me!”

Rúmil opened his sea-green eyes and scrutinized his husband. He smiled weakly. “I’ve changed my mind, I’d like to go back to being your catamite again.”

Elrond smiled, then kissed him. “Rest here.” He turned to tell Merry to shred sheets for bandages, then froze as he saw Legolas. “By the Valar!” he whispered.

“He’s dying!” said Merry. “You have to do something!”

Elrond quickly took stock of his own injuries. The most serious was the leg wound. Everything else was superficial. Still, he was no longer in any shape to fight. He would be of more use here, tending the wounded.

“Merry, cut the sheets into strips. Pippin, boil water in the kettle. I’ll tie up my leg and then see if there is anything to be done for Legolas.”

Rúmil slowly dragged himself into a seated position. Elrond doubted anything was really wrong with him, but it was quite plain his husband was in no shape to fight either. As Elrond watched him, he began to suspect Rúmil’s sword-arm was broken, but he was simply too stunned from the blow and too full of adrenaline to feel it yet.

“What can I do?” asked Rúmil.

“Baby-sit,” said Pippin, setting Balin on his lap.

***---***

Orophin kicked the door open, not bothering to knock in his haste. He spied Frost, unconscious, being carried by a stinking undead creature. A second hovered over Elrohir with a dagger that looked to be little more than a broken bone ripped out of a dead animal. He fired an arrow into the being threatening Elrohir, then felt himself grabbed by his hair and smashed into a wall.

He dropped to the floor, stunned, feeling blood run down his face. He felt nauseous, and the stink threatened to choke him into unconsciousness. But then he heard Elrohir cry out, and the sound triggered his warrior instincts. He dragged himself to his feet and shot a second wraith, then threw a dagger into the skull of the creature that had Frost before turning to see what had shoved him into the stone wall.

Orophin had no idea what the snarling thing before him was. It was larger than an Uruk-Hai, but had a head like that of a rotting dragon. Maggots writhed in a dozen open sores in its face, and steaming slime dripped from its jaws and nostrils. It was clad in a ragged black robe, wet with some unguessable matter. Orophin jumped back and turned his head, ready to vomit, trying to keep his stomach under control. He felt something claw him, and he leapt aside again, dropping his bow and pulling his sword to strike at the monster before him.

The blade passed through the monster’s head like old paper, scattering bone, flesh and maggots. The cut did not seem to phase the beast, which clawed at him one more time, reducing his tunic to scraps and opening bleeding rents in his skin. Orophin swung again, removing another huge chunk of matter from the monster’s head, then leaping back to see where Frost and Elrohir were. Elrohir was slumped by the wall, and Frost was being dragged by yet another undead creature. Orophin killed it with a swipe of his sword, striking with the casual speed of a snake. Then he went after the monster once more.

He slashed at it, removing more of the head, but the monster showed no sign of slowing. An idea came to him, and he grabbed hold of the rotting robes. With all of his strength, he flung the thing into the large fireplace. It went up in flames with a horrible shriek. Ignoring the hideous screams, he grabbed up the scraps and threw them into the fire as well. The maggots bit viciously, ripping holes in his hands, and he was forced to pull them off. One had begun to burrow into his skin, and he had to cut it out with his own dagger. Then he grabbed up the pieces of the wraiths and threw them into the fire as well. Finally he dragged Elrohir and Frost into a sitting room across the hall, laying them on the rugs on the floor before locking the heavy door. Sick and shaking, blood dripping down his chest, Orophin clutched his sword and stood guard.

***---***

Gimli lopped the head off of an Orc, then stood, glancing about for any more. The battle, it seemed, was finally over, and the only live Orc in the hall was Mauburz. She was grabbing corpses and tossing them down to the landing below, searching for any survivors buried in the carnage. Setting his axe aside, Gimli, the other Dwarfs, and the surviving Elves followed her example, clearing the mess. The trolls were too big to move as they were, so Glóin and several other Dwarfs began hacking them up to throw the pieces onto the pile of Orcs.

They found five Elves dead, but they were so devoured there was no telling who they had been. Shrouds were brought, and the bodies were wrapped and carried to an outer garden to wait for identification. The blood and matter was so thick on the floor that the mess had to be first shoveled into buckets before the hall could be mopped.

They found Faramir partly under a troll, his sword in its groin. He was battered and bruised, and his leg as well as his shield arm were broken, but when the troll was moved off of him he slowly sat up. He was so covered in blood Gimli at first thought the Man had been skinned, but then Faramir wiped some of the blood off of his face and looked at the Dwarf with green eyes.

“I don’t like battle,” he commented, “I never seem to come out on the right end of it.”

Gimli laughed. “Oh y’ did all right, laddie! You killed the troll, and you’re here to brag about it. You sit, we’ll get you seen to.”

Faramir nodded, and Gimli helped him to lean against the wall. Then the Dwarf looked around, beard bristling.

“Seventeen!” he announced, then waited for Legolas to step out and say his own total scored in the battle. He became nervous when he did not get an answer. A cold sickness clutched his insides. “Legolas?”

No reply. The Dwarf began to shake, and he called his lover’s name more loudly, panic in his voice. Then he noticed the door to his bedroom open, and Merry stepped out, blood on his clothes.

“He’s in here,” he said softly.

Gimli felt as though his feet had just turned to stone, and he suddenly did not want to walk through that door. “He’s not dead.”

Merry shook his head, then said softly, “Not yet.”

***---***

Orophin heard somebody screaming his name, and he dragged himself, gasping, out of unconsciousness to find Elladan holding him, stroking his hair. “Orophin say something!”

The Galadhel felt his stomach turn over. “I’m going to be sick,” he whispered.

Elladan held him more tightly, and began crying into his long hair. Not far away, Frost sat with Elrohir, the two holding each other tightly. Orophin weakly pushed against his husband.

“No, really lover, I’m going to puke.”

Elladan released him, and Orophin made his way over to a window to vomit. He turned to his brother, and said; “I’m going to the healing room for a few things, I’ll be back.”

Elrohir nodded, saying nothing. Elladan fled the room, heading for the healing rooms. Along the way he still saw chaos, though the battle was over. There were warriors to be healed, some screaming for fallen comrades. He directed those who were not injured to carry the wounded to the healing rooms, then turned and ran back for his brother.

“Elrohir are you all right?”

Elrohir looked up, hair bloodied and clinging to his face. Elladan gasped at the sight of his brother’s blackened features. Frost stood, picking Elrohir up before turning to face Elladan.

“I will help you with the injured. Where is your father?”

“I do not know.” Elladan went to get Orophin. Helping him to his feet, he began leading him to the healing room, Frost following with Elrohir.

They had nearly reached it when they heard screaming. It was an Elvish voice, so tight with hysteria they could scarcely tell who it was, speaking a form of Elvish they were not familiar with. Then they heard Ecthelion, speaking softly, trying to calm the Elf. Then Elladan heard something that put a knot in his stomach. Glorfindel, crying out in the sort of pain that only came with great loss.

“My family ‘Thel, my family!”

“We’ll find them, Fin, but we have to fix you!”

“No we have to go NOW!”

Elladan released Orophin and ran into the huge room. It was indeed Glorfindel’s voice he had heard, and the large warrior was being restrained by Ecthelion, as well as a few Dwarfs and fellow Elves. Glorfindel was fighting them, and they were not having a great deal of luck holding him. As he watched, he saw Fili knocked across the room, and Fin nearly broke free. Ecthelion got him around the head and tried his best to hold him down, but Glorfindel was having none of it.

“’Thel let me go or by the Valar I swear I’ll kill you!”

Elladan grabbed a phial of his father’s most potent sedative, then shouted to Ecthelion “Get him down on the floor!”

Ecthelion, by some huge feat of strength, did get Glorfindel down, and Elladan managed to pour the liquid down Glorfindel’s throat. They restrained him until the liquid did its work, and the warrior went limp. Then they moved him onto a table and Elladan checked him over.

“He’s not badly injured, but this cut will have to be stitched.” he said. “Where is Master Erestor?”

Ecthelion shook his head. “Gone. And Estorel too. I know not where. Rosie, Sam and Ithilian are all right. Oh poor Fin.” He stroked his friend’s face, then leaned over him and began to cry. Elladan began cleaning the deep claw mark over Glorfindel’s midriff.

***---***

Gimli sat quietly beside the bed on a padded bench, watching as Elrond worked on the broken body of the Elf he had given his life to. Merry and Pippin waited in silence, occasionally running off to fetch something or other for Elrond. The Elf-Lord was doing all he could, but Legolas did not seem to be responding. He was bleeding faster than Elrond could close the wounds.

Gimli watched, feeling nothing, his mind far away. He was thinking about the first day he saw Legolas, and he smiled slightly as he remembered the thought that had gone through his mind. Skinny flighty Elf, all eyes and legs and nerves, wouldn’t last five minutes in a fight. He had no idea how very fond he would become of that skinny flighty Elf.

It was not a friendship that had happened overnight, and yet in some ways it was. It was in Lothlórien they first admitted they liked each other, after Gimli became so smitten with Galadriel. It was an admission that had delighted Legolas to no end, and he gently urged him to come explore the realm of the Lady of Light. He hadn’t wanted to at first, but finally relented. He spent the most agonizingly dull day of his life looking at plants, rocks, trees, streams, and one Elven archer dead asleep on his feet with his eyes open. Not long afterwards, Legolas endured a second tour through the sparkling caves of Helm’s Deep, but the Elf was less bored than the Dwarf had been. Gimli had stood, grinning, watching as Legolas climbed lightly up the stone walls to examine the burning gems hidden within the rock, astonished that there were places on Arda where the stars dwelled underground. Finally the Elf climbed down, and came to stand before the Dwarf. He had a mischievous glint in his eye Gimli was already familiar with.

“So about your admission on the wall last night…”

Gimli leaned on his axe and gazed back at him. “I meant it.”

“You think I’m fair.”

“Yes.”

Legolas seemed amused, but it was hard for Gimli to tell if he felt more than humor. Then, later, when they finally got a chance to rest, Legolas settled next to Gimli before falling asleep. The Dwarf gently pulled him close and held him, content simply to have him near. When Gimli awoke in the morning he knew that they would never again be parted. Nearby was Aragorn, perched on a large stone with his pipe in his mouth, smiling with feigned innocence at the pair snuggled warmly together. Gimli squinted sleepily at the tall Man.

“It’s not what it looks like,” the Dwarf grumbled weakly.

“Of course,” said Aragorn, still smiling at him.

Gimli considered bouncing a piece of lembas off of his head, but decided not to risk waking the Elf.

They had not been parted since that day. For a long time their pairing had been a very close and intense friendship. And even though Gimli had seen mortal women time and again approach his beautiful golden companion, the Elf paid them no heed. Even when given separate rooms in Aragon’s newly claimed royal house, they slept side by side in one bed. At one point Aragorn even asked if they were lovers, and both had told them they were not. At the time it had been quite true; their closeness was not sexual. It would not be until that night in the Last Homely House when Legolas had taken his hand and asked if he planned on leaving him untouched all their nights together.

Gimli was startled out of his thoughts by Elrond sinking heavily into a chair. The Elf-Lord was plainly exhausted as he directed Merry to fetch him one last phial from the healing room. Merry darted off, and Elrond looked at Gimli.

“I cannot lie to you, Gimli. I have never in all my days seen an Elf with injuries this severe who was still breathing. There is every chance he may die. But he lives yet, and I can only assume he lives for you. But know that if he leaves you, it is not because he wished to.”

Gimli nodded slowly, him emotions numb. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and hoarse. “Can I touch him?”

Elrond came to his side, taking Legolas’ hand and placing it in Gimli’s. “Stay here with him. Balin will stay with Rúmil and I for the time. I must go to the healing house and see what is happening there. But I will be back.”

Gimli heard Elrond depart, leaving him seated by the bed, while Pippin began cleaning the blood off the floor.

***---***

Faramir sat, exhausted, watching the sunrise from his bed in the healing room. He had been waiting a long time to be tended, but comforted himself that his were not the most severe of the battle-injuries. His leg was not very badly broken, and the break in his arm could be easily set. So he waited, wanting nothing more than his own bed, listening to the conversations around him. He was a little surprised to see Lindir step quietly before him, his left arm wrapped, his right arm around Miss Goose. The young Elf smiled shyly.

“I got bit,” he said. “Are you all right?”

Faramir nodded. “Was it an Orc?”

Lindir shook his head. “It was some ugly thing, with a head like a dead dragon. Rabbit was fighting it. I was hiding in the study with Bramble and Meril and the other children when it came in. I threw a book at it, and it grabbed me and bit me.” Lindir’s eyes became wet and he began to shake. “Parts of its head came away and it didn’t stop!”

Faramir took Lindir’s hand and gently pulled him close, seating him on the cot beside himself and putting his arm around him. “That must have been very frightening.”

Lindir nodded. “Bramble screamed, and then Rabbit came in. He cut it to bits with his knife, but another one came in. The smell was so bad it made me sick and everything went dark. When I woke up Rabbit and the monsters were gone, but Bramble was still there. You haven’t seen Rabbit, have you? Bramble’s awful upset, and nobody knows where he is. Haldir has been running all over like he’s lost his mind looking for him.”

Faramir closed his eyes, not wanting to think about where Rabbit may be. “I’m certain he is fine, Lindir.”

Elladan came over then, looking tired and out of sorts, his long dark hair held back with a scrap of what looked like old bandage. He carefully examined Faramir’s arm, then began setting it. Finally he pulled out strips of pink and purple fabric with which to wrap it. Faramir opened his mouth to protest, but the tired and disgruntled young Elf-Lord gave him a look that would have silenced a warg.

“We are out of bandages. You may let me use this, or you may sit in pain. Either way I do NOT want to hear any complaints.”

Faramir shut his mouth and let Elladan wrap, listening in amusement as the Elf kept up a quiet stream of complaints in his own tongue. Faramir had no idea what he was saying, but the expression on Lindir’s face suggested that little translation was needed. He ceased his muttering when, in the distance, the Plains-Elves began calling for the missing.

“Was it The Buyer?” Faramir asked softly.

Elladan shook his head. “I do not know for certain, but I cannot think of who else may have done this. Ada is already forming a party to go after our stolen friends, though we have no thought as to where they may have gone, or how far the magic of this creature could carry them. Frost has sent out trackers, and Ada has sent out runners to contact the rangers in this area. Ai! I thought this madness was done with!”

“Fin?”

Elladan, Lindir and Faramir looked up at the sound of Ecthelion’s voice. The black-haired Elf was looking around. “Fin?”

Elladan looked towards the bed where their beloved Balrog-Slayer had so recently lain. The covers were tossed back, and there were a few drops of blood heading towards the door. Elladan bashed his small fists against the bed Faramir sat upon.

“Of all stupid stubborn hard-headed single minded Elves on this or any other shore he is the worst! Where does he think he is going in his condition?”

A flash of green caught Faramir’s attention, and he looked out the window. Backlit by the reds and golds of the rising winter sun was Syrdanna the sea-dragon, rising heavily into the air, her wings sounding like heavy sails in the wind. She was wearing a makeshift bridle of rope and chain. On her back glinted a figure in gold and crystal armor, his white hair flowing out behind him. They rose swiftly, picking up speed as the wind caught the dragon’s long wings, and soon both were but a small dot on the horizon.