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.
Author's note: I really think it is time to explore Glorfindel's family, I am sure you agree.;-)
Melpomaen's comment in this chapter refers to an incident at Ringcon in January. As for Ringcon in October: before asking insulting questions, one should consider that Rabbit might sit beside the microphone... >8-)
CHAPTER 5
Why do I have to leave?
I just cannot say
someone is calling me
from so far away
"The Bells Of Another Land" – Deine Lakaien
~°~
Orophin sat beside Elrohir's bed, hoping the young one would wake up so he could ask him the question which had tortured him since the moment Elrohir had kissed him: why? Why had he done this? Orophin loved Elrohir dearly, but it was not the same love he felt for Elladan. He had never seen Elrohir as anything but Elladan's brother, his charge, a beloved Elfling – certainly never as a possible mate, and for the life of him he could not imagine why Elrohir would want to kiss his brother's husband.
He was still staring at Elrohir in absolute confusion when the door was kicked open and Rabbit stormed in, a black haired, injured Elf in his arms. He was followed by Elladan and Celeron the Healer, with Eldanar and Bramble close behind. Estorel, carried by a servant, cried loudly for his "Siiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaa!", and for a moment, Orophin feared that the Elf in Rabbit's arms was Erestor, but he soon saw this was not the case. He was thin, the black hair tangled, and his side was covered in blood.
"Ada Orophin, ada Orophin, a Warg tried to eat Rabbit!" Eldanar sobbed, "and he tried to eat me and Miss Bramble, too!"
Orophin crouched down, and Eldanar flew into his arms. Now, with the danger past, the full gravity of the situation sunk in, and the child cried desperately, his small body shaking with heavy sobs which eventually turned into violent hiccups.
Orophin hugged his son, rubbed his back and made soothing noises.
"There, there, penneth, all is well, see? Rabbit and you and Miss Bramble are unhurt and fine, and now we should see to the one who was not so fortunate."
Eldanar hiccupped some more, then he wiped his snotty nose on Orophin's shoulder. The Elf did not mind; when Elladan and Elrohir had been babies, they had covered him in all kind of unpleasant fluids, especially after meals.
Celeron shooed the maid with Estorel out of the room, and Orophin sent Bramble and Eldanar along with them – this was not the place for Elflings, he would talk to them later. Now there was somebody who needed help.
Rabbit laid the Elf on the nearest bed, and for the first time, they had a chance to look at him properly. He was naked, and Elladan's eyes grew wide.
"Rabbit," he gasped, "is this… is this one of your kin?"
The Plains Elf nodded, though hesitantly.
"I think so, though I do not know his scent. He is not of my tribe, but there used to be many of us – who knows? Maybe I am not the only survivor after all."
Elladan sent Orophin for hot water and towels, then he began to clean the Elf’s wounds.
"How did this happen?"
Rabbit quickly explained how Bramble's cry had alarmed him, how he had left Estorel with a servant and gone to the rescue, how the Wargs had attacked and help had come, seemingly out of nowhere.
Celeron shook his head while he watched Elladan cleaning the wounds.
"I have never seen a being like this before," he said, and it was not quite clear whether this was a good thing or not. "Is this a male or a female? It… he… looks like a male, but then again…"
Rabbit growled, his odd green-yellow eyes fixed on the healer, who quickly took a step back.
"No disrespect meant, Master Rabbit – I have just never seen anything… anyone like this before."
Rabbit didn't answer, but instead growled, and crouched down protectively beside the injured Elf. The healer was wise enough to know when to be quiet, but he secretly wondered if Master Erestor had the same physiology as this Elf – if it was an Elf at all – and how Lord Glorfindel put up with such an unpleasant freak of nature. Then again – males did not get pregnant, so it was only logical that Rabbit, Erestor and this Elf were not males. But – what were they then?
He retreated to a dark corner, secretly grateful that he did not have to deal with this patient. Surely this was against nature – and were the Plains Elves not the forefathers of the Orcs? No decent Elf was built like this, that much he knew.
"It is nothing serious," Elladan finally stated, "a flesh wound which should heal quickly, plus a concussion, I suppose. All he needs is rest and quiet, and both he will find here."
"I shall watch over him," Rabbit said, but Elladan shook his head.
"That is an honourable wish, Rabbit, and I understand that you would prefer to stay here, but there is Bramble, and Master Erestor has left Estorel with you. The children need protection, we will look after our new friend."
Rabbit considered the situation for a moment, then he nodded. It was true - he had given Erestor his word to look after Estorel, either until his parents returned or... but this was an option Rabbit refused to consider right now. He gently purred, growled one last time at Celeron and then disappeared out of the door.
* * *
There was a certain kind of tale that Galadriel loved to read, and right now, Rúmil balanced on a chair to search the top shelves in the library for a novel called "Secret tears, secret love" which was supposed to be here. Somewhere. He had been flicking through tome after tome for over an hour, but this particular book was not to be found.
"Why in Elbereth's name do you need this book now, my lady, only a sunrise away from a war?" he had asked a little impatiently, and she had smiled, which, as usual, made him melt into a puddle.
"I need to take my mind off tomorrow's dangers, my dear," she had said, and kissed his nose. He had told her how very much he hated being kissed on the nose, as he was not an Elfling anymore and did not wish to be treated like a pet. She had pretended that she was sorry, he had secretly enjoyed the attention, and now he was here, looking for this three times jinxed book.
"'Secret tears', secret love' – what intellectually challenged mind comes up with such a title," he grumbled while his fingers danced over the shelf. Galadriel and her novels – if it had been up to Rúmil, the author of 'Secret tears, secret love' would have been banished to count Orcs in Mirkwood for all eternity, along with the authors of "My nana's heart was crying" and "Hopeless Love". Ever since he had discovered that Galadriel's mood brightened when he read to her from those books, he kept one by the bed. It did not really matter which tale it was – from his point of view, they were all horrible. Sappy, romantic tales where all tears were either running lonely and single down fair cheeks or blinked away by violet eyes, and golden hair cascaded over the shoulders of the heroine.
Rúmil shuddered and rolled his eyes. Single tears – either one cried or one did not, and when one did cry, it was neither romantic nor beautiful, but all blurry eyes and runny noses. Maybe females had a different perception of this, but he firmly believed that there was absolutely nothing romantic about snot.
But if single tears and golden hair kept Galadriel happy, he would be the last one to deny her such innocent pleasure. Though not so innocent pleasure would have been more to his taste.
He sighed. He had never thought the day would come where he would miss Imladris, but he did. He had never really noticed how strict protocol was in Lothlórien – but now, he felt the rules and standards weigh on his shoulders like a load of bricks. There were two ways for him to see Galadriel: officially demanding an audience, which would be granted or not, depending on the mood of her secretary. The secretary plus a dozen other Elves would be present at all times, and all he was allowed to say was "yes, my lady".
The alternative was climbing up the vine outside her window in the dead of night, which was risky, even for somebody as skilled at tree-climbing as Rúmil, and once he had only avoided a fall and certain death because Galadriel had grabbed him by the collar and dragged him over the window sill at the very last moment. How embarrassing. How could any Elf maintain his libido under such circumstances? Rúmil had had enough. The secrecy and the lies were absolutely not to his liking, and why were they needed, anyway? Had not Lord Celeborn himself given them his blessing? Or at least not tried to kill him? For a moment, Rúmil thought it would be best just to walk into her room, knock the secretary over the head with a scroll and ask Galadriel to marry him.
Rúmil had to grin at this thought. My, the scandal! And the faces of the noble Elves upon learning that he, Rúmil, would become the Lord of the Golden Wood. He shook his head. No, this was not what it was all about. He had no wish to rule. He wished to love. To do everything to make her happy. And as romantic as the idea of a marriage was – Rúmil felt that he had to prove his worth first. In days of old, he would have ridden out to slaughter a dragon or a cave troll for his fair lady, but times had changed, and he knew there was only one thing which could really make Galadriel happy: if Celeborn were saved.
Very well then. If saving Celeborn was what it would take to see Galadriel happy and Rúmil relieved of nightly climbing activities, he would see to it that her wish was granted. This aside, he owed Celeborn a lot for keeping Orophin out of the Halls of Waiting, and Rúmil was an Elf who paid his dues.
* * *
Glorfindel had decided that any more fussing over his health on his wife’s part would result in the argument of all arguments, including bucketfuls of tears and broken cutlery. So as soon as Firinwë left him for a few minutes to "attend to some business", Fin attended to business as well – exploring his home.
So this was where he had grown up and lived all his life? The blow to his head must have been harder than anybody thought because for the life of him Fin could not remember this place. The pictures did not look familiar, and the men he had encountered so far were not to his liking. His wife was surely very beautiful and obviously cared very much for him, but as hard as he tried, Fin could not return her feelings. He felt guilty about it – surely being married was about loving and caring for each other? So why was he unable to offer her any comfort? He had noticed well the hurt expression on her face when he avoided her touch or placed a quick peck on her cheek rather than kissing her passionately.
How could a hit on the head change one’s heart in such a drastic way? Her touch left him cold, he could hardly bear her hands on his body, and so he feigned sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. But sleep didn’t bring him peace, either – strange dreams haunted him, of trees and horses, a child's laughter, and he even dreamt of a lover – he remembered long black hair fanned out over the pillow, the nibbling of sharp teeth, whispered words of love – but every time he thought he could see his dream lover's face, he woke up, covered in cold sweat and burning with a need his wife would never be able to satisfy.
He still felt weak, but he had to find his old life again, otherwise he would lose his mind.
* * *
The very moment the Rivendell party had crossed Mirkwood’s border, discussion and laughter ceased. This was Thranduil's realm, and the ruler of the Wood Elves did not have a reputation for being a hospitable host. Many of the younger guards had grown up with their nana's threat of "Thranduil will release the spiders if you do not finish your meal". In their imagination, Thranduil had grown an extra head and long fangs, and when they saw him at the annual conference of the Elven lords, they were almost disappointed to see that King Thranduil of Mirkwood appeared exactly the noble Elf he was. It was fortunate that he did not miss any chance to show his quick temper, or his bad reputation might have been damaged.
Elrond, riding beside Gil ahead of the troops, looked around, and was amazed by the silence.
"Not a bird, or the bark of a dog - has all wildlife fled this place?"
Gil shrugged.
"The animals of this forest have learned to be quiet and hide if they want to survive. Mirkwood is poor - when winter comes, large hunting parties ride out for deer and rabbit to fill the stomachs of the hungry people."
Elrond frowned, and for a while, they continued their ride in silence. The Lord of Imladris turned his head from left to right, as if searching for something.
"This is odd - we crossed the border of Mirkwood two hours ago, and still not a single guard has shown up. I had not expected the Woodland Elves to be so careless, especially considering Thranduil's almost obsessive dislike of foreigners."
The High King looked at his former herald, grinning.
"Oh, they are here. A hundred eyes were watching us, long before we passed the border. If they considered us a threat, we would all be dead by now."
"Really? How - comforting to know."
Elrond continued to eye the bushes and trees alongside the road, and once or twice he thought he saw the reflection of light on metal or a quickly withdrawn hand, but it was very much possible this was only in his imagination. He did not like the idea of being watched, without being able to see those who watched him.
"In any case this is not behaviour befitting allies who are due to fight by our side," he continued his train of thought aloud, "and I wonder if..."
Nobody ever got to hear exactly what it was that Elrond wondered, because at that very moment, it began raining Elves. 50, 60, maybe even more, appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and only a soft rustle indicated that they had hidden in the trees. A tall Elf landed right in front of Elrond's horse, soundless, like a cat, and the animal neighed in fright.
"We all wonder at times, Elrond," Thranduil said, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and a mocking smile on his lips. "I, for example, wonder how we managed to stay undetected by your guards for hours. What is it that Lord Glorfindel teaches your fierce soldiers in Rivendell? Hiding? Or the famous "Duck and Cover" manoeuvre Gil-galad perfected during the Great War?"
Elrond turned a darker shade of purple, experiencing a mad desire to throttle Thranduil, but Gil's hand on his arm held him back, and a look in the High King's eyes told him to ignore the Mirkwood King's behaviour.
"Oh, stop being silly, Thranduil," an annoyed voice could be heard, "you can re-establish your reputation as an old grump some other time, now we have more important things to do."
Thranduil opened his mouth for a fitting reply, but closed it again when Amaris pushed through the lines of the Mirkwood Elves and stepped forward to greet the new arrivals.
"Lord Elrond. Sire. Welcome to Mirkwood."
He bowed his head, and Gil swallowed hard.
"I am most pleased to see you again, Amaris," he finally managed to say, and Amaris cocked an eyebrow, walking closer to the king's horse. The Mirkwood Elf saw the spear which was fixed to the saddle, and ran his index finger over the sharp tip, cutting his flesh in the process. He watched a thin line of blood run down his finger, then he slowly licked it off.
"My, your royal highness - do you have plans to spear for eels here in Mirkwood? You come at the right time, it is the season for eels. Or is this the royal toothpick? A bit long for that purpose, I should think."
Gil galad, who had watched Amaris' tongue licking the blood from his finger with the fascination of a rabbit facing a snake, finally snapped back to attention.
"You know what they say - my sword is long, my lance is keen, Amaris."
Amaris wiggled his eyebrows, then he gave the High King a sultry look.
"Ah yes - your sword is long, Sire. Mine is longer though, but as neither you nor I nor any of the honourable Elves here wish to fall into darkness while we compare, I suggest we continue to my brother's home, where you will find refreshments. Follow me."
Gil did his best to ignore the snickers coming from the Elves behind him, and continued on his way. He had been looking forward to seeing Amaris again - his old friend and advisor. And now he felt oddly out of place - this was Amaris' territory, and even if he had called him "Sire", it was obvious who was the king of these woods - bushes and trees seemed to bow in front of Amaris and Thranduil, while he had to duck more than once to avoid being hit or scratched by a branch.
Elrond noticed this too, and when his initial anger over the respectless welcome had finally subsided, he leant over to Gil galad and whispered:
"Did he tell the truth, Gil?"
Gil gave him a puzzled look.
"You ask me? I have a hard time telling you what age we are living in, so I certainly do not know if it is eel hunting season in Mirkwood or not."
"No - is his sword longer than yours?"
Gil stared at Elrond, then he scratched his head.
"How am I supposed to know? I only ever saw him using bow and arrow. But I can ask him to show you his sword once we arrive at Thranduil's cave, if it is of such great interest to you."
With that, he sat up again, and for the umpteenth time on this journey, Elrond secretly wished he was at home, in his wine cellar, in the process of getting completely drunk.
* * *
"May I help you?" a voice like velvet asked behind him. Rúmil jumped, dropping the book he had been holding, for this voice had a similar effect on him to the scratching of fingernails on a chalkboard.
He turned around, and faced a tall Elf with golden hair, who was clad in the most outrageous crimson-coloured robe Rúmil had ever seen. He was almost tempted to shade his eyes, though this was probably due not only to the crimson of the robe, but also to the bright yellow roses embroidered on its front.
The owner of the scandalous gown bent down and picked up the book, studying the title.
"'And forever her tears flowed' - now look at this. If this is popular reading among the Galadhrim, all is not lost in Lothlórien," the Elf said, and handed Rúmil the book with a grin that filled Rúmil with the insane wish to strangle the other.
"It is not, my lord, and with your permission, I must leave, I am awaited," Rúmil grumbled, gnashing his teeth.
"Ah, what a pity - it is a wonderful tale, so full of romance, emotion – drama," the Elf lord sighed, looking very disappointed, "I had hoped we could discuss it while gathered around the fire at night. It is important to boost the moral of the troops, you know, especially before a battle. I might even read some of my poems."
Rúmil paled at the thought of sitting with his fellow Galadhrim by the battlefield while this outrageous individual read poetry.
Poetry?
Battlefield?
Hopefully this did not mean....
"Pardon me, my lord, my question might be bold, but... what troops? What moral? And, even more important - what battle?" he squeaked.
"What battle? But, my dear young friend - you did not think I would sit here in Lothlórien while you ride out to war! All this pent-up aggression, heroic young warriors in tight fitting armour - certainly I could not pass up this opportunity to bathe in inspiration!"
If somebody had told Rúmil that Lady Galadriel had just decided to give up her realm and start a career as a tavern-dancer, he could not have looked more shocked.
"You must be joking, my lord," he stammered, "this is not a game! This is..."
"I know very well what this is, penneth," the Elf lord said, and his voice had suddenly a sharp edge to it. He stepped closer to Rúmil, and the archer felt he had just seen behind a mask. Cold blue eyes blazed with barely controlled anger.
"Nobody attacks my family and goes unpunished. I cannot tolerate this, and I will not tolerate it. This is also my war, Elfling - and I will fight it with or without the help of the Galadhrim."
Just when Rúmil began to get seriously scared, the mask was back in place, and the Elf lord threw his bright orange velvet cloak around his shoulder in a most dramatic gesture.
"And now please forgive me, I just had an inspiration for a poem, which I must write down immediately, or the world will mourn the loss of a masterpiece. Farewell, my friend!"
With that, he almost danced out of the library, and Rúmil wondered if they all had been taken for fools these last millennia.
* * *
Elladan felt a headache coming on. It was a bad one, starting above the eyes and slowly creeping to the back of his head, taking up residence there and lurking, a dull, throbbing presence, which would eventually explode into sharp pain. He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, then he looked over his father's desk at the two Elves in front of him.
"I repeat my question," he finally said, his voice only barely controlled, "and I wish a short, clear answer: Melpomaen and Feronil did what?"
The two Lindir's shuffled their feet and looked, despite their age, like two Elflings caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
Lindir the minstrel glanced quickly at Lindir the eternal Elfling, who clutched his Nana Goose doll as if his life depended on it. He did not dare to look up and face the interim Lord of Imladris, for Elladan had obviously not been pleased by the news he had just heard.
Minstrel Lindir decided that it was his turn to answer, especially as Lindir hid behind him, fearfully eyeing both Elladan and Orophin.
"Well, it is as young Lindir here said – Melpomaen and Feronil have left Imladris for Breon. He surprised them in the stables, and when Lindir asked them where they would ride to, Melpomaen said that they had important business. He asked what kind of business, and Feronil said they were about to place a large order for lollipops. At first I thought Lindir had made the whole story up, but when he mentioned the lollipops, I knew that he spoke the truth – who else but Feronil would come up with such an idiotic and hackneyed explanation!"
Lindir the younger stomped his foot and pouted.
"I always tell the truth! And I can prove it! Just ask Miss Goose, she was there, too."
By now, Elladan's headache was in full bloom, and he began to see stars.
"I think we can question Miss Goose some other time," Orophin said, "it was a very brave thing to tell us what you know, Lindir. You might have saved Master Melpomaen's and Master Feronil's lives."
"I did? No – or did I? Oh. That is – really? Oh, I must go and tell Mr Rabbit and Miss Bramble all about it!" Lindir cheered, and before anybody could say another word, he ran out.
"Lindir – you know Feronil better than any of us. What are his chances and skills? I know that Melpomaen can handle neither sword nor bow."
Lindir the Minstrel looked rather uncomfortable, and his eyes wandered from Elladan to the very stern looking Orophin who had asked the question.
"Orophin – my lord – lords – Lord Glorfindel never allowed Feronil close to any weapon. He feared that he would accidentally kill either himself or somebody else. He is a good advisor, I guess, and he knows many card tricks and can juggle with five oranges, but I doubt these skills will be very helpful on a suicide mission like this."
Elladan buried his head in his face.
"Thank you, Lindir. You may go. And close the door behind you, thank you."
The minstrel did not need to be asked twice to leave, he was out of the door faster than lightning, leaving two very worried Elven lords behind.
"Feronil and Melpomaen on a secret mission in Breon – can you imagine anything worse?"
Orophin thought about it for a moment.
"Mauburz on a diplomatic mission in Lothlórien?"
"This is not funny."
"I know. I was only trying to cheer you up."
Elladan gave his husband a sidelong glance, and Orophin's heart contracted painfully when he saw how pale the younger Elf was. His eyes had a haunted look and were framed by dark circles.
"Considering that you have not spoken a word to me since our row, I should be grateful for your attempt at humour, I suppose."
Orophin sighed, then he walked over to Elladan, knelt down beside him and took his hand, rubbing the knuckles gently with his thumb.
"Beloved – we both spoke words we now regret. At least I know I do. I know that your actions are directed by your fear, but it is essential for both your future as the Lord of Imladris and our relationship that you overcome this. Nothing in life is guaranteed, so we need to live every day to its fullest, not worrying about things which might happen one day."
Elladan put his other hand on Orophin's, and pressed it.
"I love you, you know. You are a part of me, and if I lose this part, I will be no more. I used to laugh about tales which told of such love, for I did not think it possible. Now I know better. I feel that you are not happy here, not completely. I feel as if I had caught a precious bird in a cage, only to see it fade away with sadness. Tell me, beloved – what can I do? What can we do?"
Orophin kissed Elladan, a short, but loving kiss, then he stroked his cheek.
"It is true – I do feel caged in, but yet, I am not unhappy. We both need time to think things over, Elladan. Right now, Melpomaen and Feronil are in deadly danger. Please, let me go to Breon. I am the only one who can help them, I know the language, I know the customs, I know the people. I lived there for many decades, and while the world of the mortals changes faster than ours, some things will still be familiar. We cannot leave them to their fate, Elladan, and we both need some time alone."
Elladan stared at his husband, and unbidden pictures came to his mind. He saw himself collecting wood for Orophin's funeral pyre. Visiting his monument. He remembered the endless hours of sadness and mourning. A life was such a fragile and precious little thing, shattered and lost in the fraction of a moment.
But he also remembered other moments – Orophin jumping in the river to fish him out, teaching him how to use a bow, fighting off Orcs. He was the older, the wiser one of them, and Elladan had no right to lock him up in a cage, no matter how beautiful it might be.
Elladan hugged Orophin, burying his face in his neck, his hands messing with the silver blond hair, as he rubbed his face on his husband's neck.
"Go to Breon, Orophin. If you think this is the right thing to do, so be it. Just know that I will be waiting for you here, and whatever happens, never doubt that I love you."
For a long time, the two just sat there, holding each other. Then Orophin got up, and pushed his hair out of his face.
"I shall go and prepare to leave now. I must also explain the situation to Eldanar – I do not wish the little one to fear he will lose another father."
Elladan nodded.
"Yes – I will try to find him and lead him to our chambers."
Orophin leant over the desk and kissed his husband.
"And what about this warrior's farewell we have been talking about?" he murmured, a wicked glint in his eyes.
"All in due time," Elladan said.
"Elflings first, husbands later."
* * *
"This," Melpomaen said, "is a very narrow bed."
Feronil pretended to study the object in question at length, then he nodded.
"Your powers of observation are remarkable, Melpomaen. Yes, indeed, it is very narrow, so I am quite glad that I will share the bed with you, not with Haldir."
Melpomaen smiled sweetly at his fellow advisor.
"My dear Feronil - would you do me the favour and repeat this little 'joke' once we are back in Imladris?"
"Why - have you finally discovered the charms of my wit?
"No. But I would like to see how Rabbit and Orophin re-arrange your limbs in a most interesting fashion."
With that, the young Elf turned to pick up his bag, and Feronil grumbled:
"I see that you have been a good student of Master Erestor. Hurry up now with unpacking, I am starving, and I would prefer to finish our meal while the tavern is still empty."
"We could still order food to be brought up here," Melpomaen suggested, but Feronil shook his head.
"We pretend to be poor merchants. Having food served in the chamber is something only wealthy travellers would do, and I do not wish to attract attention."
"Could we not pretend to be wealthy merchants? I do not want to have my evening meal among those people, some of them seemed rather rude and gave me funny looks."
Feronil slapped his hand against his forehead.
"Wealthy merchants – of course. I shall die regretting the moment when I agreed to this madness. Melpomaen – we will go down there, have our simple meal and return to our chambers. I will handle everything, all you have to do is sit by my side like a good wife and try to be as invisible as possible."
Melpomaen snorted.
"Oh yes, you will handle it – Feronil of Imladris, the expert in all things mortal! Remind me again why I chose you to accompany me on this expedition."
Feronil turned around and glared at the young advisor.
"Now listen, penneth – I will tell you why I chose to accompany you: because you do not speak a single word of Westron, because you have not the slightest knowledge about the customs of the mortals, and because I am one of the last truly honourable Elven knights. I am doing all this out of the pure goodness of my heart, and you should be grateful."
"Ha! Goodness of your heart – you are here only because I promised you that I will arrange an intimate dinner for you with Minstrel Lindir. Goodness of your heart – the laugh!"
Feronil started and looked around.
"For Elbereth's sake, Melpomaen – lower your voice! Do you wish to have ten armed guards at our door within minutes? Just think what happened to Orophin – do you wish us to end up in the mines or a blacksmith's shop?"
Melpomaen stared at the older advisor with eyes like saucers.
"Mines? Blacksmith shop? What are you talking about, Feronil?"
"You do not know? But you said you talked to Orophin about his life in Breon…"
"Yes, I did, I heard that he had grown up somewhere here, but he said he could not remember, that he had been too young. If you know anything, Feronil, then please tell me."
Feronil sighed, and dropped down on the narrow bed. He ran his hands through his hair, and gave Melpomaen a stern look.
"Fine, I will tell you. But this stays between you and me. He does not wish it to be common knowledge, and we must respect this."
Melpomaen nodded, and sat beside the advisor.
"I shall not breathe a word of the things you are about to reveal, Feronil. You have my word on it."
"Good. Now, when Orophin was still an Elfling, he was stolen from his parents’ house and sold into slavery in Breon. There he lived for well over 80 years before he managed to escape. I do not know if the people here still treat Elves like that, or if they are still allowed to keep slaves, but I have no intention of finding out!"
Melpomaen shuddered. A slave? Proud, wise Orophin? By Elbereth - what had they gotten themselves into!
Feronil already regretted telling Melpomaen Orophin's tale - the young one was clearly shocked. He put an arm around the young advisor's shoulder and squeezed it encouragingly.
"Now do not look like a chicken that just met a fox, penneth. Fools are always lucky, so I am sure we will get out of this unharmed. Or at least still alive. I hope. Really, no need to worry."
Melpomaen looked far from convinced, and Feronil decided that it was time for a little distraction now, so he drew the young Elf close and kissed his neck.
"What was that?" Melpomaen gasped, and Feronil rolled his eyes.
"An offer. You can either accept or refuse it."
The young Elf blushed deeply, then he shook his head.
"I know you mean well, Feronil, and that you try to take my mind off my fears, but I am a One-Elf-Elf."
Feronil cocked an eyebrow.
"What in Arda's name is a 'One-Elf-Elf'?"
"It means that I save myself for the one I truly love," Melpomaen stated with all the dignity he could muster, and Feronil dropped back on the bed, covering his face with his hands.
"Oh Manwë!" he moaned, "not only am I stranded in this forgotten place, no, I also have to share my chamber with the last remaining virgin in Middle Earth! What, I ask you, have I done to deserve this?"
Manwë had a pretty good idea about the reasons, but as the list would have been too long, the Vala preferred not to answer.
* * *
Celeborn still had not managed to figure out where he was. He was treated very kindly, there was plenty of food, and at night, he was led to a large, soft bed. This might be a prison, but it certainly was not a dungeon. It was amazing how quickly his remaining senses had adapted to his state. Never had he smelled, tasted or touched so consciously. The initial panic of eternal silence and darkness had settled, and now he concentrated on exploring his new surroundings with those senses he had left, drawing a mental map of the place.
There was one room with an open fire, where he had slept on the night of his arrival. Next to it was the chamber he referred to as "his hide-out", which was obviously furnished with a large bed and the low table and cushions to sit on which seemed to be used in all the rooms here. There were no chairs as far as he could tell, which was a little odd. Did he know of a place where people sat on cushions?
Then there were those who looked after him. They were three, each with a very individual scent which made it easy for Celeborn to tell them apart. The man who smelled like fresh cut grass brought the food and saw to the fire, the one he had named "Lemon" and identified as a female helped him to wash and dress. Then there was the one who mostly looked after him, and whose presence he felt often. The man must be very large, for he had taken to carrying Celeborn to places where, at least so the Elf lord assumed, it was not possible for one who was blind to go all by himself. His scent – the first day Celeborn had found it very difficult to place it, now he knew what it was: water. Clear, fresh water.
His days were filled with touching and smelling, trying to learn more about his prison. But at night, when he was all alone, fear crept back into Celeborn's heart. Darkness, silence, loneliness. The three things Celeborn feared the most. And why was he here at all? Why did Finwë not just kill him? It made no sense, and the more Celeborn thought about it, the more afraid he became. He felt like a helpless pawn in a game where he knew neither the rules nor the stakes, but he knew one of the players, and this filled him with despair.
Celeborn started up, covered in clammy night sweat, and took some deep breaths. A nightmare had plagued him, and if he had still had a voice, he would have screamed, but there was nothing but silence and darkness. He was entangled in the bed sheets, and, trying to get free, lost his balance and fell out of the bed. He felt the pain when he hit the ground, and for a brief moment, Celeborn wished he was an Elfling again so he could run to his nana and cry. He covered his face with his hands, which made no difference to the darkness which surrounded him, and began to cry, a voiceless crying. He tasted the salt of his tears on his lips.
Somebody put a blanket over his shoulders, just like on the first night, and Celeborn knew that it was his caretaker. Why was he here? Had he heard him? He was lifted up and placed gently on the bed again. Strong arms forced him to lean back, holding him, and slowly, he calmed down. He felt the body behind him vibrating, a familiar sensation he could not place. But of course - the one holding him must be humming, like he had hummed to his daughter when she had been an Elfling and woken up from a nightmare, crying. How odd - he, the mighty Elven Lord, helpless and dependent on others, hummed to sleep!
Celeborn reached out in the direction the other's face - he might not be able to see the one who looked after him, but he could touch him, and "see" his face with his fingertips. A straight nose, thin lips, obviously smiling, high cheekbones, short, very soft hair, the lobe of an ear... Celeborn froze, pulling his hand back. Did his senses betray him? Surely this could not be! He hesitated for a moment, then he reach out again, touching the ear - and no, he had not erred: the ear ended in a delicate point.
His caretaker was an Elf.
* * *
When he woke up, it took him a while to collect his thoughts. His head hurt, which, in itself, was already an amazing experience, and when he tried to sit up, he winced at the pain in his side. Pain - interesting. He lay down and sat up again, to experience the stinging sensation once more.
There had been a fight - that much he remembered. He noticed the bandage around his waist, and concluded that he must be in a Healing House.
Carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and looked around. The room was dark and warm, a herbal scent in the air. He sniffed. How did he know this was the way herbs smelled? He could not tell, but he liked the scent, and breathed deeply to inhale it.
For a moment, he just sat there in the dark, his senses taking in every detail of his surroundings. Then he sniffed again - a familiar scent. Slowly, he slipped off the bed, taking a few careful steps. His head was spinning, and he had to reach out for the frame of the door which led to the other room to avoid falling down. So he was injured - not a pleasant experience. He would avoid it in future.
A young, dark haired Elf lay on the bed, sleeping, a blond Elf standing by his side, stroking the dark hair lovingly.
He stepped closer - the familiar scent was the young one's. He sniffed, and crouched down, ignoring the blond.
"He will die," he said, surprised, and looked up at the silverblond Elf in the white robe.
"Yes, he will."
"Blood loss?"
"No, Orc poison."
He walked around the two, his eyes always fixed on the young Elf who seemed to sleep.
"I know this one," he finally said, reaching out to touch Elrohir, but drawing his hand back at the last moment.
"He looks so soft. And flushed. Is this fever? I do not want him to die."
The silverblond Elf shook his head.
"That is not your decision to make."
He returned his attention to Elrohir, whose breathing had become flat and almost imperceptible, and whose eyes had begun to look empty and dull. Before the silver blond Elf could react, he reached out and touched Elrohir, and Elrond's youngest son was bathed in a warm glow for a moment. A gasp, a moan, and then he was asleep - but life had returned to his eyes, his breathing was even, and the unhealthy heat had disappeared.
The silver blond Elf hid his face behind his hands, and shook his head.
"What have you done - have you lost your mind completely now?" he groaned, staring at the black haired Elf who crouched beside Elrohir, disapproval all over his face.
"Not at all, dear friend. You were right in your statement - it is not my decision that the young one here should die."
The black haired Elf tried to get up, stumbled, suddenly drained of all energy, and the blond hurried to his side, catching him and carrying him back to the other room, where he laid him down carefully on the bed. He stroked his hair, and sighed.
"So why in Eru's name did you do this, old friend?"
The dark haired Elf looked up.
"I have decided death for so many, Irmo - at least once, I had to decide for life."
* * *
Author's notes: Thank you all for your feedback and criticism - I have too much fun with this story for my own good. Erestor The Alpha Elf will be back in the next chapter - and how! :-)
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