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 7
"Oh, no I never got over those blues eyes
I see them every where
I miss those arms that held me
When all the love was there"
I still miss someone – Johnny Cash
~°~
"How does my brother fare, Master Celeron?"
Elladan sanded the scroll he had just been writing on and put it aside to dry. In front of him, a pile of messages waited to be answered, and these were only the most important ones. Elladan had felt less scared facing Orcs than he felt facing this mountain of paperwork, and he secretly wondered how his ada managed to do all this and much more without losing his mind.
The healer who stood in front of Lord Elrond's desk, now occupied by Elladan, shrugged.
"Lord Elrohir's condition is stable. I dare say his body has fully recovered."
"And his mind?"
Celeron made a vague gesture with his hand.
"He still demands to be released and insists that the Plains Elf is Lord Námo. He is obsessed with this idea, my lord. He used very rude language and trashed his chamber last night, so we have taken out all furniture and padded the room so he may not hurt himself."
"Thank you, Celeron. And how is the Plains Elf doing?"
"As far as one can tell with a creature like this – fine. I have locked him up so he will not escape before you have had a chance to interrogate him and decide what should be done with him."
Elladan cocked an eyebrow.
"You have locked him up? Since when do we lock our visitors up, Celeron?"
The healer, beginning to feel uncomfortable under Elladan's stern look, bowed his head.
"It was only for his own good, my lord. As he is a foreigner here, I feared he might get lost. Rabbit has demanded to see him, but of course I did not allow it without consulting you first."
"Is there any reason why Rabbit should not see a member of his tribe?"
"I thought you would…"
"Celeron."
Elladan got up and leant over the desk, resting his weight on his hands. His already broad shoulders looked even wider, and to Celeron it seemed as if the young lord had just grown in height.
"Let me sum this up. You have locked up the Elf who saved the lives of Rabbit, Bramble and my son. And you keep Rabbit from seeing him. I would suggest, Celeron, that you stop thinking for me, because despite contradictory rumours, I am very well able to think for myself. I do not have my head simply because I do not wish to wear my circlet as a necklace. Now go and unlock the Healing House, our guest is free to roam wherever he wishes! And make sure Rabbit can see him. Is this understood?"
"Perfectly, my lord," Celeron hastily answered. He bowed deeply and hurried out of the door. By the Valar – Elladan's eyebrows were almost as scary as Lord Elrond's!
"Is uncle Elrohir ill?" a tiny voice piped up from under the desk, and when Elladan knelt down, he found Eldanar hidden underneath, his toy dragon Tathar under his arm.
"What are you doing here, penneth? Are you not supposed to attend your riding lessons?"
Eldanar tried to look guilty, but he failed.
"I am rather here with you. This aside I felled down the pony yesterday, and now my bum hurts."
Elladan had to hide a smile.
"Very well then, but come here, I do not wish my son to crawl under the table like a mouse."
Eldanar quickly climbed onto Elladan's lap, snuggled up to his adoptive father and smiled.
"Is uncle Elrohir gaga?" he suddenly asked.
Elladan stared at him in outrage. "'Gaga'? Now what kind of language is that?"
"One of the chamber maids said that uncle Elrohir is gaga because he thinks he can see the Valar. Another said she had an aunt who used to see tiny pink Balrogs when she had drunk too much Miruvor, and that was the same."
Elladan made a mental note to have a long talk with the chamber maids, but for now, he tried to explain the situation to the child.
"Your uncle Elrohir has been badly wounded, and will take a long time to recover. We all must be very patient with him."
"But he will not die?" the child asked, and Elladan shook his head firmly.
"No, certainly not, penneth."
"And ada Orophin? Ada Orophin will not die either?"
Elladan looked down at the child whose face showed too much fear for one so young, and he hugged his son close to him.
"No, ada Orophin will not die, either. He will soon return to us and read you bed-time stories."
"Will he read you bed-time stories, too?"
"I hope so," Elladan answered, thinking of "Mirkwood Love Secrets", a book which indeed made most interesting bed-time reading.
Eldanar was happy with this information, and began to suck his thumb. Elladan rested his chin on the child's head and rocked him gently. He felt a mad desire to grab all the scrolls and throw them on the fire, saddle his horse and ride after Orophin. In his mind, he had played through hundreds of worst-case scenarios, had imagined his husband injured and alone. Would it always be like this, once he was lord of Rivendell? Would he sit here, writing lengthy diplomatic notes when a brief "Forget it!" would have been sufficient? Would he lie awake at night, sick with worry for Orophin?
Of course, he could beg Orophin not to go on patrols anymore, to stay here, with him and Eldanar. But what kind of life would that be for his husband? He was one of the Galadhrim, having to stay here all the time would be like captivity for him. He could not demand this of his husband; he had no right to keep Orophin in a cage, even if the cage was golden and lined with velvet.
"Ada Elladan - how do you know that uncle Elrohir has not really seen a Vala?"
Eldanar had stopped sucking on his thumb and looked now up to his father expectantly.
"Because we cannot see the Valar, Eldanar. They are spirits - they do not have bodies like you or I."
"But when Gil-galad the Non-pumpkin and ada Orophin came to live here, you saw a Vala, too. Are you now gaga, too?"
"Eldanar! Who told you this?"
"The chamber maids. They said Lord Námo was here and grand-ada Celeborn took him for a ride. Why did grand-ada Celeborn ride with Lord Námo? Do the Valar not have their own horses?"
Elladan decided to consult the law books on whether spanking of chamber maids was still allowed, then he returned his attention to his son.
"It is true, Eldanar. We did see Lord Námo, but none of us can really remember what he looked like. It was a vision, that is something like a dream. Have you had dreams which you only remembered vaguely in the morning?"
Eldanar nodded.
"See, and that was the same thing."
The Elfling released his thumb again, and wiped it on Elladan's tunic.
"But ada - if you cannot remember what Lord Námo looked like, how do you know that the Elf uncle Elrohir saw was not Lord Námo? Maybe he can remember. Have you asked him? Or I can ask him if you are too busy."
Eldanar gave his son a thoughtful look, considered the matter, then smiled.
"You are a very wise Elfling, Eldanar. I think you are right - I shall now go and see uncle Elrohir and ask him what he has seen. And you will go to the kitchen and tell the cook that he shall give you fresh cookies and a glass of milk"
"Thank you, ada!" Eldanar cheered, pressing a wet, noisy kiss on Elladan's cheek and sliding down his leg to land on the floor. He sped out of the door, dragging Tathar behind him.
And for the umpteenth time Elladan thanked the Valar for sending this child his way.
* * *
A changeling - this was the only explanation Erestor had. Goblins must have snatched Glorfindel's true brother out of his cradle when he had been a wee Elfling, and replaced the infant with - him.
It was difficult to decide what grated more on Erestor's nerves: Nonfindel's singing or the time between two tunes he filled with talking. And my, could he talk! It was a wonder he even took the time to breathe in-between tales! By now, Erestor was fully informed on the complete family history of Glorfindel, knew all the flaws and failures of his husband's former wives and had heard some juicy gossip regarding Celeborn's love life on top of it. He knew that Nonfindel's real name was Lórindol and the strange nickname went back to an incident in the other Elf's childhood, involving Glorfindel, scissors and Nonfindel's braids. Or the later lack thereof.
The advisor tried his best to ignore the chattering Elf, but it was difficult. More than once he had turned around to cut Nonfindel off with a sharp word, but every time, the other Elf had made a gesture or cocked his head in a way which reminded Erestor of his beloved, and the words would not come out.
The closer the two got to Tíngel, the heavier Erestor's heart grew. Deep inside he knew that Glorfindel was still alive, but he also felt that something terrible had happened. He was miserable, sad, afraid and angry, and the Elfling he carried picked up on his mood and became restless, moving and kicking and making the ride even more exhausting.
Glorfindel's nana, however, had not raised any fools. Nonfindel was very well aware of Erestor's dark thoughts, so he tried his best to cheer the advisor up. It was better for Erestor to be grumpy with him than get lost in possibly unfounded fears.
He was pleasantly surprised by his brother's choice. Nonfindel had disliked each and every one of Glorfindel's former wives with a passion. Though the two brothers were as different as two Elves could possibly be and had spent the last millennia arguing, he loved Glorfindel dearly. When news had reached his ears that Fin had remarried, Nonfindel had placed bets on the date when the failure of the marriage would be announced, all the more confidently after he had heard that the chosen one was a male. He had even doubled the bet when he learned that the male in question was Lord Elrond's boring, humourless and stern chief advisor.
Nonfindel had lost the bet, and for once, he did not complain. Erestor was not half as boring as he had feared, and it was obvious that the advisor loved Glorfindel very much. Odd rumours had reached his ears regarding the nature of the relationship, and the birth of Glorfindel's son, Estorel, had given cause for many heated discussions in Lothlórien. Many Elves did not look favourably on Erestor, whom they considered a freak of nature. Some had even gone as far as declaring that such a creature had no right to sail west and "defile" the Undying Lands. As a consequence, quite a few Galadhrim had found themselves on lavatory duty for a decade or two, for the lady of the Golden Wood did not suffer ignorant fools lightly.
Nonfindel did not think Erestor a freak– he rather considered the other Elf blessed with a special gift. What could be more precious than the ability to give life? The main problem, so Nonfindel mused, was probably the scary thought that a male could carry an Elfling. But strictly speaking Erestor was not a male, though he appeared so. He was not female, either. He was of a third kind. Eru in his wisdom had certainly known what he was doing in making the Plains Elves the way they were – and who was he to argue with the gods?
"We are now leaving Lothlórien, Erestor. Riding will be difficult, so we need to lead our horses into the wood and walk. If you smell an Orc, climb the next tree."
Erestor nodded and got off his horse, taking the reins. He entered the dark forest, Nonfindel following closely.
It was like stepping from light into darkness, and Erestor stopped. Only brief moments ago, they had ridden through the sun-lit, merry greens of Lothlórien; now they found themselves surrounded by darkness. The temperature had dropped significantly and the silence had become unnerving. A gloomy atmosphere was all around them, and even Nonfindel ceased his chatter. At any other time, Erestor would have been grateful for the silence, but now he almost longed for the comfort of the other's voice.
So this was the place where Orophin had suffered so long and finally died. Erestor shivered at the thought, all his instincts told him to hide, seek shelter, for this was a place of many dangers. But it was also the place where Glorfindel was, and for him, Erestor would have gone to Mordor and back. He had sworn that he would stand by Glorfindel's side, be it in good times or bad.
These were bad times indeed. So he took a deep breath and continued on his way.
* * *
It was the same procedure as usual, nothing had changed during the last millennia. Nothing but the faces of the guards involved.
First the king's men combed through the woods to make sure no intruder was hiding behind a tree or in a bush. Then the three Elves would slip on their cloaks, the hoods drawn down over their faces. Elcallon understood why these precautions were necessary. Considering the crimes the Elves had committed, it was understandable that he and his friends needed protection from the anger of the people of Breon. Elcallon was grateful that the royal family had always looked after them so well, for where else would they have found refuge? They were the last of their kind, after all.
Or so he had thought.
While mounting the horse which was held by one of the guards, his thoughts wandered to the Elf whom they had left behind in their chambers. Elcallon would have loved to take the nameless new brother along on this ride, but he feared this might have upset the injured Elf, and now, riding slowly down the usual path to the river, he enjoyed the moments of solitude. Elcallon loved the trees, the fresh air, the earth – he would have given anything if he had once, just once, been allowed to see what the country looked like beyond the invisible border he was not allowed to cross. But he understood, and he had accepted this life.
Countless times he had ridden this way, but he always found something new to see and hear. After half an hour's ride, he reached the river, and sat down under a tree. It was his favourite place: sheltered from possible rain showers, shady in summer, and he could watch the water flow by. Sometimes he would feed the geese and ducks, and at times, he could see women washing their laundry in the cold water. He heard their laughter and their joking, and had to smile. If only they could forgive him – after all, neither he nor his friends had done anything wrong.
"Elcallon – I'm glad that I find you here."
The Elf looked up and saw the face of Toban, the youngest son of the king. His face brightened, for he liked the young one, who had become his main source of information on the world outside.
The lad flopped down beside Elcallon, and tried to calm his breathing – he had obviously run.
"You look worried, friend," the Elf remarked, and really, the youngster, usually so carefree, now looked rather pale, and every so often, he would turn around as if to check whether somebody was approaching.
"I'm worried, that's true."
Toban gave Elcallon a sidelong glance, and the Elf now began to feel worried himself.
"What has happened? Have you had an argument with your father again?"
Toban shook his head.
"No. Yes. Listen, Elcallon – there is something I need to tell you. It's not easy to do so, I've thought about it long and hard, and it might be the wrong thing to do, but…"
He broke off, fiddling nervously with his belt. Elcallon put his hand on the youngster's shoulder.
"Do not be afraid. We are friends – whatever it is that you must tell me, I will listen."
Toban took a deep breath.
"It's about you. And your friends. And the new Elf."
Elcallon grew more alert. Did Toban know something about his charge?
"Do you know him? Can you tell me where he comes from?"
Again, the youngster looked around anxiously to be sure nobody was eavesdropping. He continued, lowering his voice almost to a whisper.
"I do not know where he comes from or who he is. He was brought here one night by servants of a lord my father has dealings with."
"So he is a refugee then, like us?"
The youngster shook his head.
"No. I suppose he was kidnapped. All I know for sure is that he was the price my father demanded for sending warriors to the lord's support. We are preparing for war, you must know."
"A price? A war? Who are we fighting? I do not understand this."
Toban moved even closer, his mouth next to Elcallon's ear.
"We are going to fight your people."
For a moment there was total silence, and the Elf stared at the young man in utter disbelief.
"Our people? But – we have no people! We are the last ones! Me, the nameless Elf, Elfaël and Eledwen, and the young one she is carrying. There are no others!"
"Oh yes, there are," Toban whispered, "thousands of your people. Please believe me, you know I'm your friend, I would never lie to you or cause you pain."
Elcallan was thunderstruck. He heard the words, but they did not make sense, and though he saw that the young one was honest, his mind refused to believe what he had just heard.
"You should not joke about such things. Yes, I know that my people have let yours down, that they were cowards and left you alone in battle, but I never caused you any harm. Please do not be so cruel."
Toban dug his fingers painfully deep into the Elf's arm.
"I'm not joking. Please, you must believe me. Your people are no cowards. It was our people who let yours down!"
"What?"
"Breon promised to stand by the side of Lothlórien, many, many years ago. But our king broke this promise."
"How can you say such a thing?" Elcallan raked his hair with his fingers. "I have read all the books in the library, Toban. I know the tales of the battles by heart. I know how the mortals in their anger chased all Elves away from here, over the sea, and nobody ever heard of them again. I know…"
"You don't know anything!" Toban cried, jumping up and closing his hands into fists. "Nothing! Yes, you've read the books – but these books were written for you, for you only! The kings of old employed dozens of scribes whose sole purpose it was to invent history for you!"
The young man grabbed Elcallan by his shoulders and shook him hard.
"You've been lied to, Elcallan. You are not the last of your kin. I have seen others like you, males and females and children. The only reason you are kept here is because my father and all the kings before him thought that having you here would protect them from bad luck."
He shook the Elf again, as if to wake him up.
"Elcallan, can't you see? You are nothing but a good-luck-charm!"
Elcallan closed his eyes and tried to process the information. Was it possible? Had they been deceived all these years? Were there really – others?
"I – please understand that it is very difficult for me to believe..." he stuttered.
"I know. I found it hard to believe, too, when I learned about it. But it is true. A horrible crime has been committed against you and your friends, Elcallan. But please don't hold it against the people of Breon – they don't know. They think you are gemstones, brought here from a foreign land ages ago."
"Gemstones?"
"Yes – they call you the Three Jewels."
Elcallan's view moved over to the place where Elfaël and Eledwen sat, holding each other and looking at the river. If the young one told the truth, they had been prisoners all their lives, little more than well-kept pets.
"Why are you telling me now, Toban?"
The young man fiddled with his belt again.
"They say the Elves are leaving Middle-earth. The tale goes that, once this last war is over, they will all sail away in ships, and for those left behind, there will be no way to follow them. I … I didn't want you to stay behind. You're my friend, I want you to be happy."
Elfaël and Eledwen were now chasing each other, laughing. Elfaël made sure he did not run too fast, for Eledwen was heavy with her child. It suddenly dawned on Elcallan that this child would be born into a prison, would never be free. Never see the world outside. A great longing came over him, to see the world, see woods and rivers and mountains, to reach the stars, go to the end of the world and beyond. To meet his people. And maybe – maybe his brother Celandir was still alive, too?
Elcallon got up; he had come to a decision.
"I believe you, Toban. And I thank you, my friend. No, I do not wish to stay behind, and I do not wish the child of Elfaël and Eledwen to be born into captivity. What do you suggest?"
Toban gave the Elf a broad grin.
"I have a plan. It's going to be dangerous, mind you, but I've considered everything. Now listen…"
* * *
Glorfindel was glad when Firinwë finally left the chamber. The healer had come to examine him and had ordered him back to bed, insisting that his healing would be delayed if he wandered around. Fin had obeyed, though he felt fine – not perfect, his head still hurt, but he saw no need to rest any longer.
Fin wondered whether it was his injury which made his head hurt or his memory loss. Every day, his wife would tell him of their life, and with every tale he hoped he would remember. It never happened. She could have read him a story out of a Nana Goose book with the same effect. It was a tale, a story, a legend – but not a piece of his life.
So he was Glorfindel of Tíngel, seneschal of the mighty lord Finwë, much admired and feared by everybody. His deeds were legendary, he had slain a Balrog. His worst enemy was Erestor, an assassin in the service of Lord Elrond, who had tried for millennia to bring Tíngel under his power, so far without success.
"Erestor is the most dangerous Elf on Arda," his wife had explained, "a skilled warrior, double-tongued and ruthless. He knows neither honour nor loyalty; all he cares about are gold and gems. Many centuries ago, he killed our beloved son… oh, I cannot speak of this any longer, my heart will surely break!"
She had cried, and Glorfindel had felt like a heartless monster – how could he not remember that his son had been murdered? A little awkwardly, he had put his arm around Firinwë, trying to comfort her.
"Do not cry, beloved – I may not remember anything, but I know that this murder will not go unpunished. I promise you that I will track Erestor down, and I will have his head for this!"
Firinwë had snuggled up to him, obviously comforted by his words, and had sniffled one last time into her tiny handkerchief.
"Oh be careful, beloved husband – do not underestimate the cunning of Erestor! I am convinced that by now he knows of the misfortune which has befallen you, and will try to use it against you! He might even try to win your trust by telling you that you were friends or even – lovers!"
She had gasped, and once again broken out in tears. Glorfindel patted her arm.
"I shall not fall for his lies, my love. Should he dare to approach, hoping to profit from this situation, I will use this chance to take my revenge."
Firinwë had then buried her face in Glorfindel's robe, which was wise, as he could not see the satisfied smile on her lips. Not that she wanted to see Erestor dead – Firinwë drew the line at kin slaying. But a nice little injury to get him out of the way… maybe a prolonged stay in Finwë's mines where his Orcs dug for Mithril… ah, the possibilities!
A sharp rap on the door shook Fin out of his thoughts.
"Who is it?" he called.
"The lord Finwë wishes to see you, my lord Glorfindel," the muffled voice of a guard could be heard.
His lord? He would have to obey then.
"Wait outside – I will be with you in a second."
Quickly, Fin slipped out of bed and into his clothes. He was curious to see his lord – maybe this would help him to remember?
Shortly after, he followed the guard to Finwë's Great Hall, once again wondering about the way this palace was built. So often he thought they were walking in circles, and corridors which had led to the right seemed to lead now to the left. It was very confusing, but he blamed it on his headache.
Finally, they arrived in the Great Hall, and the guard, after bowing respectfully, left. Advisors and visitors were present, but all talk stopped and Glorfindel felt an uncounted number of eyes watching him.
"Ah, my dear Glorfindel – how good it is to see you again!" Finwë cheered, then he clapped his hands.
"Leave us alone – lord Glorfindel and I have important matters to discuss."
The guards and advisors quickly left the room, some of them throwing sideways glances at Glorfindel. As soon as the last minion had left, Finwë got up from his throne and walked toward the warrior, a bright smile on his face.
For the first time since he had woken up, Glorfindel felt that someone looked familiar. Finwë wore a black velvet robe, the sleeves lined with dark green silk. His long black hair was unbraided, and his eyes were of a deep brown. Three large crows were circling above him - yes, his lord looked familiar to Glorfindel – very familiar.
The black-haired Elf had now reached Fin, who almost suffered a heart attack when strong arms embraced him and he was firmly kissed on the mouth.
"I thought they would never leave. I have missed you, my love."
"My lord…?" Glorfindel croaked, shivering when he felt his lord's hand stroke his hair.
"It is alright, Fin. Nobody will see us here. But I forgot – you do not remember."
Finwë released the warrior, and Fin's heart contracted painfully when he saw the sad expression in the dark brown eyes.
"I am so sorry… I do not remember anything…" he stuttered, and Finwë, who was enjoying the scene very much, sighed dramatically.
"I had feared as much. You do not even remember me, or our love? Ai, Glorfindel – that such sad times have come!"
He turned around, hiding a smile. This was easier than stealing an apple from an Elfling! Elves were so predictable – without a doubt, Glorfindel would feel guilty now and be easy to manipulate in his eagerness to make Finwë feel better.
And in fact, Glorfindel reached out for him, begging him to stay.
"I do not remember – but I remember you. Or at least you look familiar to me – you are the only one so far. Please do not be sad, my lord… were we… are we…?"
He broke off, obviously embarrassed. Finwë stroked his face. Nice – maybe this would be even more fun than he had initially thought.
"Yes, we were, and yes, we are. We have loved each other for a long time, but keep it secret. Please tell me – even if you do not remember me, do you – feel anything?"
He batted his lashes at Glorfindel, who studied the face of the Elven lord. Could it be? Was this the mysterious lover he had dreamt of?
"I feel – drawn to you," he finally admitted, and was rewarded with a blinding smile.
"This is more than I could have hoped for," Finwë said. He only regretted that the real Erestor was not here to enjoy this sight.
"You look pale, my love – would you not like to take a walk in the woods? The fresh air and the sunshine will speed up your recovery."
Glorfindel's face lit up at the prospect of getting outside.
"The healer wanted me to stay in bed – do you think I should go outside, anyway?"
Finwë waved the remark off.
"Healers – if it was up to them, we would never get out of bed."
He moved a little closer to Glorfindel, giving him a cheeky smile.
"And if it was up to me, we would not, either," he purred, and this purr was another thing Fin was familiar with. Oh yes, he was now convinced that this was his dream lover, and he did not object when he was embraced again.
"As you wish, my lord," he gasped as Finwë looked at him through half-lidded eyes.
"No need for formalities while we are alone, Fin – just call me… your dark jewel."
Then he kissed him again, and Fin responded quite eagerly, feeling truly alive for the first time since the attack.
Finally, Finwë released his victim, looking deep into Glorfindel's eyes, as if he was looking for something. A satisfied smile played around his lips, and he took a step back.
"You should really go for a walk in the woods, Fin – but do not leave unarmed."
He walked over to the wall and took down a richly ornamented sword which hung there. Scabbard and belt clinked when he moved, and this, too, was a sound Fin was familiar with.
"Here. Gird your weapon. These are dangerous times we live in. I would not want you to confront the enemy unarmed."
Fin nodded gratefully. He fixed the belt around his middle and ran his hand over the sword's hilt.
"This feels good," he murmured.
"Of course. You are a warrior. Without a weapon, you would probably feel naked. Now go, my love – I have visitors waiting outside. I shall meet you later in your chambers."
He blew a kiss to Fin, and the warrior automatically reached out in the air to "catch" it and "put it in his pocket". Erestor had always done this when Fin left for a patrol. It was also a game Estorel loved greatly.
Finwë disappeared through the door, and Fin headed for the exit, happy to finally get some fresh air.
Meanwhile, Finwë tore aside the cloth which covered the Palantir, throwing it carelessly in a corner. Mist rose up in the ball, and soon, pictures showed. He saw Glorfindel leaving the palace, and rubbed his hands.
"This will be most amusing," he snickered, "go and slay the Balrog, Glorfindel – I will make sure your brave deeds are rewarded tonight."
Then he dragged a comfortable chair close, sat down and prepared for the show he had been looking forward to since Glorfindel had arrived.
* * *
Of all places for Elrond to get lost in, Thranduil's Great Cave was certainly the worst. Not because the lord of Rivendell feared that anything would happen to him here, but the thought of giving Thranduil the satisfaction of seeing him wandering around aimlessly made Elrond cringe. Their encounter had been frosty, to say the least, and in the past, Thranduil had more than once mocked that the Rivendell Elves were not able to tell their backsides from their elbows and needed a guide to find their undergarments, so the situation was highly embarrassing.
Finally, Elrond breathed a sigh of relief when he stood in front of his chamber door – or so he thought. He turned the handle, and found himself standing in a dimly lit chamber which was definitely not his own. Rugs and bearskins covered the stone floor, and beside the fireplace, leaning on the mantelpiece, stood a tall, slim figure Elrond knew only all too well.
"Have you lost your way, Elrond?" Thranduil asked, but there was no mockery in his voice, so Elrond decided to face the embarrassing situation with the dignity of an Elven lord.
"Indeed. Please forgive the intrusion, I was under the erroneous impression that these were my chambers. If you would be so kind as to redirect me, I shall leave you to your solitude, with all due apologies."
Thranduil turned to a small side table, and filled two goblets with wine. He picked them up and walked over to Elrond.
"By the Forest Spirits, Elrond – you still talk as if you were reading from a 1st age guidance book for conversation. Here, have some wine, maybe this will help you to build shorter sentences that even a simple Woodland Elf like me can understand."
Elrond blushed heavily and swallowed a sharp reply, but he took the offered wine and bowed his head in thanks. The wine was sweet, it must have been one of Thranduil's special vintages. Thranduil sat down in a large, carved seat, and ordered Elrond to sit down in the seat next to him.
"Sit down, Elrond. Nobody stands when I sit."
Another sharp remark was swallowed. If Thranduil continued at this pace, there would not be enough Thusly-flowers to brew the tea needed to calm Elrond's stomach. He ground his teeth and sat down.
"Ever the polite diplomat. You should stop grinding your teeth, Elrond – they might wear out. So, tell me – what drives you to wander my home at this hour of the night?"
Elrond's expression changed from annoyed to guarded.
"We are going to battle tomorrow. My mind could not find rest," he answered politely, and took another sip of wine.
"Indeed – well, this is understandable. My mind, however, cannot find rest because I worry greatly for my brother."
'He knows', Elrond thought, and his hand cramped on the armrest of his chair. 'He knows as well as I do where Gil and Amaris are, and what they are up to.'
"I see that you know what I am talking about. Maybe I should gloat in the knowledge that I finally have you here, in my house, cringing in my chair with pain, your heart one large raw wound, hurting and bleeding. I should enjoy your pain, Elrond Half-Elven, should see it as a small retribution for my father's death, and the death of so many of my people."
Elrond closed his eyes. Each of Thranduil's words was like a slap in the face, but he would not succumb, oh no, he would not give the King of Mirkwood the satisfaction of seeing him cry.
"I should, but oddly enough, I do not."
Thranduil got up, placed his goblet on the table and walked over to the lord of Rivendell, cupping his chin and gently forcing him to look up into his eyes. Elrond expected contempt, but all he saw in the king's eyes was compassion and sadness.
"Nothing happens without a reason. We might not understand the reasons now, and maybe we never will, but this is one of the great truths of life. There is a reason why we live, and there is a reason why we die. So there must be reason why some are returned from the Halls of Waiting while others are not."
Thranduil let go of Elrond's chin.
"You might think your secret is well guarded, Elrond, but I know the story of how Celeborn cheated on Námo to keep the king, my brother and the Lórien Elf here. A charming story, no doubt, and one which will be retold for ages around the camp fires. But you and I, Elrond, we know that nobody could return against Námo's will. He is a Vala, one of the most powerful of all, while you and I are merely Elves. Celeborn could only cheat because Námo allowed it. So the question remains: why were these three sent back? Do you know the answer?"
Elrond shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I do, Elrond, at least where Amaris and Gil-galad are concerned. They were sent back so we could let go. You and I, we have spent the last ages grieving. My pain was that of a son and brother, yours that of a lover. It is hard to lose a loved one, even more so when we lose them without the chance to tell them how much we love them. Amaris was returned to me – I could ask him to forgive me my harsh words, and in return, I learned that he was not the perfect idol I had worshipped all the years, but a normal Elf with all his faults and flaws. For the first time I did not feel inferior to him. It was not easy to accept these truths, but after all these years, I feel that a heavy burden has been lifted from me."
Elrond's eyes followed each of Thranduil's movements. He felt he had not known this Elf at all. He remembered the many heated arguments, the fighting, the insults. He remembered how Thranduil had threatened to slay Gil-galad the very moment he set foot on Mirkwood's ground. And now the same Elf who had once released his hounds on Elladan when the young one had accidentally overstepped the border of Mirkwood stood by his side at a moment of his life when he found himself standing at a crossroads, not knowing which way to turn.
Elrond recognized this gift, and he accepted it humbly and with deep gratitude.
"You, Elrond, have hung on to the high king's memory all through the ages. Even more so since your wife passed away. Oh, I know it all - no step of yours was kept secret from me! You have buried yourself in the vault you call your study, surrounded yourself with dead memories and things and missed out on life. And once more you sit here, your hands empty. You gave everything, and received nothing."
Thranduil knelt down, and took Elrond's hands in his.
"You would not listen to a friend or a loved one telling you this, Elrond, but maybe you will listen to your opponent: let go, Elrond. Let Gil-galad go. He is not part of your life anymore. He cannot replace what you have lost."
A painful sigh released from Elrond's chest, and finally he could do what he had not been able to do so many years before: he let go of Gil-galad's soul.
* * *
For hours, Erestor and Nonfindel had walked in silence, occasionally evading a band of Orcs or men, till finally Erestor felt the other Elf's hand on his shoulder.
"We are now very close to our target, Erestor. See?"
He pointed in the direction of a clearing, which now became visible. To Erestor's great surprise it was sun-lit, warm, filled with lush green grass and birdsong.
"What is that?" he gasped, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Magic," Nonfindel replied, and stepped closer to the advisor.
"How do you know?"
The blond Elf shrugged.
"I hear everything. And I see more than most. Although I have never seen the lord of these woods, I know he must have the power of magic. His palace and the woods surrounding it look like this – an oasis of light in the midst of the darkness. He is a moth – a creature of the night seeking the light."
"If that is the case, he shall find himself burned," Erestor snapped. "This makes no sense to me at all. What does he need Glorfindel for? He had him in his power before, and returned him. And why was it so easy for us to get here? Nobody stopped us, nobody attacked us. Surely a wizard of his power would know that we are here?"
Nonfindel gave Erestor a short, firm look.
"Of course he does. If he is who I think he is, he knows more than we could ever imagine."
"And who would that be?"
The two Elves looked at each other for a moment, then Nonfindel sighed.
"A Vala."
Erestor rolled his eyes.
"I know that he is a Vala. We have already established that Lord Námo rules these woods."
"Oh have we? Really? Well, please excuse my ignorance, but who is 'we'?"
"The lords Elrond, Celeborn and the lady Galadriel. We found some evidence which…"
"… you will now share with me?"
Erestor was reluctant to tell this annoying Elf about the book, but finally decided that telling Nonfindel could not cause much harm. The blond Elf listened to Erestor's report with interest, and surprisingly without interrupting him once. When Erestor finished, Nonfindel scratched his head.
"So we have, once again, problems with a ring, and the book said the Vala of Death is responsible for this?"
"Indeed. It said that Lord Námo forged it. So you see that we have a serious problem at hand."
Nonfindel thought about it for a moment, rubbing his chin.
"Erestor – would you mind quoting the part about the ring once more for me?"
The advisor shrugged, but agreed.
"'And so the Vala of Death forged the Dark Ring, for he was jealous that others had a Ring of Power, but not him, and he envied Melkor his cunning heart. 'I have been cheated by a female, so doom for Middle-earth shall come from the hand of a female', he said, and he put a spell on the Dark Ring, that its power might only be awoken by the treachery of a female, one worthy in deceit to match his own, and then all Middle-earth would be destroyed, and a new world be created, where he would dwell and rule and be worshipped."
Nonfindel cocked an eyebrow.
"Forgive me for not having been specific enough – I meant the part about Lord Námo's involvement."
"That was the part."
"And where is Námo mentioned?"
Erestor's patience was growing thin.
"As I just told you: 'And so the Vala of Death forged the Dark Ring, for he was …"
"…jealous, yes, I know. But from my understanding, there was no mention of Lord Námo."
Erestor fought the urge to grab the other Elf by the collar and shake him.
"'Vala of Death' – what is there not to understand? Lord Námo is the Vala of Death! Even you should know this!"
Nonfindel nodded.
"Yes, you are quite right, my dear Erestor. Lord Námo is the Vala of Death. But was he also the Vala who made the ring? For, my apologies, but I find it very hard to believe that we are talking about the same Vala here."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Erestor – death is impartial. He knows neither friends nor enemies, likes or dislikes. If Námo wished us dead, he would only have to snap his fingers, and we would all fall down. What benefit would there be in the forging a ring, I ask you? And why should he hunt down Glorfindel? He had him in his power for ages – and released him, sent him back. No Vala in his right mind would willingly succumb again to Glorfindel's hackneyed stories!"
Erestor leant against a tree, his head spinning.
"What are you trying to tell me, Nonfindel?"
The other Elf began to walk up and down, hands folded behind his back.
"If Námo wanted to see any of us dead, he would simply come and get us. Or snap his fingers. Send his guards. Whatever it is a Vala of Death does to fulfil his duties. There is absolutely no reason for him to sit in a palace located in the bad part of Lothlórien, kidnapping retired Balrog-slayers or forging a Ring of Power. He released Glorfindel, and, if I may believe the rumours, even allowed the High King, Thranduil's brother and Orophin to return, though he probably knew that he was tricked. Everybody knows Celeborn cheats. I am sure Námo is no exception.
“And as it makes no sense for Námo to do any of these things, this only allows one conclusion: the Lord of Tíngel is not Námo, and the assorted Elven nobility has once again managed to mess things up royally. Not that I am surprised. Anything Celeborn is involved with is doomed, be it love-affairs, marriages or wars."
Erestor stared at Nonfindel, and tried to make sense of what he had just heard. This could not be true. Or… could it? Nonfindel had a point there – but if it was not Námo, who was it then? Before he could ask Nonfindel, they heard steps, and quick as squirrels they climbed the tree. Somebody had entered the clearing, and when Erestor saw who it was, his heart stopped beating for a moment.
"Fin..." he whispered.
* * *
Legolas lay sideways on his bed, head hanging down and a bucket underneath. How he had gotten here he did not know – he had been in the camp, there had been this drinking contest and then – nothing. Blank. All he knew was that he wished to die, soon please, for his head was spinning and he felt sicker than he had ever felt in his life.
"A lovely sight you make, nephew," Amaris' mocking voice could be heard from the door, and Legolas, who opened one eye with great pain, saw his uncle standing in the doorframe, carrying a bowl and a towel.
Legolas vaguely remembered that Amaris had been a participant in the drinking contest as well, but unlike him, his uncle looked his usual immaculate self. His hair was neatly braided, his clothes were clean, and he looked freshly bathed. A faint scent of lavender hung in the air, and Legolas felt even worse.
"Though you fought bravely, penneth, I would suggest that you continue to fight the enemy with bow and arrow. You seem to have a low tolerance for alcoholic beverages. Are you feeling bad?"
Legolas only groaned, and weakly pulled the bucket closer. He felt cold and clammy – if only he could be sick and get it over and done with!
"Obviously you are. Very well then, as you are a little monosyllabic this morning, I shall do the talking. Legolas, it was just decided that you should become the future King of Mirkwood."
A wave of nausea flooded through Legolas' body, his head disappeared into the bucket and he was violently sick.
"Your enthusiasm is contagious," Amaris sighed, then he put the bowl and the towel on the floor. He crouched down beside his nephew and held his hair out of his face while Legolas retched. Finally, when his body had expelled all that made him ill, the young Elf curled up in a ball on the bed and moaned pitifully.
Amaris wrinkled his nose in disgust, picked up the bucket and put it out on the corridor, closing the door quickly. Then he reached for bowl and towel and walked to the bed to sit down beside Legolas. He gently pushed away the sweat-soaked strands of hair from Legolas' face, then wetted the towel in the cold water and placed it on his nephew's forehead.
The young Elf sighed and closed his eyes, giving in to the soothing coolness.
"I see that I have your full attention now. Good. I wish your father's tolerance for alcohol was as low as yours, discussions with him would be so much easier. Now, penneth, as I mentioned before, we have decided that you will be the heir to the throne of Mirkwood. I would offer you a glass of your ada's famous 4926 2nd Ager to celebrate, but…"
"This is not funny, uncle!" Legolas groaned, pulling a cushion over his head and turning around to face the wall. "Go away and let me die in peace, and by the Forest Spirits, do not mention wine in my presence ever again!"
"You can die in Peace or Rivendell, this is totally up to you. But I am quite serious, you should know that my sense of humour is underdeveloped. And now stop behaving like an Elfling, turn around and look at me while I talk to you."
The last sentence was still spoken jokingly, but Legolas heard the underlying tone well and knew that he had to obey. He turned around, facing his uncle, and studied his face through bloodshot eyes.
"Uncle – I could never be the King of Mirkwood. I am only an illegitimate son."
Amaris held up a hand and wriggled his fingers.
"How many fingers do you see, Legolas?"
The hung-over Elf frowned, wondering what this was about, but then he answered: "Five."
"Perfect. What is your name?"
"Legolas – but why…"
"What age are we living in?" Amaris continued, ignoring his nephew's question.
"The 3rd."
"Perfect. You are fit to be king."
"But…"
"Legolas, hear me out."
Amaris took Legolas' hand, and smiled at him, a little melancholic, the young Elf thought.
"We go to war. Nobody knows what will happen. Forest Spirits, Valar and whatever deities are on duty will, I hope, watch over your ada. I tried all my skills, but I could not talk him out of leading his army into battle. Should he be called to the Halls of Waiting, somebody has to take his place."
"But why me? Why not you? You are back, you could…"
"No, my dear young one. I will sail West. I have no place here, my presence does more damage than good, and it is time for things to change. Your ada is a good Elf, Legolas, and I love him dearly. Sooner or later, he will probably sail West, too. He was burdened with a responsibility he was much too young to carry, and he has fulfilled his duty admirably. Only he knows how much he has sacrificed for our people. He is entitled to some happiness."
Legolas looked over Amaris' shoulder, out of the window. He heard Elves talking, preparing the horses and weapons. Being responsible for all of them – he could not imagine what it meant.
"Uncle – please understand. I am just a mere archer. I skipped most of my studies to roam the woods, I am a warrior and hunter, not a diplomat. I have not the skills needed by a king. Why not chose one of my brothers?"
Amaris let go of Legolas’ hand and began to count off his various nephews on his fingers.
"Oh yes, your brothers. Let me see – which one would you recommend? The one who swore never to leave Mirkwood and sail West because he is convinced that Valinor is a trap set by the Valar? Who accused Cirdan of being involved in the conspiracy? Indeed, he would be a good choice. Or maybe the one who left his wife and four Elflings to run away to Minas Tirith with a tavern dancer? Certainly a king worthy of our realm. Not to forget your youngest brother who enjoys wearing ladies robes. Then there are …"
"Have mercy, uncle," Legolas groaned, holding his head between his hands in the vain hope of keeping the headache on a bearable level.
"Legolas, listen to me."
Amaris grabbed his nephew by the shoulders and forced him to look him in the eyes.
"It is true – you cannot write your name without mixing up the letters, you probably could not tell a poem of the 1st age from one of the 2nd age, and your idea of courting a female is dragging her to your cave by her braids. But you have seen the world, Legolas. You have, of your own will, left your home after our people failed to keep the creature Gollum, and volunteered to hunt for him, acknowledging our responsibility. You have been one of the Nine Walkers, befriended mortals and even a dwarf, ignoring prejudices and customs. You judge by your heart, and you acknowledge greatness, wisdom and gentleness no matter where you find them. This is what makes a great King, Legolas, and I have no doubt that you will be a great king once your time has come."
Legolas' eyes had become wet during this speech, and now he was actually crying, a fact which embarrassed him greatly. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and while he was at it, his nose too. Amaris hugged him, then slapped his nephew's hand.
"Lesson one for future kings, Legolas: never wipe your nose with your sleeve. Use a handkerchief."
"And if I do not have one?" Legolas sniffled.
"Then use the shirt-tail of the Elf in front of you."
The two looked at each other, then they broke out in loud laughter, and the Rivendell Elves standing under the window found their impression that their Mirkwood brothers were a howling mad lot once again confirmed.
* * *
Nonfindel and Erestor stared down at the clearing where Glorfindel strolled around, stopping from time to time to shake his head and sigh.
"I cannot see any guards," Erestor whispered, "they would not possibly let a prisoner wander around unguarded?"
Nonfindel shrugged.
"What if he is not their prisoner? See, he is armed. But you are right – I have no doubt that he is watched. This might be a trap, so we must be careful."
Erestor took in Glorfindel's face, and his heart skipped a beat. How he had missed him! And how he longed for him… no, trap or not, he had to go to his beloved. Before his companion could do or say anything, he slipped down from the branch he had been lying on, and landed almost soundlessly behind the warrior.
Glorfindel spun around, for his ears were sharp and he had felt the light waft of air when Erestor jumped from the tree.
Quickly taking two steps back, Glorfindel drew his sword, and looked the black-clad Elf opposite him up and down.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" he snapped, and Erestor, confused, cocked his head and approached Glorfindel, reaching out with his hands.
"Who …? It is I, Erestor. Do you not recognize me, beloved?"
Erestor had been prepared for everything – but not for Glorfindel's attack. The warrior stormed forward so quickly that Erestor only realized what had happened when the sword cut deep into his shoulder. In fact Erestor only survived certain death because Glorfindel had still not fully recovered and the sword was heavy.
The advisor stumbled backwards, pressing his hand to the wound then looking at it. His hand was wet with blood – his own blood, and there was a sharp pain. But it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart when it sunk in that Glorfindel had attacked him.
"Fin… why have you done this? Beloved…" he stuttered, reaching out once again for Glorfindel.
But the warrior was out of his mind with anger. The tendons on his neck stood out like vines, his eyes were blazing, and he lifted his sword up for the last, final blow.
"Murderer! Did you think me weak? Then you thought wrong! Meet your fate, Erestor!"
Had Erestor been all alone, he would have probably given in to this fate, and gone to the Halls of Waiting. But there was somebody else to consider, and while he could never have hurt Glorfindel for his own sake, he would not allow their unborn son to be harmed.
It made no sense to fight Glorfindel – though Erestor was a warrior, too, he would stand no chance against Fin. Being wounded limited his chances even more, and as Glorfindel was obviously not willing to listen to reason, Erestor did the only thing possible: he began to run back to where he and Nonfindel had left the horses.
However, Fin was not willing to let the Elf he thought to be his greatest enemy escape, so he followed him. He was quick on his feet, and soon he was catching up with Erestor, who finally stumbled over a root and fell down, crying out when a sharp stone cut his cheek. He curled up in a ball, hoping to protect the little one.
"Finally I have got you," Fin growled, raising his sword in preparation for the final blow. He was distracted when something black shot down from the sky and tangled up in his hair. Fin flung his arms around wildly, but Glorfinkle hacked mercilessly after his eyes, trying to protect his master, who lay wounded and heartbroken on the ground.
When Glorfindel managed to beat the crow off, he returned his attention to Erestor. Suddenly, he felt somebody tapping on his back.
"Pardon me, my lord. Could you tell me the way to the local brothel? I am most afraid I got lost."
Glorfindel spun around, swinging his sword, and Nonfindel ducked, otherwise he would have lost his head.
Before Fin could say anything, a fist collided with his chin. There was so much power behind this blow that Glorfindel felt as if Asfaloth had kicked him. He groaned, dropped his sword and fell down on his back, moving not even an eyelash anymore.
Nonfindel rolled his eyes and looked down at Fin, making sure that the warrior had really passed out, then he rushed over to Erestor, gently helping the injured Elf up.
"My dear advisor, seeing how you handle your marital problems has convinced me to stay single till Námo calls me. Can you walk?"
Erestor swayed a little, but he nodded.
"Yes. Yes, I … I am fine."
"If a deep stab wound applied by your husband qualifies as 'fine', I would rather not know what 'not fine' is."
Nonfindel tore his cloak into pieces and pressed the makeshift compress against the wound, then he fixed it to Erestor's shoulder with more rags.
"We must leave. I can already smell the enemy. Do you think you can fetch the horses?"
Erestor nodded, but did not move.
"Fin… how is…" he began, but Nonfindel cut him off.
"No worries – he will be sleeping for quite some time. Go get the horses, I will wrap this parcel up. I do not suppose you would want to leave him here?"
Erestor, grinding his teeth and trying to will the pain away, shook his head. The Elfling was tossing and turning, adding to his discomfort, but at least this indicated that the little one was unharmed.
The advisor turned to do as he was told, but he stopped for a moment by Nonfindel's side.
"Thank you, Nonfindel."
The blond Elf smiled and nodded, then Erestor walked away, and Nonfindel turned his attention to his brother. He closed his hand in a fist and kissed it.
"No reason to thank me, my dear Erestor. I have dreamt for ages of doing this!"
Then he knelt down to tie up Glorfindel, and if he hadn't been worried for Erestor's well-being, he'd probably have whistled a merry tune.
* * *
Finwë stared into the Palantir. He rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then polished the surface with his sleeve. Surely this could not be? His brilliant plan had failed? This must be a smudge on the surface.
But no – despite more polishing and eye-rubbing, the picture remained the same: Erestor, his companion and Glorfindel were leaving Tíngel, and none of his brainless minions would reach them in time to prevent this.
"Firinwë!" he yelled, and the volume of his voice as well as the fury in it made Orcs and men alike duck for cover. After only a very short time, the hasty steps of Lady Firinwë could be heard. Finwë turned towards her, his face even paler than usual, and he pointed at the Palantir.
"I have only one question, and if you want to escape a very painful death, you had better answer it right away."
Firinwë, who knew that she was in deep trouble, curtsied and nodded eagerly.
"Of course, my lord, whatever you ask, I will answer!"
"Good," Finwë growled, and towered up in front of her. He glared down at Firinwë, his fury radiating like waves of heat.
"What I want to know, dear grand-daughter," he thundered, accentuating each word with a hard poke of his index finger to her shoulder, "is only one thing: WHO IN THE NAME OF ALL ANGRY SPIRITS IS NONFINDEL?"
* * *
Author's notes: the plot thickens! Just a few notes regarding Legolas. This chapter was actually inspired by Naergilien. She pointed out quite correctly that nowhere in "The Lord of the Rings" it is mentioned that Legolas is a 'prince'. We conclude he is because he is Thranduil's son – but does this make him a prince? No. In the medieval age, kings and lords used to have dozens of illegitimate children, who were held in high esteem and cared for, often playing key roles at the court – but they were not heirs to the throne.
I agree with her that, if Legolas really had been a 'prince', Thranduil would not have allowed him to join the Fellowship. You do not let your heir run around Arda fighting cave trolls, Uruk'hai and Evil Overlords. That's what you have your warriors for. We have often joked about the way Aragorn introduces Legolas in the movies to Éomer:
"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Gimli, son of Glóin and Legolas of the Woodland realm. We are friends of Rohan and of Théoden, your king."
'Legolas of the Woodland realm'? Hel-lo? Why not 'Son of Thranduil?" Galadriel does not treat Legolas like "royalty", either. While you can argue that she is royalty herself, Haldir certainly is not, and while he is polite and respectful with Legolas, it is far from the way you'd expect the interaction between a "normal Elf" and a prince to be.
Be that as it may: in my universe, Legolas is simply Legolas, one of many, but in the end, the one.
The "Thusly-flowers": a private joke. In the beginning of my fanfic writing, I was very fond of the word "thusly". Alas - such a word doesn't exist, I learned. Neither in the Oxford Dictionary nor anywhere else. "Thus", yes. "Thusly", no. So I decided a tribute to this fanon-grown flower was in order. :-)
* * *
<- Back to chapter 6 Forward to chapter 8 ->