FINDING NÁMO
Overall rating: yellow/orange
Category: slash (two male Elves in love), romance, drama, ANGST, h/c, humour.
Pairings: Erestor/Glorfindel, Orophin/Elladan, Elrohir/Námo, Elrond/Gil-galad, Gil-galad/Amaris, Celeborn/Melpomaen, Haldir/Rabbit, Rúmil/Galadriel and more
Warnings: mpreg, Angst - and we have scruffy Legolas, if this needs a warning.
Beta: Miss Eveiya
Summary: "Finding Námo" is the sequel to "The Knave", and I recommend that you read "The Knave" and "The Tw-Elf Days of Yule" first, otherwise some aspects of this story will be confusing.
CHAPTER 2
I’m going there no more to roam
I’m only going over Jordan
I’m only going over home
"Wayfaring Stranger" – Johnny Cash
~°~
Elrond blinked owlishly at Celeborn, then he noticed Melpomaen, who was hiding behind the Lórien-Elf.
"I beg your pardon?" Elrond asked, worried he might have misheard something.
"I said: Námo was the one who forged the Evil Ring, Elrond. We owe this mess to the Vala of Death!"
When Celeborn's words finally sunk in, Elrond paled.
"This cannot be, Celeborn! Where did you find this information?"
Celeborn saw how Gil slipped into his breeches. Despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn't help but feel angry that the High King was welcomed here while he was not. At least not naked.
But this was neither the time nor the place for personal feuds, so Celeborn tugged on Melpomaen's sleeve and dragged the blushing advisor in front of Elrond.
"Your most splendid young advisor here found what we old fools have been looking for these last months."
Melpomaen was embarrassed beyond words, and looked down at the toes of his soft shoes.
"Is this true, Melpomaen? Have you found the solution to this riddle?"
The young elf looked quickly up, bit his lip again and finally nodded. Elrond studied him for a moment, then he came to a decision.
"My library. In fifteen minutes. Melpomaen, summon everybody in my name, and I want you to be present, too."
Melpomaen nodded, and ran down the corridor to wake the lady Galadriel, Gandalf, Erestor, Glorfindel and everybody else who was needed, while Celeborn returned to his chamber to put on some clothes.
Elrond closed the door behind him, and took a deep breath.
"Beloved?" Gil said, and Elrond turned around.
"Yes?"
"I find this very hard to believe. I cannot imagine any reason why Námo should act the way Celeborn said."
"It does sound odd, I agree with you. But stranger things have happened, and we shall hear the young one out," Elrond said, then he knelt down and began to fish for his boots under the desk.
"Agreed. And while we are at it, you could also ask how come he is with Celeborn in the dead of night, with the lord wearing nothing but a pair of silk sleeping pants."
Elrond rolled his eyes.
"Your priorities never cease to amaze me. And do you really think an official meeting is the right place to bring up this matter, Gil?" he asked, and his lover snickered.
"Probably not, Elrond – but I would just love to see Celeborn's face."
The lord of Imladris didn't reply, but began to slip his boots on. If Celeborn began to cause trouble, he would have a serious word with his father-in law – especially if his amorous escapades should confuse young, impressionable Elves like Melpomaen.
Soon after, everybody was gathered in Elrond's study, all a little ruffled and yawning. Erestor sported an impressive love-bite on his neck, only partially hidden by the collar of his robe, and judging from Glorfindel's sour face, the two had been interrupted in the midst of something interesting. This observation led Celeborn's thoughts back to the lost opportunity that was Melpomaen, who was chewing nervously on his lip and fiddled with the scrolls in front of him. Celeborn felt pride for the young advisor's find - they all had been looking in vain for a clue or hint about this darned ring for months.
Melpomaen might talk too much and have skinny legs, but he certainly had a good head on his shoulders, and Celeborn, who had an eye for spotting talent in others, felt like patting him on the head. Or stroking his hair. Or…
"So, as we are all gathered here now, I would like you, Master Melpomaen, to tell those present about your findings."
Elrond's voice interrupted Celeborn's train of thoughts, and Melpomaen blushed again, cleared his throat and explained how, by comparing the library's inventory list with the list of the books not here at the moment, he had found the one book they had all been looking for. He took the index card he had brought along, and looked nervously around.
"I do not know about the content of the book, as I have never read it, and from what I understand, nobody else has, either. So all I have is the quote on the index card, but it is interesting enough."
He looked around to make sure everybody was listening, then he began to read:
"'And so the Vala of Death forged the Dark Ring, for he was jealous that others had a Ring of Power, but not him, and he envied Melkor his cunning heart. 'I have been cheated by a female, so doom for Middle-earth shall come from the hand of a female', he said, and he put a spell on the Dark Ring, that its power might only be awoken by the treachery of a female, one worthy in deceit to match his own, and then all Middle-earth would be destroyed, and a new world be created, where he would dwell and rule and be worshipped."
For a moment, there was silence.
"I find it very hard to believe, though it is obviously true, and does make sense," Glorfindel finally said, "what I do not understand, however, is why Námo placed the Dark Ring in Galadriel's mirror, for our fair lady is certainly not 'worthy in deceit to match his own'."
Erestor, who had folded his hands on the table in front of him, shrugged.
"We do not know when the ring was placed there, Glorfindel. It might be, and I hope you, my lady, will not take any offence at my words, that it was placed there in a time when the rebellion against the Valar took place. It might be that Námo saw evil in the lady where there was none, erred in his judgement."
"I am not offended at all, Master Erestor," Galadriel said, "with power there comes responsibility, and I know my weaknesses. Yes, there have been times when power greatly tempted me, but I realised in time and overcame the desire to rule more than my own realm. Your words make sense – back then, I was wilder, more eager to rule, it is very possible that Námo saw me as a potential tool to carry out his evil plan. But this leaves us with one question – why now? Why did the Ring awake now and not millennia ago?"
"Because for millennia, no treacherous heart has come close to the mirror, and certainly no female one," Rúmil threw in, and he gazed at Galadriel lovingly, squeezing her hand under the table.
Celeborn gnashed his teeth, but kept quiet. He looked up, and so did Elrond – and they both had the same thought. Elrond slapped his forehead and groaned:
"Firinwë!"
Various noses wrinkled in disgust, and Elladan winced, moved closer to Orophin, tugged on his sleeve and whispered in his ear:
"Poor Námo – this is harsh punishment."
"Quiet, please!" Elrond boomed, and nodded at Erestor, who got up. Immediately, all discussion died down.
"My lords, my lady – let me sum this up. Námo has forged another ring of power, which is, at the moment, in the possession of lady Firinwë. I think we all agree that, whatever her plans might be, no good can come of them for us. So we need to find her and destroy the ring. Surely Firinwë cannot carry out a cunning plan of this scope all alone, so she must have allies – Námo himself, I fear. We must find out where they are hiding and how we can defeat them."
"With all due respect, may I say something?" Orophin interrupted Erestor's speech, and everybody looked in surprise at Elladan's husband, who normally never contributed to discussions.
"Of course you may, Orophin. Please speak freely," Erestor said, and Orophin looked nervously at Elladan. When he saw his husband's encouraging smile, he straightened up.
"There is just one place where she could hide – the only place none of you has control over, where evil lurks and death has come from in the past. I think she hides in Tíngel Forest, and I am sure she does not dwell there alone. Think about it – where else would the Vala of Death feel comfortable in Middle-earth if not in Tíngel Forest, where so many of my kin have died?"
Elladan saw how Orophin clutched the fabric of his tunic to stop his hands from trembling, and gently stroked his arm.
"This is an excellent thought," Elrond said, and smiled at Orophin, "so I suggest we send word to King Thrandúil, for his realm is close to Tíngel, and ask him to join in an alliance with us. It might also be wise to inform Rohan, and warn the Shire and Dwarven folks."
"You can leave that to me," Aragorn said, "I am sure they will fight with us side by side. And what about Breon? The realm is close to Tíngel, too, and might be first to come under attack."
"Breon? We have had no dealings with Breon," Elrond said, and his eyebrows wandered towards his hairline.
"Nor would we have, under normal circumstances, but with a threat like this, surely every blade counts?"
"I would rather return to the Halls of Mandos than have dealings with Breon," Orophin hissed, and a dangerous fire was dancing in his eyes.
"I know, they are a little uncivilized and none too honest, but surely…" Aragorn began, but he was interrupted by Orophin's fist, which crashed down on the table.
"You have no idea what you are talking about!" Orophin shouted, and nobody had ever seen him so upset. He stormed out of the room, followed by Elladan who tried to catch up with him and calm him down.
"My apologies," Haldir said, visibly embarrassed, and bowed in the direction of Aragorn, "I am sure my fa… I mean I am sure it was not Orophin's intent to insult you, Sire."
Aragorn shook his head.
"No need to apologize, Haldir. I am sure there is a reason for his behaviour, and it is I who must apologize if I touched a sore spot with my words."
"Be that as it may, I think he was greatly over-reacting," Arwen said, and glared at Haldir.
Rúmil turned to Arwen, his eyes of an almost glacial blue.
"My lady – your son is an Elfling of 8 years. Would you wish to have dealings with people who would heat a branding iron in the fire and press the red-hot poker to his flesh to mark him as their property? Who would sell him as a slave and make him work hard in a black smith's shop? Who would clamp a collar around his neck and keep him like a dog? And if your son, after such treatment, should not wish to have dealings with these people, would you tell him not to over-react?"
Arwen shied back, and paled.
"By the Valar – how can you say such things! I would kill with my bare hands anybody who should even think to treat my child like this!" she gasped.
"Such are my feelings for the people of Breon. My brother bore the mark of slavery for many millennia, my lady, and though it is no longer visible, it will be forever branded in his soul and in his heart, and he will neither forgive nor forget."
Elrond cleared his throat.
"For the time being, we do not need the people of Breon, who, I agree with Rúmil, are not the kind of allies I wish to associate myself with. Glorfindel – send a messenger to Thrandúil; so far he has not turned up here to demand Gil-galad's head on a plate, which might be a sign that he is currently in a good mood; maybe we are lucky. Galadriel – I suggest you muster your army, and send scouts to Tíngel. Aragorn, I entrust you to win Rohan for the alliance. Promise Eómer two crates of Thrandúil's best wine if you must, and get your army battle ready."
Gandalf, who had not spoken a word so far, leant forward.
"I will seek out some friends of great wisdom - now that we know where the ring comes from and with whom it is associated, it will be easier to find information. Maybe there is another copy of the book, maybe somebody has heard a legend of old. One month from now, I shall return, and tell you of my findings."
Everybody nodded, then Aragorn asked: "And who will lead the alliance? Will you do it, my lord Elrond? Or you, Lord Celeborn? Lady Galadriel? Lord Glorfindel?"
Elrond thought about this for a while, then he looked at each of the Elves sitting around the table.
"We have certainly learned from the mistakes of the past, so I suggest a shared command – the High King shall lead us, and King Thrandúil shall lead his own forces. He would never accept anyone else’s authority, and retaining his autonomy, he is more likely to join the alliance."
"Are you serious about this, Elrond?" Gil asked, completely surprised by Elrond's suggestion.
"Yes, I am. None of us, not even Celeborn, has ever commanded an army of this size. You have led us well, Gil-galad. You proved that you were willing to die for each of us. I cannot speak for everybody here, but I will follow you to Mordor and back if need be. This aside," he added, "Celeborn and I are two battle-weary old Elves, and I prefer to leave this task to a young one."
Nobody objected, and Elrond smiled at Gil. The High King visibly grew at least three inches at the prospect of leading an army and going into battle again.
"I will not let you down," he said, and bowed.
"So this is decided then," Elrond said, and gave the sign that the meeting was over.
"Let us get some sleep before the morning dawns, my friends – busy weeks are ahead of us."
With that, he got up, and everybody followed his example, leaving Melpomaen, who collected his scrolls and Celeborn, who tried to swallow the toad of the "old, battle-weary Elf" comment, behind.
"Is - is anything wrong, my lord?" the young advisor asked, when he saw the annoyed expression on Celeborn's face.
The lord looked up, and he relaxed.
"No, everything is in order, Melpomaen - there is the ring, of course, Firinwë teaming up with Námo, and the possible end of Middle-earth, but this aside, everything is in perfect order. I was merely musing over the odd ways of love."
Melpomaen turned brick-red.
"Love, my lord? Why... I do not understand..." he stammered, and dropped his scrolls. Embarrassed, he knelt down to pick them up, and Celeborn grinned. How easy the young one could be confused!
"Many have said that they would follow a loved one to Mordor and back. But Elrond is one of the few who would really do it."
The young advisor looked up to Celeborn.
"Oh, I would do it, too!" he said, and Celeborn smiled.
"Would you? How charming. Now I do not doubt that your young, brave heart feels like this, but I sure hope you would not go to Mordor armed with nothing but a scroll, young one. But your courage does you all honour."
Though it sounded mocking, Melpomaen knew deep down that Celeborn had tried to pay him a compliment, so he allowed himself a small smile and bowed when the lord left the room. His eyes followed the tall Lórien Elf, and he murmured to himself: "I would. I would go to Mordor for you, and carry you back, if I had to."
For a long while, Melpomaen stood where he was, clutching the scrolls to his chest, and little did he know that he had just made a promise that he would have to keep one day.
* * *
Eldanar checked one last time the contents of the small bag he carried – it was actually nothing but one of Orophin's handkerchiefs, bound together by its four corners, but it was sufficient for its purpose. There were two loafs of Lembas, two apples, a Nana Goose book he had been given by Lindir, two hair clasps which had been a present from Elladan, two tunics, a pair of leggings and, of course, Tathar, the loyal toy dragon.
The child walked on tip-toe through the corridors of the Last Homely House, very careful not to be heard. He had waited for hours for the grown-ups finally to retire, and now he was on his way. Where? Eldanar didn't know. He only knew that he did not want to live in Gondor, nice as the King and the Queen might be. He wanted to stay here, but as nobody seemed to want him, he had decided to leave and find a home somewhere else.
His heart was heavy. He had grown to love Orophin and Elladan, and the mere thought of being separated from the two Elves he secretly referred to as his "two adas" turned his stomach. But it couldn't be helped, so Eldanar was sneaking down the stairs now. All he had to do was cross the Great Hall and walk out of the door and then he would be on the road. Before anybody noticed his absence, he intended to be far, far away, never to be found again.
Eldanar stopped dead in his tracks when he saw an Elf standing by the fireplace. Maybe he wouldn't see him? Maybe he could just sneak by? Maybe…
"Young Master Eldanar, would you please come here for a moment?" the Elf addressed him, and beckoned the child to come closer. Eldanar hesitated. The Elf was very beautiful, but also very scary, and he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to follow that call.
"Do not be afraid, child," he said, and Eldanar took a few tentative steps towards the grown-up. When he was within reach, he stopped, clutching to his small bundle.
"I see you have prepared for a great journey," he said, and Eldanar looked down at the toes of his boots.
"You know what your father did when he was confronted with situations he did not like?" the Elf asked, and Eldanar looked up, eyes big like saucers.
"You know my ada?" he whispered, and the stranger nodded.
"Oh yes, yes - we have become good friends, young one."
"What did he do?" Eldanar asked, his plans to leave the Last Homely House forgotten for the moment.
"He faced them. He never ran away, Eldanar. And you should not run away, either."
Eldanar hung his head.
"I am not brave like my ada. He was a great warrior, and he wore shiny armour when he left. I will never wear shiny armour, nobody loves me, and I have very ugly ears."
The Elf knelt down in front of the child, and smiled at him.
"Look at me, Eldanar," he ordered, and the Elfling looked up. Now this was odd - when he first saw the Elf, he thought that his eyes were all black and scary, like the water of the Bruinen in winter, but now he saw they were brown - a deep, warm brown with golden lights, a bit like a polished chestnut, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. He also smelled nice - Eldanar tried to remember what this scent was called, but he couldn't remember. The cook often put it in the mashed taters, this he knew. It was nice. The Elf was nice, Eldanar decided, and he was a friend of his ada, so he would listen.
"Return to your room, Eldanar, and do not cause those who love you grief. Tomorrow, you will leave with the King and the Queen for Gondor, and I promise you that everything will turn out well. Your ada would not want you to run away - he knows you will be a great warrior one day, and much admired by everybody. But to achieve this, you must face your fears."
Eldanar had listened carefully, and though this was a long and difficult speech for a child to understand, he knew that he had to make a decision now, one that would set the direction for his future life. He looked at the door, which had opened miraculously, and then he looked up at the Elf with the friendly brown eyes.
He sighed, then he picked up his bundle and headed for the great stairs, beginning to walk up to his chamber. When he was in the middle of the stairs, he turned around, and when he saw the encouraging smile of the strange Elf, he returned it, even if his own was a weak smile, and waved. Then the darkness of the corridor swallowed him.
* * *
"I am sorry," Orophin said, and hugged Elladan closer. "It is unforgivable how I behaved today. I will apologize in the morrow."
Elladan gently kissed his husband's lips.
"I am sure Aragorn will understand once he knows why you acted the way you did, beloved. He is a very kind man."
He snuggled up closer to Orophin, and was just about to let his hands wander down his husband's body when the door opened and a sad-looking Elfling appeared in the door. The two Elves quickly moved apart, and Orophin asked:
"Eldanar - why are you not in your bed? You should have been asleep for hours already, you have a long journey in front of you."
Eldanar sniffled, then he held up his toy dragon.
"Tathar cannot sleep, 'phin. So I thought... I thought... maybe if he could stay with you tonight, he could fall asleep? So I brought him here..."
Elladan looked at Orophin, Orophin looked at Elladan, and then both looked at the Elfling.
"Who are we to deny a dragon the remedy for his insomnia," Elladan said, and patted the bedcover. "Come up here, little one, and we will see what we can do for Tathar."
Eldanar quickly climbed up the bed, and settled with a happy smile between the two Elves. Orophin reached for a warm blanket and wrapped the child in it, settling him between Elladan and himself.
"Are you warm now?" he asked, and Eldanar nodded.
"Good - so I shall sing Tathar a lullaby which you might like as well," Orophin said, and when Eldanar answered with a blinding smile, he began to sing for the little boy, and soon enough, the child was deeply asleep, his head resting on Elladan's shoulder.
"It worked," Elladan whispered, and kissed Orophin over Eldanar's head.
"Indeed," Orophin replied, and waved at his husband with one of Tathar's wings.
"The dragon has fallen asleep as well."
Elladan grinned.
"As long as he does not snore, he may stay."
* * *
Elrohir tossed and turned in his bed and couldn't fall asleep, no matter how many sheep he counted. Not even mentally recapitulating an especially boring lecture of Master Erestor regarding the mating-rites of the dung beetles in Northern Mirkwood helped, so he finally sat up and stared at the bedcover.
The young Elf was confused, and moreover, disappointed and angry. Angry with himself, basically, for being so naïve and trusting. He should have known – Námo had used him. His plan had probably been to win Elrohir's friendship and trust: Námo saw him as nothing but a reliable source of information on his enemies' plans. What other reason would a Vala have to waste his time with a mere Elf?
"You idiot," Elrohir said to himself, and hit a pillow with such force that a seam split and feathers danced in the air.
"What horrible crime has this innocent pillow committed to earn your wrath, child?" Námo said, and Elrohir spun around, coming face to face with the source of his anger.
"You!" he yelled, and pointed at Námo with his index finger. He would have probably poked the Vala repeatedly in the chest if this hadn't meant imminent death.
"I have no dealings with pillows, so do not blame me," Námo mocked, and Elrohir felt a mad desire to hit him, hard.
"Leave me alone!" Elrohir hissed. "I do not wish to ever see you again! You are evil, a liar, and I will not rest until you have left Middle-earth for good!"
Námo crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric of his jerkin clung to his body as if alive, a second skin, and despite his anger, Elrohir noticed once again that the Vala left neither a shadow nor an imprint on the bedcover.
"Have you been sitting in the sun too long, young one? Or maybe you ate a fruit which was not ripe yet? Eating green strawberries can cause such a state, you know."
"Go, or I will call for the guards and have you imprisoned!" Elrohir growled, and now Námo was really laughing. Not that Elrohir would have heard it – it was a sound in his mind, making him shiver.
"Elrohir, I would have thought you brighter," Námo said, then he stretched his body and yawned.
Elrohir eyed him with suspicion. "Yes, mock me, I deserve it. I should have seen through you earlier. What a fool I have been! I actually thought that…"
Elrohir broke off, realising what a foolish thing it was to sit here, all alone, arguing about ethics with the Vala of Death, who was planning the end for all of Middle-earth. He was in great danger, and so was Imladris – but what could he do against a Vala?
Námo suddenly had a comb in his hand, and began to run it through his hair.
"You actually thought that I, who could take all of Middle-earth to the Halls of Waiting with a mere touch of my hand if I wished to do so, set up a complicated plan to start a war and befriended you so I could spy on my enemies. A cunning plan, indeed. Child, it seems to me that it is not the pillow whose intellectual abilities should be questioned here. Pray tell, young one – what would I gain from such deeds?"
Elrohir hesitated – indeed, it made no sense. While they had all been busy discussing the "who", none of them had bothered to ask for the "why" – why would Námo go to such lengths? He was the Vala of Death, after all – why start a war? Why not just kill everybody in one go?
Then again, Elrohir was every inch his father's son, and had inherited his stubborn head.
"You forged the Dark Ring, hid it in grand-nana's mirror and hoped that it would ruin Lothlórien, so that you had one realm less to deal with."
Námo continued to comb his hair, looking almost bored by this accusation.
"You know that I, Námo, Vala of Death, Keeper of the Halls of Waiting, have forged a ring? I am most impressed. See, young Elrohir – while your faith in my abilities is flattering - and I have many interests and talents - I am most sorry to state that the forging of jewellery is none of them."
Elrohir hit the bed cover.
"It is true! Do not deny it!"
Námo stopped his occupation and pointed at Elrohir with his comb.
"Quiet now, child. I ask you again: what was written in this book – tell me now."
Elrohir pouted.
"Fine – but I do not see the point. 'And so the Vala of Death forged the Dark Ring, for he was jealous that others had a Ring of Power, but not him, and he envied Melkor his cunning heart. 'I have been cheated by a female, so doom for Middle-earth shall come from the hand of a female', he said, and he put a spell on the Dark Ring, that its power might only be awoken by the treachery of a female, one worthy in deceit to match his own, and then all Middle-earth would be destroyed, and a new world be created, where he would dwell and rule and be worshipped.' See?"
Námo sighed.
"How melodramatic – I must discuss this with the author. But again – where am I mentioned in this context, child?" he asked, and Elrohir wondered if maybe Námo was going deaf with age.
"Where? 'And so, the Vala of Death forged-" Elrohir began, but Námo cut him off.
"No need to repeat it – it is not great poetry, after all. But I see – you are indeed very young. Now tell me - if you read a message saying that the Prince of the Woodland Elves would come for a visit, whom would you expect?"
Elrohir, slightly confused by this turn of conversation, frowned.
"I cannot see why…"
"Answer," Námo said, and this was an order Elrohir had to obey.
"I would expect to see Legolas," he answered.
"Why?"
"Why? What why?" Elrohir asked, and glared at Námo. "Because Legolas is the Prince of the Woodland Elves, that is why!"
"Is he? But what if the message you read was written in the first age?"
"The first age? Why… well… then I would expect Thrandúil, of course."
Námo nodded.
"Good – I see you are not as dim witted as I began to fear you might be. And now, young one, tell me: why would you expect Thrandúil, and not Legolas?"
Elrohir scratched his head, feeling more and more like Námo was playing a very childish game with him.
"I would expect Thrandúil because he was the Prince of the Woodland Elves in the first age," he answered, and Námo broke out in loud applause.
"Bravo! Bravo! You finally see what this is all about!"
Elrohir shook his head, completely confused now.
"No, I do not!" he cried. "I have no idea what you are talking about! What has Thrandúil to do with this?"
"Use your brain, I am sure there must be one in this pumpkin you have sitting on your neck. Prince of the Woodland Elves or Vala of Death – these are nothing but titles, Elrohir."
Elrohir's eyes got wide, and he began to move away from the Vala. Did Námo mean… surely it couldn't be…?
"Do you mean that…" he began, and Námo nodded.
The whole meaning of this enormous revelation finally sunk in, and Elrohir dropped down on the mattress, his head spinning.
"Yes, this is what I mean to say. If one claims to have talked to the son of Elrond, he might have talked to you, young one. But he might equally have talked to your brother."
* * *
The very moment Glorfindel's head had touched the pillow, he had been asleep. Erestor, however, was wide awake. He first checked on Estorel, but the child was sleeping peacefully, sucking on his thumb and being blissfully unaware of the turmoil Middle-earth was in.
Then the advisor had paced the room up and down, like a wild cat in a cage, and finally, he had settled in a chair beside the bed, watching his husband, for he did not want to wake Glorfindel by tossing and turning.
How peaceful he looked - and how tired. Yes, Glorfindel was tired, and though he never admitted it, Erestor knew very well that old injuries pained Fin greatly at times, and he wished he could do something to help his beloved. Strands of grey mingled with the golden tresses, only noticeable for those who looked for them. Tiny wrinkles around the eyes, a deep line on his neck. The body covered with scars, some of an angry red, other, older ones, of a faint silver. The terrible mark of the Balrog's whip on his back. How often had Erestor seen those scars when they made love, how often had he kissed every single one of them.
Glorfindel was marked by his life - and he was the most beautiful Elf Erestor had ever seen.
He rested his hands on his stomach, calming a little when he felt the soft roundness of it. He stroked the bulge that was his unborn child's bedchamber lovingly, then he sighed.
Erestor was worried. There was something dangerous lurking around the Last Homely House, out for a kill, and he felt a wave of love for Fin flood his heart, and the need to protect him, to keep him safe. For as long as they had known each other, Glorfindel had been the one to look after Erestor, to protect him from harm, and now, somehow, this had changed. While he couldn't put his finger on the reasons for this feeling, Erestor instinctively knew that somebody out there was after Glorfindel, and he swore to himself that he would never allow any harm to come to this wonderful Elf.
The dark-haired advisor leant forward, and pressed a reverent kiss on Glorfindel's lips.
"You sleep," he murmured, "and I will watch."
The baby kicked him, for the first time, and Erestor smiled, stroking his stomach again.
"My apologies, penneth - of course I intended to say that we will watch."
* * *
Elrohir was still lying on his back, and he didn't even look up when Námo settled beside him.
"You look pale – it suits you. Here, drink some water," the Vala said, and offered the young Elf, who was too shaken to wonder where the vessel had come from, a silver cup with fresh water. He propped himself up on one elbow, then took the cup with a trembling hand, and gulped down the cold water.
Elrohir took a deep breath, then he turned to look at Námo.
"I am only an Elf, my lord – and not the wisest, I fear. I do not know if I shall believe you or not, but I am willing to listen. I beg you – tell me the complete story."
Námo considered this request for a moment, then he nodded, and stretched out comfortably on his front, beside Elrohir, his chin resting on his folded hands.
"Very well. We were sixteen of our kind: Manwë and his brother Melkor, Ulmo, Aulë, Oromë, Irmo, Tulkas, Varda, Yavanna, Nienna, Estë, Vairë, Vána, Nessa, my own illustrious person and then there was – my brother, Finwë. We were quite fond of Middle-earth and all who dwelt there, especially the Firstborn. You are of such a refreshing naiveté and silliness, so we decided to keep our protecting hands over you. Mind you, this was not a purely selfless decision, we were also very bored, and you gave us something to do. Among 16 individuals, there are only so many times you can play Tablero before you get bored.
So each of us decided to take over a realm for your benefit. I will not bore you by repeating the History of the Valar, I am sure you are familiar with it. All might have been wonderful, but for the fact that two of us began to feel unhappy with their duties. Melkor was jealous of Manwë, not only because he was the one with all the power, but also because he wanted Varda, Manwë's wife, for himself, and I am sure you know what trouble it can cause when two brothers are interested in the same – mate."
Námo gave Elrohir a knowing look, and the young Elf blushed.
"Please continue," he said quickly, and Námo obliged.
"They argued, daily, and Melkor's heart grew bitter. Where this all led to, you surely know. He left us and wished to ruin all we held dear, but thanks to those most splendid Hobbits and the rest of the Fellowship, his plan failed.
“However, he was not the only one who was unsatisfied. My brother, the Vala of Death, was enjoying his duties too much. He found great pleasure in bringing death and sadness, and his heart delighted in the tears of the Firstborn. When he realized that we did not approve of his behaviour, he tried to take the fëa of all Firstborn to his halls in one strike, but Yavanna found him out, and stopped him. He left us, and took his Dark Ring with him, so only 14 Valar remained. Eight of us had the power to protect and guide you, so one of us had to take over Finwë's tasks. So it was decided that I should take his place."
Elrohir had listened to this tale with increasing confusion.
"Why you?" he asked.
"Because my realm was the only one we could leave to the Firstborn. Your hearts are pure and loving, you did not need my protection."
"What was your realm, my lord?" Elrohir asked, curious now.
Námo didn't answer right away, he rolled on his back and gazed at the beautifully painted ceiling. Elrohir waited, patiently, and finally, the Vala looked at him. For a brief moment, Elrohir thought he had seen sadness in those endless dark pools – but maybe this was his own melancholy rather than Námo's.
"I used to be the Vala of Love, Joy and Fertility, young one."
For a moment, there was silence, and Elrohir tried to form a coherent sentence.
"You… the Vala who gave life became the Vala who takes it? But – that is horrible!" he finally gasped, and Námo shrugged, watching a spider on her way along the headboard of the bed.
Elrohir shivered.
"That is cruel… how could they do this to you? Why did you not object?" he said, and he felt a rather frightening degree of anger with the Valar rise in his heart.
"Necessities are not always pleasant, young one. I am sure this is a lesson you have learned in your life, too," Námo answered.
Elrohir wrapped one of his braids around his finger, something he had used to do as an Elfling when nervous.
"My lord – you once told me that you do not have a heart, in order to treat everybody alike and be impartial. And now you tell me that you once watched over love itself? How is that possible, without a heart?"
Námo still watched the spider on her long journey, and didn't turn to look at Elrohir when he answered.
"I do not have a heart anymore, young one," he finally said, not moving his gaze from the small animal, "for if I had one, it would have broken."
* * *
The day of departure had been a sad one. Eldanar, despite all efforts to put on a brave face, had cried snot and tears, and nothing Arwen or Aragorn said could cheer him up. Orophin and Elladan had felt like crying, too, but held back, for the young one's sake.
All through the journey, Eldanar had hardly spoken a word, refused to eat and cried himself to sleep at night. He sat in the back of the cart and stared in the direction of the Last Homely House, even hours after they had lost sight of Imladris.
On the evening of the fourth day, he guards had set up camp by a small pond, a fire was burning, and everybody sat together for dinner, save Eldanar, who was sitting under a tree, hiding his face behind his toy dragon. Tathar was already so wet that one could have wrung him out, and the child's sadness cut deep into everybody's hearts.
"I don't know, love, maybe this was not such a good idea after all," Aragorn said, and drew on his pipe.
Arwen, who sat beside him and was feeding their youngest daughter, sighed.
"I am not happy to see him like this, either, darling, but eventually, he will see that we can offer him a good life, and I will love him like one of my own children. It takes time - he grew fond of ada and my brother, and of Orophin, too. And we must not forget that he has just learned that his father died. Such a young soul, and already burdened with so much grief - 't is not fair."
Aragorn stroked his wife's hair, and was just about to get up and walk over to the child when a sharp whistle made him reach for his sword.
"What is it?" he asked, and one of the guards said: "A rider - he is coming nearer very quickly."
"An Orc scout? Anybody with him?"
The captain of the guard shook his head.
"No, I don't think so. But just in case - maybe her majesty and the Elflings should withdraw to the back," the captain said, and Arwen got up, hurrying Eldarion to follow her into the forest.
"Eldanar, come with me, please," she said, but the child didn't move.
"Eldanar! Do as Arwen told you!" Aragorn said, and now, finally, Eldanar looked up. Slowly, he got up, and trotted after Arwen and Eldarion into the forest.
Now they could see the rider. He was, indeed, approaching very quickly, but the hooves of his horse made amazingly little noise.
Aragorn smiled.
"Lower your weapons," he ordered, "whoever this might be, he is an Elf, and therefore no danger."
"An Elf?" the captain said, and scratched his head. "How can you tell, my king? He is still far away!"
Aragorn laughed.
"If you cannot hear them, they are either Elves or Hobbits, my friend, and I have yet to see a Hobbit wearing the uniform of a Galadhrim."
Aragorn was right, of course, and when Orophin finally reached the camp, he welcomed him with a hug.
"Do you bring tidings from Lord Elrond?" he asked, but the Galadhrim shook his head, and looked around searchingly.
"No. I am here to -"
Orophin couldn't finish the sentence, because Eldanar shot out of the forest and into his arms, and the tall Elf swung the boy around, then hugged him tightly to his chest.
"'phin! 'phin! Oh, I have missed you so much," the child sobbed, and clung to the Galadhrim like ivy to a tree.
"I have missed you, too, penneth," Orophin whispered, and there was a treacherous tremble in his voice. He turned to Aragorn and Arwen, and bowed.
"I am most sorry. I know that you meant well when you took Eldanar with you, and I am really grateful, but he belongs with us. My apologies, Elladan and I should have made a decision earlier, and Lord Elrond is probably right, we are two idiots, but with your permission, I will now take Eldanar back to Imladris with me."
This was, without a doubt, the longest and most confusing speech Orophin had ever made. His hair, usually so neatly braided, was hanging wild in his face, there was a smudge on his nose, and it was clear to see that anybody who tried to take the child away from him would risk another kin slaying.
Aragorn grinned, and Arwen, who had stepped to his side, wiped away a tear.
"What do you say, young Eldanar - do you wish to live with these two mad Elves?" the king asked, and Eldanar just stared at Orophin.
"I can stay with you?" he whispered, and Orophin nodded, very enthusiastically.
"Yes - but only if you want to. Elladan has already begun to paint your chamber, he is currently drawing duckies on the wall."
"Oh yes, I want to! Very much!" Eldanar sighed, and snuggled happily into Orophin's arms.
"I am your Elfling then, is that right?" the child asked, and Orophin nodded.
"Yes, you are now Elladan's and my Elfling."
"But Haldir is your Elfling, too – will he not be angry with me?" Eldanar asked, a little worried at the prospect of facing a jealous Haldir's wrath. He had secretly planned to marry Miss Bramble one day, but sure Haldir wouldn't allow this anymore now. And what if Rabbit decided to eat him? Eldanar paled.
Orophin laughed, and kissed the child.
"Do not worry, penneth. As long as you will share your dessert with him, Haldir will love you dearly."
Then they both sat down by the fire, Eldanar suddenly finding himself to be very hungry, and while he stuffed as much Lembas and grilled rabbit into his mouth as possible, he again and again tugged on Orophin's braid, as if to make certain that his much-loved 'phin was really there.
Tired from the emotional turmoil of the last days, Eldanar soon curled up in Orophin's arms. He was already half asleep when he saw the strange Elf he had spoken to the previous night, so he didn't wonder why he was here.
"You were right," he murmured and yawned, "everything turned out for the best."
Orophin looked puzzled at the child, but then he saw that Eldanar had already fallen asleep, and did not think about it any longer.
Námo, however, had heard him well.
* * *
Following the king's summons, the 40 members of Thrandúil's council, each of them representing one clan, had assembled in the "Red Hall", which owed its name to the red sand covering its ground. Nothing had changed here since the days of old: the council members sat on stone benches and Thrandúil on a throne of heavy oak, black and hard as stone with age. The torches on the walls flickered, and the whole scene was quite archaic.
Once all had arrived, Thrandúil lifted his hand, and all discussions came to a halt.
"Nobles, lords, brothers. I have received word from Lord Elrond of Imladris and it is bad tidings. A new evil has arisen, all of Middle-earth is in danger, and we are asked to form an allegiance with the other realms against the enemy."
Thrandúil waited for a moment to give his council the opportunity to express their surprise, then he raised his hands again. Erduil, the head of the clan of Northern Mirkwood, stepped forwards.
"My king – I thought the evil lord had been beaten? Who is this enemy? And how do we know Mirkwood is really in danger?"
Thrandúil threw a quick glance at Amaris, who gave him an encouraging smile, then he addressed the council.
"Melkor was not the only Vala who fell out of grace and followed the dark road. There is another one, one we thought to be nothing but a legend, a fairy tale to be told by the fireplace. But the legend is true, and the new Dark Lord has summoned his forces; he is residing in Tíngel forest, ready to lash out at Middle-earth and destroy us."
Erduil shook his head.
"My King – what proof do we have that it is as you say? Only the word of the Half-elf?"
Amaris frowned when he heard the contempt in these words, but chose to keep quiet for the time being.
"We have proof. I would not send out my warriors into war without good reason – or is that what you are trying to imply, lord?" Thrandúil asked, and immediately, the advisor bowed his head.
"Not at all, my King. But please understand – we are worried. With the return of your brother, the question has arisen if you will remain our king at all, or if he will claim the throne. There have been rumours, my king, which have to be addressed. It is said that he wishes to rule, that he wishes to change our ways, and is good friends with the breed of the Half-elves in Imladris. We are worried, my king, that we will become nothing but an appendix to Imladris – and we are surprised about your change of mind."
This was bold speech, and a great discussion began among the council. Thrandúil frowned – yes, it was true, he had always opposed Imladris, and disliked Elrond deeply, but he had also, over the centuries, learned that no realm could survive on its own. From respecting to befriending Elrond, and forming an allegiance with Imladris was a big step. The biggest blow was yet to come, and Thrandúil would need to choose his words carefully. Erduil was a dangerous opponent, one of those who wished to see Mirkwood go back to its old ways, completely cut off from the rest of Middle-earth, as he felt the Elves of Imladris and Lothlórien were weak and had become decadent, and he hated the Half-elves with a passion.
Erduil, a cousin of Thrandúil, had been third in succession to the throne of Mirkwood. His chances of becoming king had been good, with Thrandúil battle weary and Legolas on the quest with little chance of returning. Then Amaris had returned, which was a blow to his high-flying plans, all the more so, since the older brother of the King seemed to be weak and silly, and no follower of the warrior's way. Erduil, to cut the story short, felt that Mirkwood was in need of a new king, and he deemed himself to be just the Elf for this position.
Amaris, who had stood motionless throughout the advisor's speech, lifted his hand, and immediately, all discussion ceased, and the eyes of those present were fixed on him.
"Your expressions of loyalty and affection for my brother are honourable and most touching, lord Erduil – indeed, I was close to tears. However, your concerns are void. I have no intention of becoming head of the clan, nor do I demand kingship. My brother has led our people through all dangers, and he has done well. Only a fool would demand that he leave, and my nana did not raise any fools. As for other Elves’ nanas, I am not so sure. I also have no wish to stay here for a long time; I merely came here to see my family, but I will leave for Valinor as soon as this battle has been won. And won it will be, once our forces are joined. Imladris needs us, and we need Imladris."
Erduil glared at Amaris, and he did not even try to hide his dislike for the other Elf.
"Lord Amaris – with all due respect, you do not know what you are talking about. You have spent these last millennia in the Halls of Waiting, and I will not hold it against you that are out of the loop, so to speak. I suggest you return to writing poems and seducing chamber maids, and leave this kind of decision to those who know about it."
The members of the council, including Thrandúil, held their breath. This was an insult – an open insult to a member of the royal family, and even Legolas, who was far from being a friend of his uncle, automatically reached for his dagger, but Amaris just smiled at him and shook his head.
Erduil, not one to know when to stop, took this as a sign of weakness, and added: "And just so we know the full extent of this plan – who was supposed to lead us into war, my lord? Lord Elrond, armed with a thimble? Or maybe the most fearsome Master Erestor, waving a scroll?"
Some laughed, but then Amaris cut them off.
"Quiet – hear me out. While I do not claim kingship, you still owe me your allegiance. Middle-earth is facing a great evil, and it can only be overcome if we fight united, side by side with Lothlórien and Imladris - and under the lead of the High King."
If a fly had coughed at this moment, one would have heard it, for nobody even dared to breathe after this announcement.
Erduil looked like he had just bitten into a lemon, and began to yell.
"The High King?" he shouted, "How dare you ask this of us! Have you forgotten that he was responsible for the death of so many of our people? I would rather die at the hands of the Dark Lord than fight side by side with this murderer!”
He spat in front of Amaris, and the court gasped at this insult.
Amaris only cocked an eyebrow.
"The only one responsible for the death of our brothers, and I am not happy that I have to admit this, was my father. Oropher did not listen, he wanted things his way, he led them into death for he counted honour in battle higher than life itself. He was a great warrior, but he was not a very wise ruler. The High King saved the lives of many of our brothers, and lost his own life in the process. You wish to die? Well, I shall not be the one to hold you back, Erduil, and I wish you many joyful millennia in the Halls of Waiting – but how about your wife? Your children? Are you willing to sacrifice them as well? Or do you think the Dark Lord will show mercy? If this is what you think, you are a greater fool than I thought. Or maybe you are just a coward."
Erduil turned beet red at this insult, and pulled his dagger.
"Nobody calls me a coward – least of all you, who have been a traitor to your people! Do not think us stupid! Did you really think we would not know what you did during the war? That your only purpose was to warm the High King's bed? And you are trying to tell us whom we have to obey? What you want is to force our people under Gil-galad's reign – do not deny it! Call me a coward again, and I shall cut your treacherous heart out!"
Thrandúil had jumped up, ready to step in and call the upset lord to reason, but Amaris held him back, and nodded at Erduil.
"You challenge me? Very well, it is your right. We shall see whose heart will bleed, Erduil of the Northern Forest."
Amaris took off his tunic, and there were admiring comments heard when the Elves saw the tattoos. Maybe Amaris had been a traitor and Gil-galad's pet, as it was rumoured – but despite his young years, he bore the marks of a great warrior.
"Here," Legolas said, and held out one of his fighting knives to Amaris, who hesitated a moment, then took it. He looked into Legolas eyes, and the prince lifted his chin proudly. "I wish you luck – uncle," he said, and Amaris smiled.
"My thanks, dear nephew. I shall not dishonour your blade."
Then he turned to Erduil, the Elves stepped back, and the two lords began to circle each other.
Erduil was nervous, and sweat beaded his brow. This was not going the way he had planned – he had made a grave mistake in underestimating Amaris. This was neither poet nor scroll shuffler, this was a warrior, and one who obviously knew no fear, for he was still smiling.
"Come here, Erduil… what are you waiting for? Shall we dance around each other all day long?" Amaris mocked, and Erduil leapt forward, aiming for Amaris' chest, but the other Elf moved so quickly that his blade stabbed into the air.
"Not so bad for a beginner… try again," Amaris said, and beckoned Erduil to come closer.
Had he been wiser, he would have ignored Amaris' obvious attempts to make him angry, but Erduil couldn't help it – he WAS angry, very angry, and a red veil began to settle over his mind. He had to win this fight, had to – or he would lose face in front of his people, so he stormed forward again, this time at least managing to apply a long, though not very deep, cut along Amaris' side.
"That was better, but still not much above the abilities of an Elfling," Amaris grinned, completely ignoring his injury, and now he leapt forward, so quickly that Erduil had no time to react, and when Amaris' knife cut into his hip, he howled, but couldn't get a hold of the other Elf.
Erduil stumbled, clinging on to his dagger, and stormed forward again, and again, but not once was he able to hurt or even touch Amaris, who seemed to move with the speed of a Forest Spirit – indeed, it looked like the blond Elf was performing an elegant yet bizarre dance, making the struggling lord from the Northern Forest look even clumsier. Erduil decided that a new tactic was required, so he jumped forward and grabbed for Amaris’ legs, pulling them away from under him and bringing him down. Amaris recovered quickly, and now both Elves were fighting in the dust. Erduil tried to strangle Amaris, but the blond struggled free, then Erduil punched him, hard, and Amaris' lip split. He rolled over and now it was his turn to hit, this time on Erduil's injured hip, which made the lord cry out in pain.
Amaris used this moment of distraction to pin Erduil down underneath him, and before the advisor could make another move, he found himself on his back, feeling the deadly cold of the knife at his throat.
"So then, lord Erduil, chieftain of the Northern Forest, it looks like the king's pet still knows how to bite."
He applied some pressure on the blade, and the tip cut into the soft skin of Erduil's neck, drawing blood. It was a small wound, just superficial, but Amaris felt he had to make a point here. He brought his face very close to Erduil's, and smiled.
"How beautiful you are in your failure, Erduil," he murmured, and smiled. Erduil thought he had never seen a more terrifying thing than this smile, and stared up at the blond Elf, fear in his eyes. Oh how he hated Amaris, how he hated him from the very bottom of his heart, but at the same time, he was very much aware of the strong body which rested heavy on his own, and for the fraction of a moment he felt tempted to lick the blood off Amaris' lips.
The pressure of the blade disappeared, and he saw from the corner of his eye how Amaris threw the hunting knife to Legolas, who caught the blade in mid air, cleaning it on his breeches and putting it back in its scabbard, a proud smile on his face.
Amaris didn't release Erduil, but propped his chin on his hands, folded over the advisor's chest.
"I wish you to pay attention now, Erduil, for I will only say this once. Thrandúil is your king. You will obey him. I am your lord, and you will obey me as well. And you will follow Gil-galad king - to the death if necessary - for this is the only way to save our people. And should you ever reach for the throne again or even so much as look at my brother in any other than the most respectful way, I will snap your neck and feed your carcass to Master Erestor's crows. Have I made myself clear?"
Erduil swallowed hard, then he nodded, faintly, but visibly.
"Good," Amaris said, "I am most delighted to see that decent conversation between noble Elves is still possible these days."
In one fluid motion, he got up and stretched. Grime, blood and sweat were clinging to his body, accentuating every muscle, and his hair clung to his shoulders. He threw his mane back, then picked up his tunic and left the place, his every movement followed by 44 pairs of eyes.
"That," Thrandúil said to Legolas when he was finally able to speak again, "was one of the most remarkable things I have ever seen in my life."
Legolas, still staring after Amaris, nodded enthusiastically.
"Oh yes, Ada – what a fight!"
"I was not talking about the fight," Thrandúil said, "I have seen him fighting before, and I knew it would end so."
Legolas looked at his father, a little confused.
"What was the remarkable thing then, ada?"
"Seeing 40 council members with an erection," Thrandúil answered, and pushed his circlet, which had gone askew, back on his head.
* * *
"This is a very odd scent," Glorfindel said, and sniffed. Celeborn looked up, and sniffed as well.
"You are right – nutmeg, is it not?" he said, and Fin nodded. They had gone for a short walk to discuss some improvements regarding the guards; Celeborn had offered his help, for he felt rather useless sitting around and twiddling his thumbs, and Glorfindel had welcomed the offer. They both had stopped, wondering where the odd scent came from.
Celeborn rubbed his eyes.
"By the Valar – I feel very tired, Glorfindel. Would you mind if we returned to the Last Homely House?"
Fin yawned, and shook his head.
"Not at all – I admit that I feel rather exhausted myself, and I… maybe I should …"
Both Elves swayed, suddenly unsteady on their feet. They felt tired, so very tired, and then Glorfindel dropped on the spot, deeply asleep before his head touched the ground; Celeborn followed immediately, hitting his head hard on a stone, but feeling nothing, because he, too, was already asleep.
The men crawled out from under the bushes and behind the trees, and sneered.
"Ha! Great stuff, worked like a charm! Now, bind and gag them, and make sure they're not hurt more than necessary, or the lord will have yer heads," the captain of the mercenaries said, and his minions quickly bound Celeborn and Glorfindel and dragged them to a cart which had been hidden behind some bushes.
* * *
Erestor dropped the scroll he had been reading in - something terrible had just happened, he knew it. Fear touched his heart, cold and hurtful, and he ran out of the room, down the stairs, repeating Glorfindel's name again and again, as if the mere mention of the beloved name could keep his husband from harm.
But deep down in his heart, Erestor knew that he would be too late.
* * *
Elrohir, who was looking for his grand-father, had found two sentries sound asleep under a tree, and no matter how hard he shook them, they wouldn't wake up. This was very odd, so he had already turned to fetch his father when he heard the voices of men.
Unusual – for sure, men were often guests in Imladris, but this was a language he had not heard here in a long time.
"What business do men from Breon have in Imladris? And why did I not know that they were here in the first place?" he wondered, signalling his horse to stay behind and drawing his sword as a precaution, then walking slowly towards the noise.
When he saw that the men were trying to load the two unconscious Elven lords on the cart, he shouted at them: "Stop this immediately! Who are you? What are you doing here? Leave them alone, now!"
The men did not answer, but attacked him immediately; while Elrohir was a great warrior, they outnumbered him by far, especially as no guards answered his desperate calls for help, and when a strong scent of nutmeg wafted through the air, he suddenly felt very tired, and found it difficult to keep hold of his sword.
Elrohir felt a blade slice his back open, but oddly enough, it didn't hurt. He just felt tired, and cold. The young Elf closed his eyes, wishing nothing more than to sleep, while the blows rained down on him and his blood stained the grass.
"Follow me, child," he suddenly heard a well-known voice, and with the last energy he could muster, Elrohir opened his eyes.
It was Námo. Of course it was him, who else? His voice was not mocking, not teasing, just calm and – comforting? A blow to his head sent Elrohir spinning, and he heard a bone break, but all he was aware of was the Vala of Death, crouching in front of him, head cocked and studying him as a child might study a butterfly resting on a flower.
Elrohir made the most important choice of his life: to die or not to die? Trust Námo to take his soul to the Halls of Waiting, or risk wandering in darkness for all eternity? Was Námo good or evil? Or, as he had once explained, neutral? Elrohir tried to see any trace of emotion in the dark liquid that were Námo's eyes, but there was nothing.
"Come to me, Elrohir," Námo said, and opened his arms. Maybe it was the way he said his name, or an inner voice, but when another blade buried itself in his leg, Elrohir reached out to touch Námo, and the Vala smiled, taking him in his arms.
"That one's done, cap'n," a red-haired man said, and pulled his sword out of Elrohir's leg.
"Aye – let's go before his friends come along," the captain said, kicking the body of the Elf one last time, and then they hurried to the rest of their troop, who had already thrown the bound and gagged Elven lords on the cart and were eager to leave this place. Both Glorfindel and Celeborn were still unconscious, which had spared them from witnessing how Elrohir was about to get murdered.
The mercenary with the red hair looked down at the lifeless body of the Elf, and raised his sword for the final blow.
"Just to make sure you'll not get up and cause trouble, pretty one," he grinned, but before he could bury the steel of his sword in Elrohir's body, something touched him – it felt like his heart was being squeezed by an icy hand, a coldness spread all through his body, and he fell to the ground, very dead, before he could finish his task.
The captain turned around, saw his companion fall, but did not return to see if he was still alive – one life didn't count. The only thing of importance was to fulfil the order, for if he failed, his life would be forfeit. So he quickly ran into the forest, and while the mercenaries took their victims away from Rivendell and headed for their hide-out, protected by evil magic and unnoticed by the sentries, the birds ceased their singing.
* * *
Velvet? No. Silk? Neither. Silky velvet? Elrohir couldn't tell, but whatever it was, it felt incredibly good against his skin, so he rubbed his cheek on the soft fabric, like a cat who wished to be petted. He was warm, he was comfortable, and he had never felt this good before. There was a distinct scent in the air, a bit like nutmeg, a bit like leather, and somebody was holding him, and as Elrohir was a curious Elf, alive or dead, he opened his eyes to see where he was and who was holding him.
He was nowhere. Right in the middle of nothing. Imagining 'nothing' was an impossible task, and he and Elladan had often tried to imagine the unimaginable that was eternity, the big nothingness, and now he was here. This was too much for him to understand, so he focused his gaze on the one who was holding him.
It was Námo, and the fabric which felt so good on Elrohir's skin was his black jerkin. It was suede, as Elrohir could now see, and he wondered first what animal could provide a skin this soft, then he told himself that this was not exactly the kind of thing one should muse over when realizing that one was dead.
Námo wore hunter's gear, all in black, and his black hair seemed to have a life of its own, cascading over his shoulders like the black water of the Bruinen. Elrohir lifted his hand, and touched one of the braids with the silver clasps. The braid seemed to move, but it was silky to his touch, and Elrohir ran his fingers over it. A strand of black hair gently wrapped itself around his hand and caressed his wrist. He studied the clasp, which was made of silver, or so he thought, and showed a skull. How tasteful, Elrohir thought, I fear to see what his throne is made of.
"So you have finally awoken," Námo said, and for the first time, Elrohir could really hear his voice, with his ears, not only with his mind, and he decided he liked this voice. Namó spoke with an accent, but which one, Elrohir couldn't tell; it was familiar, though. He looked up, and closed his eyes again, for looking into Námo's eyes was like looking beyond eternity, and Elrohir could not bear it.
"Look at me, Elrohir," Námo ordered, but Elrohir refused to obey, so terrifying had that first look been. He buried his face in Námo's chest, and shook his head.
"I cannot, my lord – it would be my death to see eternity", he whispered, and to his great surprise, he felt a chuckle trembling through Námo's chest.
"You are refreshingly illogical, young one. How can it be your death when you are already dead?"
Dead. Of course. He was dead. He had completely forgotten about this.
Elrohir looked up, and dared another glance at Námo's face.
"You are beautiful," he said, and reached out to touch the face of the Vala.
"So I have been told," Námo confirmed, "a pleasant face makes my work easier, young one. You Elves with your fascination for beauty are more likely to follow a straight nose and flawless skin than a cave troll with festering pustules."
This, Elrohir thought, was a decidedly odd conversation to have with a Vala, but then again, when had conversations with Námo not been odd.
"You are very fair, Elrohir – more than I thought. I only see you as shadows when I come to call on you, you and your kin. You are like a summer breeze, or the scent of a flower – beautiful, but gone before one can fully appreciate your presence."
He bent down, coming eye to eye with Elrohir, and the young Elf shivered when he saw the red flames dancing in the Vala's eyes.
"So you see, fair Elrohir – I knew I would get you in the end. All good things come to those who wait."
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Author's notes: The idea of the "Vala of Love" sprung, no, jumped from a conversation I had on the EOAS tagboard with Eveiya, the Magic Rat, Anu and Anand, when Anand mentioned that there was none. I took my liberties with the Valar here, I hope you may forgive me. I know there are some discussions whether Sauron should be counted among the Valar or not – I think that yes, like Lucifer was the fallen angel. A bit of a stretch, I admit it.
As for Námo's evil brother: my stories are basically soap operas, with all the clichés you know – and the evil brother is a character which may not be missing in any soap, so here he is, Finwë, former Vala of Death. A most charming character...
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