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: Almost all shall be revealed in this chapter. :-)
CHAPTER 6
Lips are turning blue
A kiss that can't renew
I only dream of you
My beautiful
Tiptoe to your room
A starlight in the gloom
I only dream of you
And you never knew
Sing for absolution
I will be singing
And falling from your grace
"Sing for Absolution" - Muse
~°~
Orophin saw the movement in the mirror – the door opened and a shock of silver blond hair appeared.
"Please come in, Eldanar," he said, and turned around, smiling encouragingly at the Elfling.
Eldanar took a few hesitant steps into the chamber, his grip on his toy dragon Tathar tightening when he saw that Orophin was packing. For a moment, the child just stood there and stared, then he hung his head and shuffled his feet.
"I am sorry, ada Orophin – I really did not want to cut Sildil's hair off, but there were scissors on the table, and he was sleeping, and… and… he likes it now, ada, and he says he is glad I cut his hair off!"
Orophin, who, up to this point, had been completely oblivious of his son's latest prank, decided that he preferred not to hear all the details. He knelt down so he was not taller than the child, and looked at Eldanar.
"This is not about Sildil or whatever nonsense you have been up to again, penneth. I wanted to say goodbye to you, I am going on a journey, and it might be a while until I return."
Eldanar stared at his adoptive ada, and Orophin saw the tears welling up in the child's eyes.
"I do not want you to go to war."
Orophin stood and picked Eldanar up, carrying him over to the bed and sitting down with him. Eldanar shifted on his knee, not daring to look at him. He poked Tathar with his index finger and tried to knot the dragon’s wings together.
"I am not going to war, Eldanar. I go to bring Master Melpomaen and Master Feronil home. They are in danger and need help."
Eldanar still did not look up.
"But you are going away," he murmured. Orophin nodded, hugging the child closer.
"Yes, I am going away. But not forever, Eldanar. I will soon be back, and until then, I want you to keep an eye on your ada Elladan, Miss Bramble and Estorel. Will you promise me this?"
Eldanar nodded.
"Yes, but only if Estorel does not bite me."
Orophin had to hide a grin, for the toddler only possessed two teeth so far.
"You are not going to die, are you?"
"I have every intention of returning, penneth."
Eldanar hit Orophin with his dragon and glared at him.
"That is what my ada said when he went to war! And still he died, and he wore shiny armour! You do not have shiny armour, and when somebody pokes you with a sword, it will hurt!"
Eldanar sniffled, snuggling closer to Orophin, whose heart grew heavy at the sight of the frightened Elfling.
"Eldanar – I do not need any armour, because I am not going to war. I am on a secret mission, which is very important and interesting."
"I do not like Feronil," Eldanar sobbed, wiping his runny nose on Orophin's shirt. The Elf gently wiped away the tears from the child's face, and stroked his hair.
"We all have a responsibility for each other, Eldanar. It is very important that you understand this. If somebody is in danger, it is your duty to help. No matter whether you like him or not. We do not have the right to decide who is worth rescuing and who not. Your ada knew this. He was very brave, and gave his life to save others."
Eldanar unknotted Tathar's wings, and bit his lip.
"I want to be a great warrior like my ada one day. And then I will go and save all Elves, even those I do not like, but first you and ada Elladan, and then Miss Bramble. And Estorel."
Orophin smiled. "I am glad to hear this, penneth." He kissed the child.
"You can begin being a great warrior today, Eldanar, by helping me to prepare for my rescue mission. Do you think you can do this?"
"Yes! Oh yes!" Eldanar cheered, all tears forgotten, and he whacked Orophin over the nose with his toy dragon in his enthusiasm. Orophin winced, but said nothing.
"What shall I do? Paint your bow? Or get Lembas? Or…"
"No, no, Eldanar. I have something else in mind."
He turned around, took a pair of scissors from the table and handed them to Eldanar, who stared at them with big eyes.
"And now tell me that story about Sildil and the haircut…"
* * *
The problem was neither the first glass of wine nor the second. Even the third and the fourth were sweet and lovely, but by the time Feronil had emptied glass number 7, he began to wonder why he suddenly found himself sitting beside three Melpomaens instead of one. A mystery – and all the more annoying because all three Melpomaens looked decidedly grumpy.
Feronil giggled. This was too precious for words. Poor Melpomaen, doomed to play the "poor, mute wife", for once could not lecture him on the dangers of wine, but had to sit there and endure his company. Ah, the young one was too stern for his age, he needed to cheer up, or he would end up an old sourpuss like – like – well, like himself, actually, but whose fault was that? All Lindir's fault, of course! If the minstrel had not been so cold hearted and unforgiving, he would have accepted Feronil's offers. Feronil had to admit that constantly insulting somebody might not be the best way to show appreciation, but really, Lindir had a good head on his shoulders, he should have figured out his intentions by now! Yes, it was all Lindir's fault.
After this conclusion, Feronil really needed another glass of wine, so he ignored Melpomaen's glares and the tugging on his sleeve.
"Ha, your wife seems eager to get you into her bed, Elit," his drinking companion snickered, and Feronil scratched his head. Elit? Who in Elbereth's name was Elit?
Oh. He was.
"Yes, she is the best of all wives," Feronil giggled, pinching his „Blossom“’s bottom and earning himself a very painful kick on the shin, which made him howl.
"You wild little thing, you," he growled, drawing Melpomaen into a wet and noisy kiss which won him cheers and applause from those gathered around their table.
This was too much for Melpomaen. He got up, banged his fist on the table, then left the room, and the laughter which followed his exit still rang in his ears even when he lay wrapped in quilts and covers in the narrow bed.
Feronil, in the meantime, indulged in further beverages, laughing at the most stupid jokes and behaving in every way like a mortal.
Then he noticed the two men who seated themselves at the next table, and sobered within seconds.
Now this was the last person he had expected to see here!
* * *
Elrond stepped out of the Great Cave, Thranduil's residence, and took a deep breath of the cool night air. The night in Mirkwood was different from Rivendell –no crickets chirping, no muffled laughter of lovers who had sneaked out for a secret meeting in the woods. Even the darkness seemed darker here than in Rivendell, and Elrond felt a little lost.
The King had assigned him a luxurious chamber, hewn into the mountain, the stone floor covered with the pelts of wild bears, the walls decorated with tapestries telling of the heroic deeds of the royal family and their people.
Food had been set out on a small table and a fire lit in the fireplace. It was a place to feel safe in, protected – but he would have enjoyed it more if he could have shared it with Gil-galad. The High King, however, had voiced different plans, and was currently out in the forest, sharing quarters with his troops who had set up their tents close to the Great Cave.
Elrond had tried to convince Gil that he needed rest before they went to battle, and that his drinking the night away with the Rivendell guards would not improve their chances, but Gil had disagreed.
"I am their leader. They must know that I am here, what kind of king would I be to sleep in a soft bed while they lie on the hard ground?"
Elrond had disagreed, and once again, they had almost argued. 'Almost', because Gil had done the same thing he did every time they disagreed: he had left. At times Elrond wondered if they even spoke the same language, for no matter what he said, Gil would shrug, say "if this is how you feel, there is not much I can do about it" and then do what he wanted to do, anyway.
From where he stood, Elrond could see the light of the camp fires, and hear the voices of the guards. From time to time, a roar of laughter could be heard. The Lord of Rivendell felt like an outsider, and drew his cloak closer around his shoulders, though he was not sure if it was really the cold night wind that made him shiver.
"If you should intend to take a little walk, I would offer you my company, Lord Elrond" a voice beside him said, and Elrond turned around to face Amaris. The Wood Elf was dressed in the usual greens and browns of Mirkwood, his clothes were worn and not much different from those of a simple guard, but he had a presence that left no doubt of his royal blood.
Elrond hesitated a moment, then he bowed his head.
"I would be honoured and grateful, Lord Amaris. Many centuries have passed since I last walked these woods, and I might get lost."
He winked, and Amaris smiled.
"Let me lead the way, then. We should stay close to the Great Cave as the night brings out many ill-disposed creatures, but do not fear, where I lead you, there will be no danger."
Elrond nodded, and the two Elven lords disappeared between the trees.
* * *
Of course Erestor's arrival in Lothlórien had not gone unnoticed – nobody entered the Golden Wood without the sentinels and, first of all, Galadriel knowing it, but she respected his wish for solitude, and so nobody crossed the path of Elrond's advisor.
With one exception.
Erestor had heard the Elf’s approach some time since, and climbed the closest Mallorn tree. He felt absolutely no desire for company, all his senses were focused on Glorfindel, and he would tolerate no distraction. So he was now resting on a branch high up in the tree, hidden from anybody's view, and he hoped that whoever came this way would speed up his steps and leave soon.
Alas – apparently the Elf did not intend to leave. On the contrary: of all the trees in Lórien he had to choose the one Erestor was hiding in to make camp under. Erestor swallowed a curse and glared down at the stranger, of whom he saw nothing but a glimpse of golden hair and a blue-clad shoulder. The sun’s last rays bathed the small clearing in a mild, golden light, and seeing them reflect on the golden strands caused Erestor's heart to contract painfully. If only he knew what had happened to his beloved – was he well? Injured? Maybe his intuition had been wrong, and Glorfindel was not in Tíngel at all? What if he had been taken somewhere else?
And this specific time of the day... under normal circumstances, he and Glorfindel would sit on the balcony, Estorel on his lap, watching the sunset. Did Estorel miss him? Was Rabbit looking after him? Certainly. He would not have entrusted anyone but Rabbit with the care of his son. But Rabbit would not rub Estorel’s back till he fell asleep. The child found his Sia's touch calming, and when all else failed, Glorfindel would sing to him.
The baby moved, as if to remind Erestor of his presence, and Erestor gently stroked his belly. A small smile crept over his face at the thought of the new life growing, and he shook his head and forced back the tears which had begun to collect in his eyes. This was not the time to give in to sadness, he could not be distracted, he had to focus on finding his husband. Only a few hours rest, then he would leave early in the morning. Tíngel was now very close.
"Is this not a most splendid sunset – ah, if only I had parchment and colours to capture it! The light! The colours! Nature still provides the best entertainment. No dancers in any tavern, no matter how lovely, could ever be a match for this."
Erestor started, and quickly scanned the surroundings. Who was the Elf down there talking to? Had he brought a companion along? But no – this could not be, Erestor would have noticed. He retreated a little more into the leaves, his hand protectively on his belly.
"I am sure Glorfindel would appreciate this sight, though, truth be told, he would probably choose the dancers over the sunset. Such a peasant he is, do you not agree?"
Upon hearing Glorfindel's name, Erestor held his breath, and released it with an angry hiss during the rest of the speech. Who was this Elf? And how dare he speak of his husband in such a manner? And who was with him?
Below, Erestor could hear the rustle of leaves and the sound of a firestone, and sure enough, he soon smelled a fire, and a thin waft of smoke rose up.
"I see it is not easy to hold a conversation with you. Which is amazing – you see, all of Glorfindel's former wives used to talk so much that their mouths will have to be burnt on a separate pyre when they die, otherwise they would talk all through the funeral."
There could be no doubt now – the Elf was talking to him, and had known all along that Erestor was sitting here in this tree! To say that Erestor was surprised would have been an understatement, "thunderstruck" was more like it.
"So you are the silent type then. Very well, I can accept that. Or maybe you have given up on the world? I would understand it – the thought of having to endure dear Glorfindel's presence for a day is sheer torture to me, how much worse must it be to be married to him. I remember when…"
The stranger's memories were interrupted quite rudely by the sensation of a cold blade at his throat. He did not move, which was wise, otherwise the sharp metal would have cut deep into his flesh.
"Oh now do not be silly, Erestor. Take your knife away. We both know that you would never commit a kin slaying here in Lothlórien – or any other place. Sit down, share the meal with me, and we shall talk."
There was no fear in his voice, only amusement, and Erestor's confusion grew. His instincts told him that the Elf was no threat, and he was curious to hear what the stranger had to say. But still: nobody insulted his husband.
"Erestor – I am starving. If you intend to kill me, by all means, do it, but let me finish my meal first."
The blade was removed, and the Elf turned around, looking Erestor straight in the face.
The advisor shied back – he knew him, or at least he thought so. There was something familiar about this face, though he did not like the mocking smile at all.
"Finally! I was afraid I would have to die hungry. Help yourself, Master Erestor, wild geese – I prepared them myself, without question excellently, as with everything I do. But let me have a look at you first."
Erestor growled.
"Who are you?" he asked, and the other Elf grinned.
"My, but this growling… how absolutely erotic! I am not surprised in the least by Glorfindel's choice, now that I see you. A dark jewel, indeed."
Erestor winced to hear this cherished term of endearment from the other Elf, especially considering the smirk on his lips. The Elf wore very bright hunting gear, red and orange and yellow, and there were red ribbons woven into his braids. He bowed his head.
"My manners – of course, we have not been introduced yet. I am Nonfindel, the brighter and more beautiful, not to mention more talented and popular brother of your husband."
Erestor stared at Nonfindel with an expression of utter disbelief.
"Fin has a – brother? But that is not possible – how come I did not know this?"
Nonfindel rolled his eyes.
"Ah, his mind works in mysterious ways. We are not too close, you must know, but I appreciated that he invited me to your wedding. A gesture which should not be overvalued, though - he knew that I would never have attended. But that is not important now. I hear he has managed to get himself into trouble once again?"
"How can you know?"
"But my dear advisor – everybody knows! It is the talk of town! Lord Celeborn and Fin the Balrog slayer elf-napped! Please note that nothing happens in Lothlórien without me knowing it. I also know that you decided to take on the enemy's army alone and single-handedly save the Balrog-slayer-in-distress."
"This is none of your concern," Erestor snapped, and began to collect his belongings to stuff them in his saddle bag.
"Oh, but it is. I am entitled by birth to annoy Glorfindel, and I have no intention of sharing this right with some self-proclaimed evil overlord."
"Do as you please, but stay out of my way."
"This is your lucky day, Master Erestor – I will accompany you."
"Never!"
"That would be a long time, and I doubt Fin has so much time left. I will join you whether you like it or not, better get used to the notion early. And now sit down and eat, you must be starving. You must think of the little one you carry. While we are on the subject - do you wish for a male or a female? Little female Elflings are so much fun, they ask heaps of embarrassing questions! Would you mind if I put my head on your belly and listened to the heartbeat?"
"No! I mean - yes!" Erestor howled, and for the umpteenth time since he had met this annoying individual he felt the mad desire to strangle the Elf.
"Ah, do not be embarrassed, Erestor. It is only natural for future mothers to be emotionally unstable. Here, have some wine. You will feel better."
Erestor sank down in the grass and groaned. To think that some Elves considered an encounter with a cave troll a traumatic experience - obviously none of them had ever met Glorfindel's brother!
* * *
"With all due respect, my king, I do not think they like us very much," Mela said, while chewing on a piece of dried meat. The other Rivendell archers present nodded, and one muttered: "Some fight this is going to be – I will never know if the arrow in my back was fired by an Orc or one of our 'allies'!"
Gil-galad shook his head. He had spent the last twenty minutes listening to the complaints of his warriors and crumbling a piece of Lembas. He had rolled the soft center into small balls, and now he stuck them together, making little figures. Mela had watched this for quite a while, and he wondered if maybe the long stay in the Halls of Waiting had affected the King more than they had realised.
"They do not like me very much, my friends, and your lord would probably not win a popularity contest around here, either.Life here in Mirkwood is hard, there is no Ring of Power to protect this realm and the enemies are strong. You might think that their manners are questionable and their customs primitive, but if you consider the matter, they might be closer than us to nature and what it truly means to be an Elf."
Gil threw the little dough men into the fire, then he got up and went to the back of the tent. He pushed some clothes aside, revealing a case of Shire Brandy. He turned his head to Mela, and grinned.
"Maybe we should explore the less conventional forms of diplomacy, Mela. Come here, and help me with the bottles."
* * *
A loud, rough laughter, followed by another, lighter one, caught Elrond's attention, and he frowned.
"It sounds like the two parties have finally come to an agreement," Amaris said, and Elrond gave him a doubting look.
"You think? I would have said that was the sound of a very drunk High King."
Amaris smiled.
"Your hearing is excellent, Lord Elrond – but so is mine. The second laugh belonged to my dear nephew, so we can assume that King Gil-galad and Legolas are engaged in a drinking competition, whose outcome is open. But once they have got drunk and sick together, they will find it easier to fight side by side. It is one of those odd male bonding rites I never quite understood, but as long as it works, I shall not complain."
Elrond stopped, and looked into Amaris’ eyes. This Elf was older than he was, yet he looked younger than one of his sons. Maybe this youthful appearance gave him the courage to approach the subject which had been on his mind so often lately.
"How long, Amaris?"
The Wood Elf cocked an eyebrow, and his face took on a guarded expression.
"How long what, Lord Elrond?"
"How long have you loved him? Decades? Centuries? How long?"
Amaris did not move. He turned his head away, looking in the direction of the camp. Again, Gil-galad's laughter could be heard.
"If you follow this path you will find yourself in front of the main entrance, Lord Elrond. This part of the wood is well-guarded, so you need not fear an attack."
With that, he disappeared, so quickly that Elrond could not tell where he had gone. For a while, he just stood there, listening to the voices from the camp, then he began to walk back to the Great Cave.
'So the answer would be 'Millennia',' Elrond thought.
* * *
The soldier walked over to the table and set one of the tankards of ale down in front of his companion. Both lifted their vessels and downed almost half of the liquid, then wiped their mouths on their sleeves.
"So, you are looking for work, I understand," the soldier finally said, and the man opposite him nodded.
"Aye. Got a wife and a couple of little ones to feed. Thought I’d try my luck here. There's not much gold to be made in the country."
The guard looked him up and down. Tall and strong, and from the expression of his cold eyes, it was clear that this one was not to be messed with.
"You say you're a skilled weapon smith?"
Again, the other nodded.
"Aye – I'll make you swords which will cut out your enemy’s guts the very second the blade touches his skin."
Both laughed, and it was not a pleasant laughter. The guard leant over the table and lowered his voice.
"Friend, you've come to the right place. There are rumours that we're going to war, and a man of your skills can surely make a fortune here if he's clever."
The other also moved closer, and frowned.
"War? Forgive me, I haven't been here in a long time, so I don't know what is going on at the court, but why is there a war? Are we going for Gondor?"
"Ah, go away with Gondor," the guard snarled, "that's what I think about Gondor."
He spat on the floor, then took another sip of his drink.
"No, not Gondor. We will go for the Elves, that's what I heard."
The smith startled.
"Elves? You're joking."
The guard shook his head, and looked around fearfully.
"We must be careful – they can turn themselves invisible, and might be here somewhere."
"Invisible – I didn't know that. I had no idea any of the Old People were still here – haven't they left Middle Earth since the Ring was destroyed, or so I heard?"
"Most, yes, but some are still here. Mind you, I have never seen one myself, and I'm grateful. At night, they walk over the swamp with their lanterns, luring innocent wanderers to certain death. They bring illness to our cattle and steal babies. Trust me, it's all true! And now they want to come for our jewels!"
The smith's eyes narrowed.
"Jewels?"
"Yes – but my, you must have lived far out in the country if you haven't heard of the jewels."
"Oh, I know about them, alright, I just didn't know anybody would want to steal them."
The guard sighed.
"Oh yes, they want them. They know that, as long as we have them, we are protected. But don't worry, our king has sworn an oath that they will never leave our kingdom. And he's true to his word."
The men drank again, and sat for a moment in silence.
"So what do you think, should I go to the castle and ask for work?" the smith finally said. The guard nodded.
"Yes – ask for Tarmon, and tell him that I sent you. I'm Meron, captain of the guard. And what is your name, friend?"
The smith reached his dirty hand over the table.
"They call me Alandel the Skilled. Thank you for your help, my friend."
They shook hands, and while downing the last of his ale, Meron got up.
"I have to leave, my shift begins in ten minutes. If you need help, you know where to find me. Everybody knows me, and I know everybody. And I know where to find the things which make life more comfortable, too. I'll show you around all the brothels of Breon, my friend."
He winked, and Alandel returned the grin.
"I can't wait."
"Ah yes, nothing worse than an itch that can't be scratched, eh?" the guard snickered, then he headed for the door.
Alandel sat in front of his ale, lost in thoughts, when suddenly a stranger sat down beside him.
"What a pleasant surprise to meet you here, 'Alandel'. What a lovely name – it is an anagram, is it not? How clever. Try the wine, it is lovely. It is good to see a familiar face around here."
Alandel looked up, his eyes narrowed, and his fist closed tightly around the tankard.
"If we were not in a public place I would knock some sense into this gourd on your neck," he hissed, but the other didn't seem to be impressed.
"Oh yes, I am sure you would like to do that, and I could bet that you have dreamt of doing it for years already, but well, we cannot always have what we want."
"Do not be too sure of that," Alandel growled, and drank some more beer, "and while we are talking: where is the imbecile who is responsible for all this?"
"Now how am I supposed to know that - theoretically, he should be up in our chamber, but it is also possible that he is wandering over the swamps with his lantern."
Alandel groaned, but his companion just shrugged.
"Ignore it. Look, they have three jewels and an oath; trust me, they are in for all the trouble they deserve."
* * *
Legolas and Gil-galad lay flat on their backs in Amaris' tent, and each one had an Elf holding a bottle of Shire Brandy sitting behind their heads. Amaris held an hour glass, and explained the rules of the game to the Mirkwood and Rivendell Elves who were crowded around.
"This, valued guests, is an ancient tradition among our warriors, and we are honoured to share it with you. Once I turn the hour glass, the assisting warriors will begin to dribble Shire Brandy into the mouths of the contestants – dribble, dear friends, not pour, or you are out. Then the same procedure is repeated with Miruvor, Dwarven Grog and King Thranduil's 2942nd ager, over and over again."
Mela, who was watching the preparations, rubbed his chin and looked a little doubtful.
"Lord Amaris – what exactly is the point of this game?"
Amaris grinned and waved the bottle at the warrior.
"Last one alive wins."
Everybody howled with laughter, then both kneeling Elves uncorked their bottles, and everybody stared with baited breath at Amaris, who turned the hour glass in slow motion.
"One… two… three… GO!"
Under the deafening cheers of the audience Legolas and Gil opened their mouths, and immediately, the Elves behind them began to let the Shire Brandy dribble into their mouths. Then the Miruvor. The Dwarven Grog. 2942nd Ager.
And all over again.
By round three, Legolas' face, hair and tunic were drenched in various alcoholic liquids, and he began to sputter more than he drank, while Gil held himself remarkably well and even managed to joke between the rounds. When the Shire Brandy was passed the fourth time, Legolas turned onto his side and gasped. Immediately, the game was interrupted, and Amaris knelt down beside his nephew.
"Do you give up?" he asked, and Legolas, who had turned an interesting shade of green, nodded weakly. Amaris stroked his sticky hair, and smiled lovingly down at his young relative.
"You bore yourself well, Legolas, and did honour to your house."
Legolas groaned.
"I feel sick…"
Quickly, two of the Mirkwood Elves grabbed Legolas by the arms and dragged him outside, where he introduced the bramble bushes of Mirkwood to his good friends Shire Brandy, Miruvor, Dwarven Grog and 2942nd ager.
Meanwhile, Gil still lay on his back, grinning like a hyena and twiddling his thumbs.
"Oh come on, Amaris, this cannot have been all Mirkwood has to offer – I feel actually rather thirsty, and I wonder if anybody else is up for another round?"
Of course Amaris saw the challenge in Gil's eyes, and he just could not pass it up.
"Now that you mention it, Sire – my throat is rather dry as well. Very well – I am up for it. Just do me a favour and do not get sick all over the furs, they are my brother’s and I doubt he would be too pleased to have you vomit all over his belongings."
Gil waved him off.
"Oh, do not worry, Amaris. I will walk upright and sober out of this tent when you are already crawling on all fours to find a suitable bush."
Amaris sighed, then he took off his jerkin and tunic.
Gil swallowed hard. He had never seen Amaris in any other state but fully clothed, hair braided and nails polished. Now his former advisor's golden hair was loose save for two braids on each side of his head, his torso covered only by the intricate tattoos. He had spent the last ages playing Tablero with him, or discussing battle strategies, and now he seemed to be a completely different Elf – one Gil found fascinating, but at the same time shied away from.
Amaris lay down on his back, though not before giving Gil a predatory smile.
"We shall see whose head will be buried in the bushes, Sire."
This time Mela held the hour glass, and everybody stared at the two contestants. For a short moment, Gil thought about how Elrond would probably not approve of the Noldor's High King’s participation in silly drinking games with Amaris of Mirkwood, and he also thought what a shame it was that Elrond was missing all this fun, but then Mela shouted "Go!" and he had to concentrate on the task at hand.
The Mirkwood Elf was clearly at an advantage – not only had he drunk less than Gil when the contest began, he also showed an amazing resistance to the intoxicating effects of alcohol, and when Gil-galad's breathing became laboured during round 3, he was still joking and teasing his opponent.
Had Gil-galad been listening to his stomach, he would have given up, but neither his stubborn head nor his proud heart allowed him to give in. Oh no, he would not leave victory to Amaris! The thought of seeing a triumphant smile on those pale lips made him cringe more than the toxic mixture of potent beverages in his gut, and so he kept on as best he could.
By round 4, Amaris began to pity Gil-galad, and thinking that a dead king would be of little use when riding to battle, he raised his hand and signalled the two Elves who held the bottles to stop. Immediately, they took the bottles away, and Gil, soaked in alcohol, blinked in the soft light of the candles.
"I am sorry to interrupt this contest, Sire – but the hour is late already, and we have a long day ahead of us. So I hope you will forgive me and agree that we are even in this battle."
Gil, who had only understood half the words Amaris had said, nodded weakly, but made no attempt to get up.
Amaris turned to the warriors.
"We should rest. I will care for the King."
The Rivendell Elves hesitated a moment, but when Mela signalled them to leave the tent, they obeyed. Soon, Amaris and Gil were alone.
"A lovely sight you are, Sire, I wish we had an artist here to paint this scene, for I am sure that you will deny all knowledge of this incident come the morrow. This aside, it would make a nice present for Thranduil."
Gil didn't move, so Amaris went to the back of the tent and got a bucket of water he had placed there to wash himself in the morning. He thought about getting a piece of cloth as well, but then he changed his mind, and tipped half the bucket's contents over Gil, who yelped, sputtered and shook his wet hair like a dog come in from the rain.
"What the…" he gasped, but Amaris, ever an Elf to finish the things he started, poured the rest of the water over the already drenched King, set the bucket aside and waited for Gil to come to his senses again.
Gil-galad wiped his eyes and spat out water, then he coughed and shook his head again.
"Are you feeling better, Sire? Or shall I call for more water?"
Gil glared at Amaris with bloodshot eyes.
"Sleep seems to be more in order than water. Come, let me help you up, Sire."
Amaris hooked his arms under Gil's and tried to help him up, but truth be told, he was rather drunk as well, and so they both ended up in a heap on the ground. Amaris grumbled, but Gil found the situation hilarious and began to giggle.
"I have not had this much fun in ages," he grinned, and patted Amaris, who lay half over him, on the back.
"There you are right," Amaris admitted, and began to giggle as well, "I remember when I first played this game with Thranduil and we ended up fighting in the mud. Nana said she would drown us in the pond, but ada only laughed."
Gil looked up, still a smile on his face.
"Oropher laughed? You mean – he was able to manage a facial expression other that his usual impersonation of a lemon?"
Amaris returned the smile.
"Oh, you only knew my father from the battlefield, Sire, but we had a lot of fun. He had a great sense of humour."
"What a pity he lost it."
"Well, Sire, when you see your people starve and your warriors die, the sense of humour is usually the first thing you lose. Do not hold it against him. He was a good father, good king and great warrior."
The king sighed.
"I am sorry, Amaris. It was not my intention to insult your ada. I held him in high regard, higher than he held me. He was proud, wise and courageous, and I did not choose you of all Elves as my advisor without a reason – you are truly a son of your father."
Amaris cocked his head, and looked disappointed.
"I am hurt. Here I am, believing that I became your advisor because of my talent for drinking a bottle of Shire Brandy without collapsing, and now I learn that you only chose me because I was proud, wise and courageous. I doubt I will ever get over this."
He theatrically dropped his head, and Gil patted his back.
"Poor Amaris, your life is one big disappointment."
The candles had burned down, and through his drunkenness, Amaris suddenly realised that he was here in the dark, lying atop of Gil-galad, separated from him by nothing but his breeches. Never had he been this close to the king, a very wet king, admittedly, who smelled like a brewery, but Gil's words hit home. Amaris looked up, right in Gil-galad's eyes.
"Indeed, Sire. It is."
There was no jest in his voice, and Gil noticed. Was Amaris serious? But he had all he wanted – why was he disappointed? Suddenly, Gil became very much aware of how close Amaris was, felt the heavy weight and the heat of his body. He caught the expression in Amaris’ eyes, unguarded for just a moment, but in that moment Gil-galad realized what should have been obvious to him for millennia already. This realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning. He reached out to stroke Amaris' cheek, but the Mirkwood Elf evaded his touch.
"Do not touch me, Sire. I could not bear it."
Gil heard the words, spoken in a toneless voice, almost a whisper, but he could not help it, he had to touch. He buried his hands in Amaris' hair.
"Who are you," he asked, "who are you really? I feel I do not know you at all, Amaris."
There was no answer, only a helpless expression on Amaris' face. Gil tightened his hold and drew Amaris' head down, the Mirkwood Elf's resistance weakening, until finally, he gave in, and allowed the king to kiss him.
Had Gandalf started one of his famous fireworks this very moment, Gil would not have noticed. How incredibly good this felt and tasted! He wanted more, more, more, and it would never be enough. He rolled Amaris onto his back, and the way he moved in his arms was just perfect.
Amaris, less drunk and more sensible than Gil, knew very well that this was a mistake of epic dimensions, but he had longed to do and feel this for so many years, he did not have the strength to pull away. He wished he could have slipped under Gil's skin to be even closer to him, but he would take whatever he was given; who knew if he would ever have another chance to touch him?
The king released Amaris for some much-needed breathing, and began to kiss his way down the Wood Elf's chest, following the patterns and runes with his tongue, gently biting a nipple. Every touch of his lips and tongue on Amaris' skin felt like fire, but he wanted to burn, had longed for it. So he arched into Gil's touch, fingers clawing at his back, and then he pulled him up by his hair.
"I want to see you, and I want you to see me, because you have never looked at me. Do it now, Gil-galad," he whispered, and Gil obeyed. He trapped Amaris' head between his large hands, and his eyes took in every expression, ever crease, every shadow on Amaris' face.
"You are right - I have never seen you. But I see you now."
He kissed Amaris again, this time slowly, lovingly, the calloused tips of his fingers stroking the Wood Elf's ears, which caused Amaris to moan - a most interesting sound, or so Gil thought. He ran his hands over his former advisor's skin, marvelling at its softness and warmth, then he buried his face in Amaris' neck and gently nibbled it.
The strong body underneath him moved, never losing contact, fingers dug deep in his back. He heard how Amaris whispered his name, then the Wood Elf stilled, arched and collapsed back on the ground, eyes closed, face flushed. Gil continued to stroke his cheek with the back of his fingers.
"Do all traditional drinking games in Mirkwood end like this?" Gil finally asked, and Amaris, eyes still closed, shook his head.
"No, Sire. Not all. Just some."
"Amaris - I do not understand what happened here."
"I know, Sire. It does not matter - I do."
"I thought so."
"We should discuss this some other time, Sire."
"Elrond will not like this."
"No, Sire."
Gil circled Amaris' left nipple with his middle finger, which made the other Elf shudder again.
"Amaris?"
"Yes, Sire?"
"All things considered, I think you can call me Gil now."
* * *
"He is sleeping".
Eledwen and Elfaël, who were sitting in front of the fire, looked up, and Elcallon went over to the fireplace. He bent down to arrange the cushions, then he sat down, too, and Eledwen handed him a cup of mulled wine. As always when they were here, in the privacy of their rooms, they used their own language, even if they didn't know all the words. It gave them a feeling of belonging and home.
"He had bad dreams?"
Elcallon nodded and reached for the poker, arranging some of the logs in the fire. The flames blazed up and bathed the three Elves in a warm, golden light.
"What do you thinks, Elcallon?" Eledwen asked, reaching out to rest her hand on his arm.
"I do not know. He is like us. Now he knows we are like him. The ears, you know."
He pushed a strand of light brown hair aside and ran a finger over his ear.
"He touched it. Now he knows. He is confused."
Elcallon continued to stare into the fire. He had been in a state of confusion ever since Celeborn had been brought there, though, of course, he didn't know his name, or who he was. It was the first time he had seen another of their kind, and as they had always been told that they were the last of their people, Elcallon had begun to wonder if this really was the truth.
"So there are more like us?" Elfaël asked anxiously.
Elcallon sighed, his attention now focussing on his two companions.
"There is one more like us. I do not know if there are others. I do not know everything."
"But you are the oldest. You remember. We do not."
Elcallon stroked Eledwen's hand.
"I remember little. I was a child, too."
Elfaël stretched out, resting his head on Elcallon's thigh.
"Oh please, tell us again. What was it like?"
Elcallon sighed. He had told this story so many times, but Elfaël never got tired of listening to it. He was tired, but seeing the happy shine in the younger one's eyes, he did not have the heart to deny him this pleasure.
"Fine, I will. Then we go to bed."
Both Elves nodded, and Elcallon began his tale.
"We had a house. And horses. And cows. There was my father and my mother. They were called Ata and Nanna."
"Oh, I like these names, they sound so funny," Eledwen giggled, but Elfaël glared at her, fearing that Elcallon might not finish his story if she interrupted him. But the older Elf ignored her.
"I had a brother. He was small and always cried. We played with the dogs. All day long we were running through the forest. Nanna made cookies and we shared them. There were many like us, many more, males and females and children. Everybody was friendly."
"Tell us about your brother," Eledwen begged, because this part of the story was her favourite, it always made her a little teary-eyed.
Elcallon sighed, but decided to humour her.
"One day monsters came and killed everybody. They made a fire, and Ata and Nanna hid me and my brother in a big basket. We heard a lot of screaming. Then came soldiers and found us. We were riding on their horses. They brought us to fat men who looked at us, and we slept in a tent. And then there was a market. They took my brother away. He was very brave and did not cry. And we came here."
"I cannot remember any of this," Elfaël sighed.
"You were too young. Both of you were too young. But I remember. Everything."
Which was a lie - Elcallon did not remember everything, because he, too, had been very young. But the one thing he remembered as if it had been yesterday was the way his little brother had looked at him when they dragged him away. He would never forget it, as long as he lived. Thousands of years had passed since then, but to Elcallon, it had only been yesterday.
"I am sorry. I did not want you to be sad," Elfaël murmured.
"Do not worry, it is nothing. It is long over."
But this, again, was a lie, because ever since Celeborn had been brought here, there was one thought repeated over and over again in Elcallon’s mind: if there was one other Elf, there might be more. Maybe they hadn't been told the truth? Maybe the books were not fairytales after all?
And if there were more of his kind, there might be a chance that his brother lived, too.
Elcallon got up and walked over to the balcony overlooking the large garden. It was framed by walls and towers, but lovely; in summer, a sea of flowers filled their rooms with their sweet smell.
Yes, maybe there were others like him. And maybe Celandir was still out there, too, waiting for him, somewhere. If he was, Elcallon had to find him. He remembered little of his childhood, but he remembered how frightened his father had looked when he had hidden him and his brother in the baskets, and how Ata had made him promise to look after Celandir, no matter what happened.
And Elcallon had every intention of keeping this promise.
* * *
Even Firinwë felt uncomfortable when she was summoned to appear in front of Finwë, and she was certainly not of faint heart. The Dark Lord sat on his throne, head propped on his fist, and he looked decidedly annoyed.
"You asked to see me, my lord?"
"No. I demanded. I do not ask. Your pet is wandering around the palace. Did we not have an agreement that he should be with you at all times?" he growled, and she shuffled her feet.
"I am most sorry, my lord. I have no idea how this could have happened, but I can assure you that he will not leave his room without me again."
"Should my guards find him again anywhere outside your chambers, I will have him shot and fed to the crows. We are preparing for war, Firinwë, and I shall not jeopardise our chances by having a pathetic First Age Elf shuffle along the corridors. Have I made myself clear?"
"Very clear, my lord."
"Good. Now go. War will soon be upon us, prepare yourself."
Firinwë swallowed hard.
"War, my lord?"
Finwë rolled his eyes.
"One would scarcely believe that you are of my blood - of course there will be war. What did you think? That Galadriel, Elrond and Thranduil send a message inviting us to take over their realms? 'Dear Lady Firinwë, Rivendell is yours, please do not forget to water the tulips twice a week?' They have gathered an army, lead by Gil-galad, and hope to defeat us here in Tíngel."
He leant back, smiling at Firinwë, whose courage had begun to evaporate with the dawning realisation of exactly what she had gotten herself into here.
"But you, my dear, will help me to take what is rightfully mine, and you shall be rewarded with everything you always wished for. Jewels, robes, Lothlórien, Balrog Slayers, pretty ponies. However..." he smiled, steepling his fingers, "should you toy with the thought of betraying me..."
"I have no intention of betraying you."
"No? What a pity. You are of my kin, I had hoped you had it in your blood. Well, there is still hope."
On her way out, Firinwë halted and turned around.
"You said I could have all I wished for - so where is Celeborn? You promised not to harm him, but I have not seen him for many days."
"But my dear Firinwë - now you are really hurting my feelings. I promised you that no harm would befall him, and indeed - he shall not hear or see any evil as long as I hold my protecting hand over him. I only have his best interests in mind."
Secretly Firinwë doubted that, but this was not the moment for an argument. The most important thing now was to talk to Glorfindel and show him once and for all who wore the breeches n this marriage.
* * *
"I have no explanation, my lord. When I came to see how he fared, I found him like this."
Celeron the healer pointed at Elrohir, who slept peacefully, his eyes half closed and clouded with reverie. Elladan knelt down by his brother, scrutinising him with the eyes of a healer. Carefully he ran a finger over the place where only yesterday an angry, deep wound had been. Now there was not even the slightest indication that Elrohir had ever been injured at all. No bruise. No scar. Nothing.
"How can this be? I thought his condition was improving, though I was worried about the long-term effects of the Orc poison, but this – I have never seen anything like it in my life. And I cannot recall that my ada ever mentioned a similar incident."
Their conversation, though held with lowered voices, finally woke Elrohir up, and the young Elf stretched his limbs, rolled onto his back and looked up at Celeron and Elladan, gracing both with a wide smile.
"Good morning! Are you here to serve me breakfast?" he grinned, while both Celeron and Elladan stared at him in disbelief. With a last yawn, Elrohir sat up, rolling his shoulders.
"Elrohir! How are you feeling? What has happened?"
Elrohir looked at his twin and frowned.
"Happened? What do you mean?"
He looked around, and seeing that he was in the Healing House, he scratched his head.
"This is odd, what am I doing here? And where are my clothes?"
"I will send for your clothes right away, brother. You were injured, do you not remember?"
Elrohir shook his head, clearly confused.
"Injured? Me? But I never felt better in my life!"
He looked down at his body, poked his stomach and wriggled his toes.
"See? Everything is still attached and working," he grinned, and Elladan embraced him with a bear crush. He had to touch him. Just seeing that his brother was alive and obviously healed would not have been enough to make him actually believe it.
"We were so worried, Elrohir – I do not know how this miracle happened, but I am grateful beyond words!"
Elrohir returned the hug. His brother was upset, and he had no idea why.
"Is he injured, too?" he asked, pointing at the bed in the next room, where a lean figure lay, half covered with a blanket.
"It is nothing, young lord," Celeron hastily explained, his eyes anxiously wandering between his two patients, "just a minor thing, no need to worry."
"I would not put it like that, Celeron – from all we know, this Elf saved the lives of Rabbit, Bramble and Eldanar."
Slowly it dawned on Elrohir that he had missed something. The Healing House, his worried and upset brother... and somebody had attacked Rabbit and the Elflings? Who would do such a thing? And why?
He slipped off the bed, wrapping the blanket around his middle, then walked into the other room. Celeron followed him and attempted to hold him back.
"Young lord – I would advise you to lie down again and rest. We do not know who… what… this is, and before we know that there is no danger, you had better not approach it."
Elrohir gave Celeron a stern look.
"Do not be ridiculous, Healer. If he saved Rabbit and the Elflings, he certainly would not harm me."
With that, he continued on his way, and soon stood beside the Elf who lay on his side, his back turned towards Elrohir, the Healer and Elladan, who had followed them.
Elrohir sniffed.
"Now what is this?" he murmured to himself, "I know this scent."
He sniffed again, and identified nutmeg.
The Elf on the bed stirred, and slowly turned around to face Elrohir. Black, uncombed hair, pale skin, and now a pair of dark brown eyes looking at Elrohir. The two Elves stared at each other for a long time without moving or saying a word.
"Elrohir? Is anything amiss? Elrohir? Please, speak to me - are you not feeling well?"
Elladan stepped to his brother, who looked at him in total shock. The Elf on the bed said nothing, just gazed at Elrohir, not even noticing Elladan and the healer.
"Come, rest again, brother, you are not healed yet..."
Elrohir shied back, and luckily Elladan stood behind him for support, because Elrohir's legs almost gave way when the injured Elf smiled dreamily up at him.
"You know him? Do you know who he is?" Elladan asked, trying to look at Elrohir's face, but his younger brother seemed unable to take his eyes off the stranger. Finally, Elrohir turned around, looking at Elladan with the greatest confusion.
"Can you not see, Elladan?"
He pointed at the stranger and shook his head.
"It is Námo, Elladan - we have the Vala of Death lying in our Healing House!"
* * *
tbc
* * *
Author's note: Ai, the drinking game – as much as I wish that I could say I made it up and that sane individuals would not find delight in such activities: it happened. Gary was still standing, but Junior got sick, luckily not over my carpet. And it's done with Jack Daniels. But DO NOT try this at home. Or anywhere else. And if you have to try it, use mineral water instead. Adds the additional thrill of getting bubbles up your nose.
Regarding Thranduil the exceptional etc. and his father Oropher:
You will be shocked - I stick to canon! ::the audience goes "oooooooh!"::
I never understood why fandom turned these two into villains which make Richard III look like a boy scout. Master Tolkien wrote:
"(...) Still Elves they were and remain, and that is Good People. (...)"
The Hobbit, Chapter VIII, "Flies and Spiders"
King Thranduil's "palace" - an author's favourite. I decided to call his home the Great Cave, as described by Master Tolkien:
"(...) In the great cave some miles within the edge of Mirkwood on its Eastern side there lived at this time their greatest king (...)"
The Hobbit, VIII, "Flies and Spiders"
And last but not least we have the amazing "Nonfindel": This character was born out of a private joke, like so many original characters in my stories.
When the "First Glorfindel" (the Sandro-Kopp-version) appeared on the net, I agreed that he's mild on the eyes, but he was not Glorfindel how I imagined him. We joked that he was Glorfindel's brother, who was more into arts and less into Balrog-slaying.
* * *
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