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
Special thanks to Nellas of Doriath, who made this amazing drawing of Namo and Elrohir. Thanks so much for sharing your talent!
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 3
"What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end
And you could have it all
my empire of dirt."
"Hurt" - Johnny Cash (orig. NIN)
~°~
"So you see, fair Elrohir – I knew I would get you in the end. All good things come to those who wait."
If Elrohir's heart had still been beating, it would have stopped now. So he had been right - Námo had tricked him. Elrohir thought of his family, his friends - he knew they would be heartbroken over his death, and that this could have been avoided if only he hadn't been so naïve as to trust the Vala.
Elrohir felt the need to hit his head against a hard surface, but as Námo still held him close, this was not possible.
The Vala sighed.
"Ah yes, very fair indeed. What a pity that I will not be able to keep you."
"What?"
Elrohir blinked, and Námo shrugged.
"Yes, I know. It is terribly upsetting for you to hear this; without a doubt, you would prefer to stay here, but alas - you must return."
"Return?"
Námo cocked an eyebrow.
"I would welcome it, child, if you could stop echoing my words like a parrot. Of course you have to return, your time has not yet come. You have many boring millennia ahead of you, which is regrettable, but cannot be changed."
"But I thought..." Elrohir began, only to be silenced by Námo, who looked rather stern.
"You think much too often, young one. If Elves spent more time dreaming and less thinking, they would be merrier and less annoying. And now sleep."
Sleep was, of course, the last thing on Elrohir's mind, but his lids felt like lead all of a sudden, and dropped closed automatically.
Námo looked down at the unconscious Elf, and frowned at the sight of the blood-matted hair and the deep gash in his back. He saw many Elves running towards them, Erestor ahead of them all, his black robes and hair flying, closely followed by Elrond and Elladan. Any second they would be here, taking care of the young Elf and making sure he would heal.
And as healing was none of his business and Námo felt he had been generous enough for one day, he returned to the Halls of Waiting.
* * *
Erestor and Elrond arrived almost simultaneously at the spot where Elrohir lay in the grass, and the sight of the limp, lifeless figure in the puddle of blood was like a punch in their stomachs. After the initial shock, however, Elrond mustered all his strength and calm, for he was a healer – there would be time for tears later, now he had to look after his son.
He crouched down beside Elrohir and felt his pulse. A sigh of relief escaped him.
"Thank the Valar, he is alive," he said to Erestor, who had paled visibly, and his dark eyes scanned the surrounding for traces of his husband. But there were none - safe the badly hurt Elrohir and a dead mortal. Erestor knew that something bad had happened. He could only hope that Elrohir would be able to tell him what.
"How serious are his injuries?" the advisor asked, kneeling down beside Elrohir.
Elrond didn't answer, he only ordered the guards to get a stretcher. It was true, Elrohir was still alive – but would he pull through? His back was sliced open, a deep wound on his hip was bleeding heavily, and all colour had drained from his face.
There was fear in Elrond's heart, and an ever-growing anger. Anger and hate towards the one responsible for this crime. Elladan and Erestor helped him to lift Elrohir onto the stretcher, face down to avoid causing further damage by moving him around too much, then they slowly carried their precious burden back to the Healing House.
Orophin stayed behind with Haldir and Mela, and they looked at the dead mortal.
"A mercenary - or what do you think?" Mela said, and Orophin shrugged.
"I cannot tell - let us see if he carries anything with him that might tell us where he comes from. Judging from his clothes, he looks more like a hunter, but this can be deceptive."
He knelt down beside the man and began to search through his pockets. He found a hunting knife, some tobacco, a fishing line, two hooks and a silver coin.
Orophin frowned as he got up, examining the coin carefully. For quite a while, he just stared at the picture embossed on one side, till Mela's curiosity got the better of him: "Have you found anything? Is there anything special about this coin?"
Orophin didn't answer, but he knew the coin all too well, and his fist closed so tightly over the tiny piece of silver that the reeding dug painfully into his flesh.
~~~ Flashback Orophin ~~~
They had been four, and they huddled together like young sparrows in a nest - not only to keep warm, but also to find some comfort. Men, hundreds of them, and women, also some children. They looked strange, frightening, and none of the four Elflings understood their language. Sometimes they laughed, loud and rough, and many stared at the Elflings, pointing with their fingers.
Only a week ago, Orophin and his friends had played in the forest, laughed with their parents, climbed trees and tried to catch fish in the pond close to the small settlement they had lived in. Then, between one moment and the next, everything had changed. There had been screams and fire, and men with swords and knives. Orophin couldn't really remember what happened, but he knew that he and his friends were caught when they tried to climb the trees to hide. The men had followed them, chasing them on horseback. One had hit him, then bound his hands together and thrown him over the front of the saddle like a sack.
The journey had taken two days, and neither Orophin nor his friends had been given anything to eat. He later learned that this was a common method among slavers to keep the merchandise weak and calm.
And now they were here, tied together like slaughtered chickens in a butchery, and while neither Orophin nor his friends understood the language the men were speaking, they knew very well that this was a market, and that they were about to be sold. The seller was a tall, serious man with a neatly cut beard - Orophin had never seen a mortal before, and he thought it was very odd to have facial hair, but he knew better than to inquire about it. The seller had given the slavers a handful of coins, then he called for some servants, and the four Elflings were put in a tub with warm water and scrubbed clean. Food had been served, and over all, they had been treated well, but Orophin had a suspicion that this was only to keep them in good condition and fetch a higher price.
While still very young, Orophin had always listened to the tales told by the fire, and he knew what slavers were and what was about to happen to him and his friends. He decided that the wisest thing would be to play along and use the first opportunity to run away.
The seller was in deep discussion with two men now. One wore robes which looked expensive, with lots of gold trimmings, and he wore plenty of jewellery. Orophin thought the cut of the garments was very unflattering - not at all like the simple, elegant robes of the noble Elves he had seen.
The other man wore plain clothes; his hands were large and dirty, and reddish stubble covered his face. The seller occasionally pointed at the Elves, sometimes smiling, sometimes looking angry, and Orophin knew that they were negotiating.
"My lord", Melnor the Merchant said, bowing respectfully in front of the Lord Chancellor, "I really cannot lower the price any more. Just look at him - he is perfect! It's easy to find dark haired Elves, they come twelve a dozen, but a fine silver haired one like him - that's a rare find! My men caught him two days from here, at great risk to themselves!"
The Lord Chancellor shook his head.
"We all have to take risks in our business, Melnor, that is the way it works. Agreed, the Elf is nice to look at, but much too young. We told Him that we need an adult, He knows how long it takes for them to grow-up! We have no intention of waiting another forty years until this one can warm our bed. Doesn't He have any other Elves on offer?"
Melnor bowed again, and sighed, his face full of regret.
"Unfortunately not, my lord - they become increasingly difficult to catch. But are you sure you will not change your mind?"
He stepped over to Orophin and grabbed the Elfling by the arm, dragging him in front of the two men.
"Just look at the hair," he said, running his long fingers through Orophin's mane. "And the eyes - have you ever seen such interesting colouring? Everybody has blue-eyed Elves, my lord - but this - your household would be the envy of every member of the city council."
The Lord Chancellor looked Orophin up and down, nodding.
"Indeed - he is very special. And tall for his age..."
He reached out to grip the Elfling's chin, and turned Orophin's face from left to right and back several times. Melnor, who knew when a good deal could be made, continued to praise his merchandise.
"Do not forget to look at the ears, my lord – you will hardly find another one with such elegant points."
Orophin didn't like the odd glimmer which had appeared in the man's eyes all of a sudden. Before Melnor could step in, the Elfling bit the chubby hand which held his chin, hard, and the Lord Chancellor yelped, drawing his hand back as if he had been bitten by a snake.
"By the great goddess, Melnor! Does He not tame them before He sells them? Now He may look at this!" the Lord Chancellor screamed, and held his hand under the seller's nose, giving him the opportunity to admire the perfect imprints of Orophin's teeth on the back of his hand.
"My apologies, my lord - I had no idea he was wild still. Be assured that I will punish him for this - or maybe you would prefer to do this yourself?" Melnor asked, a sly smile behind his apologies.
The Lord Chancellor considered the matter for a moment - oh, punishing this one would be very rewarding, breaking the will of the proud ones always was. Then his eyes wandered from Orophin to the teeth marks on his hand, which were beginning to hurt.
"We do not wish to have a wild animal in our house, Melnor. He shall see if he finds a buyer for this one, but we would advise him to have it put down, as he can never know if it might kill a decent citizen in his sleep one day."
With that, the lord turned on his heels and rushed away, followed by his entourage.
Melnor turned around, and slapped Orophin hard across the face.
"Don't you ever try that again, you little bastard, or I'll pull you teeth out," he hissed, and Orophin covered his face, shocked by the rough treatment, because nobody had ever raised a hand to him.
"It looks like this is going to be a hard one to sell, Melnor," said the other man, who had watched the events with a stern face, and Melnor sighed.
"Indeed - beautiful they are, but difficult to tame. Well, there is nothing a whip and a chain couldn't improve, Master Blacksmith. How about you? Would you care to give it a try?"
The smith shook his head.
"I just got married, Melnor, and I do not care for males. And not for ones as young as him, anyway. My wife would sing me a scary song if I were to bring him home! I'm afraid you will have to find another buyer."
Melnor, who was not keen to have to feed the biting Elfling any longer than necessary, didn't give up.
"Well, you could use him for other things if his appearance doesn't please you, Master Smith. Look - he is tall for his age, and his shoulders are broad. I'm sure he will be strong, and weren't you talking about finding somebody to help in the smithy? Think about it - he will live for many years and will do a lot of work, and if he burns his fingers, they will heal quickly. Sure, you will have to chain him up so he won't run away, but if the chain is long enough, it shouldn't get in the way. Just think about it - you could take up more orders and make a lot of money!"
The smith considered Melnor's words - there was some truth in them. He had indeed been looking for somebody to help around the smithy, but a smith's work was not one many chose, for it was hard and dirty. It was true - the young Elf looked strong, and in five, six years, he would be strong enough to do all the hard work he did himself.
"What price do you ask for him, Melnor?" he finally said, and Melnor's eyes lit up.
"Oh, you know how expensive the silver ones usually are, Master Smith, but for you, I will make a special price - 20 gold coins."
The smith laughed out loud.
"What? You want me to pay you 20 gold coins for a skinny Elf who bites? Now please - do you think me a fool? 5 gold coins, not one more!"
The discussion went to and from, and finally, they settled for a price of 11 gold coins, which ensured Melnor a small profit out of this deal. The smith was happy, too, because 11 gold coins was a bargain for a real Elf.
He opened his purse and counted coin after coin into Melnor's hand.
"Thank you, Master Smith - please regard this low price as a belated wedding present for your lovely wife."
Orophin had watched the transaction, and stared at the coins piled up on the seller's hands. They were golden, and sparkled in the sun. An eagle was embossed on one side, the same eagle the slavers had burnt into his hip the day they had caught him.
The smith took the end of the rope that bound Orophin's hands together, and pulled on it.
"Come, you," he said, and Orophin, knowing very well that there was no escape right now, turned around one last time to look at his friends, who stared at him with big eyes. Then he trotted after the man, down the dusty street into an unknown future.
"Orophin? Ada? Is anything wrong?" Haldir asked, for the empty expression on Orophin's face was beginning to scare him.
"What? Oh, no, no, it is nothing," Orophin said, startled and looking like he had just woken up from an unpleasant dream. He opened his fist and stared down at the coin, his eyes darkening at the sight of the embossed eagle. He held it up in front of Mela's eyes.
"Breon," he said. "This man is from Breon."
"Breon?" Mela gasped, "Are you sure?"
Orophin nodded.
"So they have taken Glorfindel? By the Valar - what do you think will they do to him? Kill him?"
Orophin shook his head, and put the coin carefully away in one of his pockets.
"No, Haldir. No, I am afraid they will not."
With that, he began to walk towards the Last Homely House, leaving three very worried Elves behind.
* * *
"You enjoyed that immensely, did you not?" Thrandúil asked upon entering his brother's chamber. Amaris didn't answer - he stood in front of the mirror, cleaning the wound he had received in the fight with Erduil, a bowl of hot water placed on a chair nearby.
"Enjoyed what, my dear brother?" he asked, wiping the last bit of blood from his skin.
"Humiliating Erduil," Thrandúil answered, and stepped closer. He took the piece of cloth out of Amaris' hand, and dipped it in the water. "Let me do this."
Amaris said nothing, but let his brother tend to his wound. After a while, he snickered.
"Do not tell me, Thrandúil, that you did not enjoy seeing your biggest opponent writhing in the dust like a snake," he said, and when the King of Mirkwood looked up, he could see a smug grin on his brother's face.
"As a matter of fact - no, I did not. But you did."
Amaris rolled his eyes, then he hissed when Thrandúil touched the wound Erduil's knife had cut in his side.
"Of course I did. I like to win. I hate to lose."
Thrandúil shook his head.
"One day your boundless ambition will be your death, Amaris. You are a good Elf, and my brother, and I love you dearly, but not everyone will bow to your wishes all the time. All of Mirkwood used to be at your beck and call, Amaris - it did not do you good."
Amaris turned around, and Thrandúil dropped his arm. His brother threw his head back, sending his loose hair flying. He looked like an archaic, wild being - a heathen deity of old times, but he was not a gentle god, oh no - he was demanding and without mercy, and nothing could withstand his all-consuming passion.
"I do not play with the feelings of others any more, if that is what you fear, Thrandúil. No more promises of endless love. I did learn my lesson. Nothing will keep you in the Halls of Mandos longer than hearts you have broken. If it had not been for the High King, I would probably still be sitting by the fire and playing cards with Námo."
Thrandúil cocked an eyebrow.
"The High King - of course. Say, Amaris - how did you master him? How did you make him submit to your wishes? Was it your beauty? Your wit? Your charm? Or your courage?"
A dark shadow fell on Amaris' face.
"The High King is none of your business, Thrandúil," he snapped, tearing the cloth out of his brother's hands.
"Is he not? You expect me to go to war under his command - and dare to tell me that he is none of my business? Oh, but he is, Amaris. So tell me - did you make him crawl in the dust like all the others? Will it really be him who leads the armies - or will he be a marionette, dancing when you pull the strings?"
Amaris knocked the bowl off the chair with a swift gesture, sending it crashing against the wall, the shards flying everywhere.
"He did not crawl! Gil-galad would never crawl! How dare you speak of him in such a way!" he snarled, glaring at his brother.
Thrandúil was shocked for a moment, then the pieces of this puzzle fell into place. He stepped closer to Amaris, so close that he could smell his brother's anger.
"So this is the big secret - he did not want you, is that it? Amaris the great and irresistible - rejected by Gil-galad. Were you the one crawling then, Amaris? Begging for his love and being laughed off? Tell me, what was it like to be on the receiving end of such treatment for a change?"
Amaris didn't answer, but his anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. He closed his eyes and prayed to every Vala but Námo that he would not cry now in front of his brother. But Thrandúil had good eyes, and he saw what was going on. He reached out to stroke Amaris' cheek.
"I am sorry, Amaris - please forgive me. Those were cruel words, and I should not have spoken them."
Amaris shook his head.
"No, do not apologize. I suppose I deserve this. I guess that this is my punishment for all the pain I caused in my first life - that I should be the one whose heart is broken."
He sank into the chair, and raked his hair with his fingers.
"Two ages, Thrandúil - two ages I spent by his side, day after day, without hope, and in the knowledge that I would probably have to endure it for thousands of years more. Seeing him, but not being allowed to touch him, so close and yet we could not have been separated any further. No hope for closeness, with Elrond's shadow always between us. I do indeed think that I have done penance enough for my sins."
Thrandúil didn't comment on this, he just shook his head.
Amaris got up, and went over to a small side table. He uncorked a bottle of Shire Brandy and poured some of the liquid over his wound. The blond Elf hissed at the sting, but this was the easiest way to disinfect the wound, and a less smelly one than using the antiseptic ointment the healer had brought, which stank like twenty unwashed Orcs.
"Enough of this - I am tired. If you do not mind, I would like to get some sleep, the fight was exhausting," Amaris said, without looking up. The King didn't answer, but he got up and walked towards the door. He had his hand on the handle when he turned around.
"Amaris - if you need me, you know where you can find me. We all have our battles to fight, not all of them on the field of war, and not always can we win them alone."
Amaris looked up, studying his younger brother, then he smiled. Thrandúil nodded, and left, the door closing softly behind him.
* * *
Something wet and cold touched his forehead, and Glorfindel sighed - what bliss. He had a splitting headache, as if somebody was poking around in his brain with a needle, just behind his eyes, and the cool cloth which was pressed to his brow refreshed and calmed.
"My poor darling - have you finally awoken?" a sweet voice said, and when Fin finally decided that he could open his eyes without the danger of them exploding as soon as exposed to daylight, he saw a stunningly beautiful Elf sitting by his bed, her face full of concern.
"Awoken?" he murmured, and tried to wet his dry lips. He greedily accepted the glass with fresh, cold water the lady gave him. She supported his head and helped him to lean forward, and after a few delicious gulps, he sank down into the soft, warm pillow.
"Oh, you have slept for almost two days, beloved," the lady said, wiping a tear from her beautiful eyes. Fin felt pity for her, but still he frowned.
"What happened?" he asked, and tried to sit up, but she gently pressed him back into the cushions.
"You were attacked, beloved - scouts from Imladris, again. Ai, if only the Valar would free us of their presence!" she sighed, and shook her head sadly.
"What is Imladris?" Glorfindel asked, closing his eyes again, for his head was spinning and he felt nauseated.
"Imladris? But - beloved. They are our worst enemies! Just look what they did to you!" she said, and Fin began to be frightened. Yes, "Imladris" sounded familiar - but what was the meaning of this word? And who was this lady? Why did she call him "beloved"? And, even more importantly, who was he in the first place? If only his head would stop hurting - the pain made it difficult to think.
Glorfindel pressed the bridge of his nose. "My lady," he said, and swallowed hard, "my apologies, but I do not understand anything of what you tell me. I must have - my head hurts, I cannot think properly, or remember anything. Who are you? Where am I? And.... who am I?"
She stared at him, blue eyes wide with surprise.
"But... beloved... how can that be?" Then she began to sob, pressing a tiny piece of finest white silk to her eyes.
"Ai, Elbereth - that I have lived to know such pain!" she sniffed. "That I should live to see the day when you, my beloved husband of two ages, forget my name!"
With that, she buried her face in her hands, tears running down her wrists, and her narrow shoulders shook. Glorfindel felt dreadful - not only because a company of Orcs seemed to be dancing a polka in his head, but also because the obvious distress of the beautiful lady cut deep into his heart.
"My lady... I beg you... do not cry, I cannot bear to see you in distress. But pray tell - what is your name?"
She sniffed, and looked up, teardrops clinging to her long eyelashes, her under lip quivering.
"I am Firinwë, you bonded wife, and you are Glorfindel of Tíngel, my beloved husband. Do you really not remember?"
Firinwë... Glorfindel... yes, the names sounded familiar, though he would never have connected them in any way with his own person. Oh, he must surely have received a heavy blow on the head which had damaged his memory! How horrible - and how hurtful to see his wife suffer in such a way.
Fin reached out to cover the small, long-fingered hand of Firinwë with his own.
"Please do not cry - I cannot see you suffer."
The blonde lady produced a weak smile, then she leant forward and pressed a soft and loving kiss on Glorfindel's lips. The warrior looked at her in surprise, and she blushed in a very charming way.
"Did that help you to remember?" she asked, and gave him a decidedly cheeky smile.
Ah, now this was a game he knew how to play - even if he couldn't remember ever having played it. But flirting was something Glorfindel had in his blood, whether he knew who he was or not.
"Maybe," he said, returning the smile. "But just to be sure, we should try it again..."
He broke off, reached out and placed his hand on her neck, drawing her closer. Their lips met again; this time, she opened her lips, and when his tongue began to dance around hers, Glorfindel thought, indeed, that he remembered having kissed her before.
"Hm," he purred, with his face buried in her neck, taking a deep breath of her scent - nutmeg, he noticed. "This certainly is a big help, dear wife. I am sure my memory loss is only temporary."
"But of course, beloved," she said, stroking his back.
"I will remember everything in no time, you will see," he murmured, and fell asleep on her shoulder.
Firinwë continued to stroke his back, playing with a strand of blond hair as she did so.
"That is what you think, you fool," she murmured.
* * *
At the same time, another Elf was waking up, alas not in a luxurious chamber but in a dungeon, many floors below the room where Glorfindel was trying to remember when in Elbereth's name he had married Firinwë. The palace, which was hewn in the stone of Dark Mountain, had many dungeons, and possibly not even the Valar knew how many victims they held.
This particular victim had a splitting headache and was in a foul mood. When Celeborn woke up, at first he stayed where he was, spread out on straw on a cold stone floor. It took him only seconds to realize that he was not in Rivendell anymore, and he remembered how they had been attacked. Glorfindel - he had been with him. Where was he?
Celeborn sat up, and looked around. His eyes widened when he saw the black-haired Elf who sat on the plank-bed which was fixed to the opposite wall. For a brief moment, he thought he was looking at Námo, but he soon realized that this was not the case, though this Elf bore a rather significant likeness to the Vala of Death whom he had cheated for his friends.
"I see you have awoken, child," the Elf said, and waited for the full attention of the scruffy-looking Elven lord.
"Who are you?" Celeborn demanded to know, as he eyed the other suspiciously. It was not difficult to tell that this was the enemy, and he had to learn as much as he could about him. An enemy you knew was only half as dangerous.
"Before I reveal myself, I have to ask: who are you?" the strange Elf asked, and Celeborn shook his head, an action he immediately regretted.
"What kind of question is that - I am Celeborn of Doriath, as if you did not know this," he grumbled, and the Elf sighed.
"Oh dear - I was afraid that was what you would say. You are strong, more so than I thought. Stronger even than my spells - I wonder how Lothlórien manages without your power, Celeborn. Ah - I shall find out - it will be amusing to see your cry for his life."
"I have answered your question, now you answer mine," Celeborn demanded, pointedly ignoring the Elf's remark.
The Elf got up, and made a theatrical bow in direction of the Elven lord.
"I am Finwë, child."
"Finwë?" Celeborn asked, and cocked an eyebrow. "There was only one Finwë, my wife's grand-ada, and he certainly did not lock up Elves in dungeons. Well. None that did not deserve it," he added, as he was not quite sure about grand-ada Finwë's deeds. His wife had always been rather tight-lipped about her family, and who could blame her.
"There you are right - I am absolutely unique. But we are wasting time with idle chatter about our family, Celeborn. I could snap your neck now and be rid of your annoying presence, but unfortunately I have promised my grand-daughter not to damage even a hair on your head in case my spell should not work."
Celeborn thought frantically about a way to escape, but he could hear the guards beyond the heavy door, and Finwë - be he now really Galadriel's grand-ada or not - did not look like an Elf who would take kindly to an attack. So he decided it was better to keep him talking and gain some time.
"Do I know your grand-daughter? And what is it that you want from me, anyway?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, and looking, despite the grime and a bleeding head-wound, every inch a lord. He would not show this Elf his fear - oh no. He was terrified, but he would hide it. It was his only chance of survival.
Finwë made a vague gesture with his hands. "Oh why do those who face death at the hands of their captors always expect their enemies to hear their life stories? But so be it - at least you will know who it was that sealed your doom."
He stretched his lean body, yawning, and, after thinking about the whole matter for a moment, he turned to Celeborn again.
"I am a Vala - or at least I was one until that rotten Manwë condemned me to live here. Many ages ago, I lived among the firstborn, even took one of them for my queen and fathered her children. A most amusing pass-time, I must add. The Valar do not know what they are missing.
“Well, as was expected of me, I was wise, good and much loved by my people. But then I had rather an unpleasant run-in with Melkor. You see - I have a weakness for fine jewellery, and unfortunately, so has he. He demanded that I give him the Silmarils, I refused, so he knocked me over the head with an axe. This is not the correct way to settle disputes, but he obviously had a lot of fun.
“So I realized that being wise and good was boring and not what I wanted; when I was invited to become the Vala of Death, I accepted with great pleasure. Ah - those were the days... no battlefield I missed, no kin slaying without my presence! I can truthfully say that I took my duties very seriously, but of course my fellow spirits had to ruin the fun for me again. There is no need for details, but my half-witted little brother Námo is now in charge of the Halls of Mandos, while I am condemned to sit here, in this stinking part of Middle-earth, and you will not be surprised to hear that I am most displeased with this situation."
Celeborn had listened to Finwë's speech with increasing confusion. Surely this was a bad dream and he would wake up any second. Or it was not and he was trapped here with a Vala who had obviously lost his mind. Splendid. Wonderful. Just the thing he needed, how nice.
"And what has all this to do with me?" Celeborn asked. Finwë rolled his eyes.
"Good grief, child - do you really have your head for the sole purpose of keeping your braids in place? Think! I am bored! I am tired of Middle-earth! I want to return to the Halls of Mandos! So I will bring all of Middle-earth under my command, and then my fellow Valar will have to negotiate.”
"And what about the ring?" Celeborn asked, slowly understanding the enormity of the danger they all were in.
"The ring? Ah - I made it when I was still Lord of the Halls. You see - I could not go without a ring if everybody else had one. Even the Dwarves had Rings of Power! So it was nothing but right that I got myself one, too. I placed it in the mirror in the hope that the lovely Galadriel would fall under its spell. Unfortunately, she did not - but I am proud to say that I have found a worthy ring bearer in my grand daughter Firinwë."
"Firinwë?" Celeborn howled. "Did you say Firinwë? I knew it! Where is this treacherous female so I can strangle her!"
"Ah, ah - watch your words, Elf. After all, you owe her your life. She hoped you could become an entertaining toy for her, but alas - the spell did not work. And I suppose she will have more fun with the Balrog-slayer, anyway. As for you, Celeborn of Doriath - your part in this story is now over, and it is time to remove you from the stage."
Celeborn wanted to say something, but a darkness fell over his mind. He felt the touch of cold hands, caressing his ears, felt cold lips kissing his eyes and finally his mouth. Panic threatened to overcome him when he realized that he could not see, hear or speak, and he began to stumble around in the darkness, hands reaching out so as not to bump into anything.
"And so comes the great Celeborn of Doriath to an end," a mocking voice in his mind said, "the great Lord is now a deaf, blind and mute fool - and are you not delighting in the knowledge that you will be able to enjoy this state for all eternity? Ah yes - immortality does have its favours..."
Celeborn screamed, but no sound left his lips, and something gave in him, letting him fall into merciful darkness.
* * *
Erestor paced his room like a caged animal. Again and again, he tried to open the door, but to no avail, and he growled in frustration.
Glorfindel was out there, in danger, and they had the nerve to keep him locked up here like some silly maiden, refusing him his right to go after his mate. Elrond had ordered him to stay here, as if he was a servant or a chamber maid – yes, he owed Elrond his loyalty, and he certainly did not wish to endanger his child, but above all this stood his love for Glorfindel.
While Erestor was wise in all things an Elf could learn with eyes and ears, he had never really had the chance to learn much about feelings until he met Glorfindel. He had seemed controlled, cold, arrogant even, and this appearance had not always been false. Erestor loved to show off his knowledge, and lost patience easily when he had to deal with somebody slower or less intelligent than himself, which had made him a strict tutor to the twins and Arwen. Many feared him, for he knew how to use his sharp tongue to inflict pain worse than the sting of an Orc-blade.
Everybody had noticed with relief how his relationship with Glorfindel and later the arrival of Estorel had mellowed Erestor's less pleasant character traits: he had become more open, warmer, more compassionate.
But despite all this, Erestor was still a warrior at heart, and like so many who had lost everything, he didn't take it lightly when somebody tried to take from him what was his. When it came to Glorfindel and Estorel, Erestor was possessive, and he loved his family with all the passion his heart could muster. He wouldn't have thought twice about killing anybody who tried to hurt his husband or his child, and the more the rage in his heart grew, the less Erestor considered that blind rage was never a good advisor, and could do more harm than good in a situation like this.
Erestor felt a hot, hard ball in his stomach, an anger and a desperation greater than any he had ever felt. His child noticed as well what dark thoughts his sia was harbouring, and began to move and kick nervously.
Erestor placed a hand on his belly, and the anger in his heart calmed a little.
"Do not fear, little one – we will get your ada back, and I will make sure no harm will befall you," he said.
Again, he rattled the door, but it did not give. Elrond knew his advisor well enough to have chosen a chamber with a thick oaken door and a heavy lock, and additionally, he had placed two guards outside Erestor's chamber, to ensure that the Elf did not try to escape.
Unfortunately, Elrond had not placed any guards under the window.
* * *
"I am waiting, Námo."
The Vala of Death gave Manwë a sidelong glance.
"I do not like this, my lord," he said, and looked around the Healing House without much interest, stifling a yawn.
"This is not about what you like or do not like, Námo. You made a mistake - a grave one, I have to add - and now you have a chance to right the wrong. Do not let this opportunity pass, for you will not get another."
The two Vala went into the next room where Elrohir lay, still unconscious after three days, and Elrond had just entered to check on him. A deep frown was on his brow - while Elrohir's condition hadn't worsened, there hadn't been any improvement, either, and by now, the Lord of Imladris was at his wits’ end. He had tried every draught and potion, every trick in the book - but his son remained still and limp like a rag doll.
Elrohir slept. He was as white as the linen he was bedded on, there were bandages all around his torso, and he did not react in any way when the Vala of Death knelt down beside his bed, coming face to face with the young Elf, whose eyes were now closed. His breathing had calmed, and while recovery might take long, he would survive.
"Námo..." Manwë said, but he got no response. Námo remembered the many conversations between himself and Elrohir, remembered how annoyed the young Elf had been by his presence. Remembered how it had felt to hold him. He would be great company, Elrond's son. Námo reached out, his hand hovering over Elrohir's head.
"Do it, Námo. I order you." Manwë demanded, and the Vala of Death came to a decision. The hand over Elrohir's head curled up into a fist and was withdrawn, and Námo looked at his lord, red flames dancing in the black pools of his eyes.
"No."
Manwë stared at the dark figure crouching beside the bed in disbelief.
"No? What do you mean by 'no'?"
Námo straightened up, brushing some non-existent particles of dust from his sleeves.
"'No' as in - no. As in: I refuse. As in: I will not take this one, not yet. As in: I disobey. As in: I shall not follow your wishes. Or, as I already said: no."
Manwë turned an interesting shade of red, and shook his head.
"You cannot be serious, Námo - are you aware of the consequences? With your thoughtless and ridiculous act you have changed the course of time! This Elf was supposed to die at the hands of the man! He should not be here, it is against nature's rules!"
The Vala in black did not move, and it seemed as if his lord's speech had had no impact at all on him.
Manwë stepped closer, grabbed his friend by the shoulders and shook him hard.
"Do not force me to punish you, in accordance with our laws. I beg you, Námo - do not ask this of me. Touch the young one, take him to your Halls, by all means, befriend him if you have to, but do not let him live. His time is over, he has no right to be here."
Námo cocked his head, and smiled. It was a humourless smile, and Manwë let go of the other and took a step back.
"No."
"Námo, I beg you..." Manwë began, but Námo cut him off.
"I will hear no more of this. I will not take the Elf's life. Whatever punishment you will impose upon me, I shall submit to it."
Manwë looked at his friend, and a great sadness took hold of his heart. Finally, he looked down at Elrohir, and nodded.
"Then so be it."
Elrond and Elladan both sat by Elrohir's side. The Lord of Rivendell held the hand of his child, stroking it gently.
"It is I, little one, your ada. Please, wake up. Open your eyes, look at me, Elrohir. Do not leave us behind, I beg you. My heart cannot take this grief. Wake up, please..." Elrond whispered over and over again, so often that the words lost their meaning and sounded like a sad melody, a lament for a loved one.
Elladan got up, unable to sit still any longer. He pressed a gentle kiss on Elrohir's hair, and stroked one of the blood-matted braids.
"My brother, dear, dear brother - who has done this to you?" he said, using his sleeve to wipe away the tears which blurred his vision. .
That moment, Elrohir opened his eyes.
He did not look at his ada, or at his brother - his gaze was fixed on a point behind the two Elves, seemingly on nothing. He felt oddly light, as if he had drunk a lot of alcohol, and he saw Námo talking with the tallest Elf he had ever seen, a majestic, awe-inspiring Lord, and he reached out a hand to touch the Vala.
"Námo..." he whispered. The Vala smiled, and put a finger on his lips, directing Elrohir to keep quiet. Elrohir smiled, then he fell asleep again - but this time, it was not the eternal sleep, but one that would bring healing to his body and his mind.
Elrond and Elladan looked at each other, then down at the sleeping Elf. They were happy beyond words that Elrohir had spoken and seemed to be on the way to recovery - but at the same time, they were afraid, and very angry.
It was Elladan who finally broke the silence.
"Námo - so we were right," he said, and clenched his jaw.
Elrond nodded, but didn't comment. He gently squeezed Elrohir's hand, and stroked the knuckles with his thumb.
Námo - how in Elbereth's name could they ever hope to defy the Vala of Death?
* * *
Author's notes: Thank you all so much for your feedback and encouragement - it is really more appreciated than I could ever tell you. Consider yourselves hugged!
To answer the question when can my cherished readers expect some action between the Last Homely Sheets: in the next chapter, my dears. But don't get your hopes too high. It's not called "the most boring life of Master Erestor" for nothing.
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