FINDING NÁMO
Overall rating: yellow/orange
Category: slash (two male Elves in love), romance, drama, ANGST, h/c, humour.
Pairings: Erestor/Glorfindel, Orophin/Elladan, Elrohir/Námo, Elrond/Gil-galad, Gil-galad/Amaris, Celeborn/Melpomaen, Haldir/Rabbit, Rúmil/Galadriel and more
Warnings: mpreg, Angst - and we have scruffy Legolas, if this needs a warning.
Beta: Miss Eveiya
Summary: "Finding Námo" is the sequel to "The Knave", and I recommend that you read "The Knave" and "The Tw-Elf Days of Yule" first, otherwise some aspects of this story will be confusing.
CHAPTER 11
In the last chapter(s), we left
... Celeborn enlightened
... Melpomaen finding a new friend
... the king's advisor dead
... Orophin in prison
... Elcallon taking his first steps in the real world
... Feronil frustrated
... Glorfindel very confused
... Nonfindel with a sore hand
... Erestor injured
... Rúmil in charge
... Galadriel determined
... Amaris, Gil-galad, Elrond, Thranduil, Legolas and their respective armies on trees
... Mauburz matchmaking
... Elrohir and Námo kissing
... Celeron the healer disgusted
... Elladan shocked
... Eldanar amused
* * *
"Have you finally lost the last scrap of common sense you had, Melpomaen?"
Feronil could not have regarded the filthy boy in Melpomaen's arms with greater disgust if the child had been a rabid dog. Melpomaen ignored the advisor's question and set the boy down on the bed.
"Feronil. He followed Orophin to the prison, and he seems to know something. Alas, I do not speak the common tongue. Talk to him. Maybe he knows where Celeborn is."
"Maybe he is a spy, and the king's guard is already waiting for us outside the tavern!" Feronil barked.
"Maybe he is a dwarf who shaved his beard off," Melpomaen mocked. "Stop being so melodramatic, Feronil. Talk to the child."
The older advisor, taken a little aback by Melpomaen's unusual authority, grumbled something unintelligible, then sat down opposite the child, who stared at the large, angry looking Elf with fearful eyes.
"Who are you, where do you come from, what are you doing here and where is Lord Celeborn?" he asked, but the child only stared at him open-mouthed, too frightened to answer.
Feronil rolled his eyes. "See? He does not know anything. Or maybe he is a dimwit. That would be so like you, dragging in the village idiot."
"It would take one to know one," Melpomaen muttered. He had not understood what Feronil had asked the boy, but guessed from the tone the advisor had used that it had been unfriendly, so he knelt down beside the child and stroked his filthy hair.
"Do not be afraid, penneth,” he said in his most gentle voice, "Feronil only pretends to be nasty, in reality, he is a very nice Elf."
The boy looked from Melpomaen to Feronil in confusion. Only a short time ago, he had been carrying water from the fountain to the smithy; now he was sitting here between two magical beings. One of them was obviously angry, and the other wore a dress, though he was a male.
He liked Melpomaen much better than the grim looking Elf opposite him, but still he turned to Feronil, who had spoken his language.
"What … what did he say?" he stammered, and pointed at Melpomaen.
"He said that he is grateful you are so sympathetic about his gender confusion," Feronil said, and poked his tongue out at the younger advisor. But his voice was friendlier now, and maybe, so the boy thought, the Elf was not angry with him after all.
"So, let us try anew: what is your name?"
"Got none."
Feronil snorted and shook his head.
"What nonsense. Everybody has a name, even this one here. His name is Melpomaen, but he prefers to be called 'Blossom'. I am Feronil."
The boy shrugged.
"I don't have a name, don't need one. I'm just the water boy."
"The – water boy?" Feronil repeated, clearly not understanding.
"Yes. I carry water to the smithy. That's all I do, so I don't need a name, they said."
"Are you not a little young for such heavy work?" The boy was thin, and didn't look well – how could anybody possibly let such a sparrow do any work at all?
"Oh no, I'm old! Most water boys don't make it past 10, and I've got 11 summers already."
Feronil shivered when the meaning of the boy's words sunk in. He had truly never thought to come to a place where children were proud to be 11 because they expected to be dead by 10.
"What did he say?"
Melpomaen was worried; he saw the shocked expression on Feronil's face and feared the worst. But the advisor ignored him.
"Very well then, boy. Master Melpomaen here tells me that you might have news on the whereabouts of a friend of ours. Do you know an Elf named Celeborn?"
The boy shook his head. His hair was caked with dirt from the smithy, and Feronil's sharp eyes spotted tiny animals in the mats. He wrinkled his nose.
"No. Never saw an Elf before... before..."
The boy got stuck and kept staring at Melpomaen.
"Are you a fairy?" he finally burst out, then he quickly ducked, fearing that his bold question might lead to punishment.
Feronil giggled.
"Feronil! Will you kindly tell me what he said?" Melpomaen snapped, and Feronil nodded.
"Ai, how lovely you are when you are upset. No, he does not know anything about Celeborn, but he asked me if you were a fairy." Feronil smacked his lips. "Ah... how lovely you would look with wings and a frilly dress, Master Melpomaen... and maybe with a little wand and a chain of flowers in your hair..."
"Feronil! We have no time for such nonsense! Ask him why he followed Orophin then! And do it now, before I lose my patience!"
Feronil decided that he had been annoying long enough to secure his reputation, and returned his attention to the child.
"You have been following a friend of ours. Can you tell us why, and where he is now?"
The boy fiddled with a scrap of his torn shirt, then he answered quickly and almost without taking a breath.
"Alandel was always nice. He never hit me, and when somebody else was mean to me, he told them to leave me alone. And he shared his meals with me. The others didn't like him. I overheard the master saying that he would send Alandel to do something in the prison, and that they would kill him. I followed him to warn him, but I..."
He broke off, and now tears were filling his eyes.
"And you were afraid to approach him," Feronil finished the sentence. To his great surprise, he found that his large hand with the elegantly polished fingernails was resting over the child's dirty one. And it surprised him even more that he did not pull his hand away once he noticed. Not even after another look at the boy's head showed him that his hair must be the home of the largest population of lice on either side of the Bruinen.
Feronil turned to Melpomaen.
"Somebody set a trap. Orophin was sent to the prison to be killed."
* * *
Erestor grabbed Nonfindel's arm so hard that his fingers left bruises.
"Orcs, many of them, they are blocking our way!"
Nonfindel shuddered and stared in the direction Erestor's finger pointed, but he could neither hear nor see anything.
"How can you know this, my friend? I have good ears, but I hear nothing but the snoring of the owls."
Erestor sighed and buried his head in his hands. He was in pain and so very, very tired. If only he could sleep, get some rest - but this was not possible. Not now.
"I can smell them," was all he said.
"They must have missed out on a bath for many weeks then," Nonfindel quipped in an attempt to cheer the advisor up, but he was far from light-hearted himself. Here he was, in the middle of nowhere, behind him one probably very unamused Vala, in front of him equally cheerful Orcs, and the warriors with him were either injured or mad.
Splendid. What was he supposed to do now - defend their lives with a paint brush?
He considered the situation for a moment, then he picked up Erestor's sword and walked over to Glorfindel, who still sat under the tree, brooding, watching them.
Nonfindel crouched down in front of his brother, who stared at him darkly.
"Are you coming to collect my head?" he snarled.
"I cannot collect something you never had. Here, a sword. According to your husband, we will soon run into Orcs, unwashed ones even, and as he is injured and I am worthless with a weapon, it is up to you to keep this merry band of wanderers alive."
Glorfindel hesitated only briefly, then he took a firm hold of the sword and lifted it to the sky. The moonlight reflected faintly from the blade.
"Pray tell - why should I do this?" he asked, and pointed the sword with a swift move towards Nonfindel. The sharp point came to rest on the other Elf's chest, but Nonfindel didn't even bat a lash.
"Because I am your brother and I tell you so."
Glorfindel increased the pressure, and Nonfindel felt the blade cut into his skin.
"I do not know you. I do not remember ever having seen you. Not you, not him."
Nonfindel sighed, looking down at the sword threatening him. A small dark spot spread on his shirt where the metal had cut him.
"Glorfindel. First you injured your husband and put your unborn child in danger. Now you threaten me, your own brother. So tell me: who in their right mind would, freely and without duress, admit to being related to you? Not me, that is for sure!"
Glorfindel jumped up, still clutching the sword tightly.
"Husband, brother! You talk of things that I do not know anything about! I remember being home, talking to my wife, and then..."
"Your wife?" Nonfindel gasped, "You do not have a wife, Fin! The Elf over there is your husband, you have not had a wife for millennia, and trust me, if you cannot remember the ones you had before, you are not missing anything!"
"Do not insult Firinwë, my wife," Glorfindel growled, "or I will..."
Glorfindel never got to finish his sentence, because by now, Nonfindel was howling with laughter.
"Firinwë? Your wife?" he cackled, "Indeed, the Valar must hate you, Fin, if they punished you with her presence. Good griefs, brother - under what spell are you? Did they give you anything to drink that tasted bitter? Or something to smoke that smelled sweet?"
"Nonfindel - please. There is no time for this. We have to continue our journey."
Erestor stood behind them. He had approached without the two noticing him, and he was already wearing his cloak.
"Are you certain that you will be able to continue?" Nonfindel asked, worry in his voice.
"I am. Can you get the horses?"
Nonfindel looked from Erestor to his brother, then he sighed and nodded.
"Of course. I will wait for you."
With that, he trotted off, leaving Glorfindel and Erestor some privacy.
Glorfindel still held the sword, while Erestor's hands were empty. For the second time, Glorfindel had the chance to revenge his son, and again, he forfeited it. Why could he not hate the other Elf anymore?
Erestor did not speak a word. He just looked at Glorfindel thoughtfully. There was no anger in the dark brown eyes, no hate, no guilt, and no shame. Only sadness.
"I have no means to hold you here against your will, Fin. You are free to leave."
Glorfindel opened his mouth to reply, but the words would not come.
The advisor bowed his head respectfully, then he turned on his heels and made his way towards the clearing where Nonfindel was waiting with the horses.
Glorfindel was relieved. He could now take his horse and ride back to his wife and his lover. They were certainly already sick with worry, and would be overwhelmed with joy to see him return. He could go home, where he belonged.
So why was it, Glorfindel wondered, that he sheathed his sword and followed Erestor instead?
* * *
"See? See? Do you finally believe me now?"
Elrohir stood between his brother and Námo, gesticulating wildly, his face flushed.
"Elrohir, please, calm down," Elladan begged, "it is not good for you to get all worked up and upset."
"I have every right to be upset!" Elrohir cried, "You locked me up here in a padded room, doubted my word and assumed that I had lost my mind when, all the while, Námo was right here in our midst!"
Elladan stared at the tall, black haired Elf who had been following the discussion with interest and obvious amusement. He was thin, his hair matted, his features sharp. He was a hunter, Elladan decided, a hunter watching his prey and choosing his moment for the kill. The only things about the Elf that were not sharp or edgy were his eyes.
Elladan was deeply grateful that the stranger had saved the children, and he would have loved to be able to believe his brother. But while the discovery of another Plains Elf was exciting and surprising, Elladan still saw a Plains Elf, not a Vala.
Celeron, the healer, cleared his throat, and whispered in Elladan's ear, his disgust only faintly concealed.
"My lord, maybe it would be better if lord Elrohir were left alone to calm down. The presence of our... guest here seems to upset him greatly. And we do not know him. Who knows what his intentions are - maybe he has noted that your brother is a little confused at the moment and fed his delusions?"
"Would you kindly stop talking as if I was not here?" Elrohir protested. "My hearing is excellent, thank you very much! Nobody is delusional here! For the last time, this is Námo, the Vala of Death, and I demand that you release me immediately. Elladan, please!"
Elladan, who had never been able to turn down any of his brother's requests, was torn between his wish to release Elrohir and the fear that this might be the wrong thing to do. So he addressed the unknown Elf.
"I apologize for this situation, it must be most confusing for you. But I must ask you, and I beg you to answer truthfully: are you the Vala of Death?"
Námo sighed, then he shook his head.
"No, unfortunately, I am not."
Elladan's shoulders drooped. He had known, of course, that this would be the answer, but somewhere deep in his heart he had nurtured the hope that maybe, just maybe, his brother was right and not insane. But of course this had been a fool's hope. Elrohir, as sad as it was, had lost his mind. He was obsessed with the idea that one of the Vala walked among them, and now he was projecting his obsession on this unfortunate Elf.
Elrohir grabbed Námo by the collar and shook him violently.
"You! Why are you doing this to me! What have I done to you? Tell them, by Elbereth, tell them the truth!"
Elladan and Celeron both hastened to the two Elves, and each of them grabbed Elrohir by an arm, dragging him away from his victim.
"I thought you cared for me! And all you do is get me into trouble! I hate you! I hate you!" Elrohir screamed, now completely losing his composure. His hair hung wildly about his face, and he fought with all his might against his brother and the healer, who tried to keep him from getting at Námo's throat again.
"Oh, I know you!" a cheerful voice suddenly piped up, and all heads turned towards the open door. Eldanar stood there, already dressed for the night in his ducky pyjamas, loyal Tathar, the toy dragon, clutched tightly under his arm. The child's presence seemed to freeze the scene; nobody dared to move, not even Elrohir, for as upset as he was, he would never have started a fight in front of a child.
Námo smiled, then he crouched down, and beckoned Eldanar closer. The Elfling gave him a big smile and waddled across the room, dragging one of Tathar's wings over the floor. Námo opened his arms, and Eldanar immediately climbed onto his lap, hooking one arm around the black-haired Elf's neck.
"And I know you, little one. How do you fare, child?"
"Oh, wonderful! You were right, everything turned out well! Will you stay here with us? And tell me stories about my ada?"
Celeron and Elladan had released Elrohir, and all three Elves stared with big eyes at the tall Elf and the child who talked as if they had known each other for ages. The black-haired Elf held Eldanar firmly, and when he got up, he settled the child comfortably on his arm.
"I will stay here for a while, child. And I will tell you the tales of bravery you want to hear."
Eldanar beamed at the Elf, and placed a very wet kiss on his cheek.
"Goodie! I like you!" Then Eldanar sniffed. "You smells so nice! Like the stuff the cook puts in the taters!"
Involuntarily, all three Elves sniffed as well, and now they noticed it: nutmeg. The scent of the strange Elf was nutmeg.
"Eldanar," Elladan gasped, "where do you know our guest from?"
"Oh, once I thought nobody likes me, and so I runned away, and he was in the Great Hall and said I should stay. He knows my ada!"
Eldanar's ada. Elladan stared at the Elf in front of him, and now he saw the wisdom of eternity in the other's eyes, his majesty and authority. He suddenly remembered the scent of nutmeg on the day that the Vala of Death had come to claim Orophin back.
Elladan felt Elrohir's hand on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. Elladan started, and turned around briskly, staring at his brother with wide eyes.
"Elrohir;" he gasped, "if Námo is here - who are ada and Gil-galad fighting then?"
* * *
Elcallon was gone. Orophin hoped the Elf would find the tavern and his friends, for this was the only way Celeborn could be saved.
And what about him? Orophin rubbed his eyes, slid down the wall and dropped in the dirty straw which covered the ground. He rested his chin on his arm, and studied the corpse in front of him. The blood was beginning to dry, and Orophin waited for some kind of remorse or regret, but all he felt looking at the dead man was indifference. Or maybe even a slight satisfaction.
This was not the way an Elf should feel, he mused, but he could not help it: he was glad the man was dead, and the decision to kill him had been an easy one. How ironic this was: his life as an Elf had begun so many millennia ago in a dungeon in Breon, and now it would end here as well. This time no gentle lord would come to save him, there was no second chance. Orophin was wise enough to know that he could not escape from here on his own, and that it would take too long for his friends to come to his rescue.
If only he could have seen Elladan one last time. There was still so much he wanted to tell his husband, and there was Eldanar, too, who would now lose another father. This was not right. No child should have to suffer such pain, and Orophin was more worried about the little one than about himself.
And then there was Elrohir, of course. What had driven his brother-in-law to kiss him? How come he had never noticed the younger Elf's affection? He only hoped Elladan would be spared the knowledge of this incident. He did not want Elladan's last memory of him to be the mental image of Elrohir and him kissing.
Orophin's thoughts were interrupted when he heard heavy steps and shouts in the corridor outside the cell. He quickly got up, took his knife and positioned himself behind the door. Orophin knew he had no chance, but if he had to go to the Halls of Waiting, he would make sure that he was not travelling alone!
* * *
Firinwë looked at the ring. It was nothing special - a small Mithril band with a simple black stone. And this little thing held such power? This little thing caused a war?
Not for the first time she wondered what those powers might be. In the book, she had not found any indication but the hint that the ring was very forceful. She could put it on, of course, and find out, but Firinwë had learned over the ages to listen to her inner voice, and this inner voice was screaming "hands off" at the top of its lungs. So Firinwë did not touch, only looked.
So far, her plans had not worked out. She had daydreamed about riding into Lothlórien on a white horse in glorious victory, and she had never doubted that Finwë would have the power to get her what she wanted in return for her services.
But now it looked as if Finwë would get all he wanted - an entertaining war which would weaken his enemies and consequentially ensure his victory - while she, who had done all the work, got nothing. No Glorfindel, no Celeborn. She had only the ring.
Firinwë turned it in her fingers. It felt good - the smooth texture was pleasant to touch, and the metal was not cold, as one might have expected, but warm. Smooth and warm. Lovely to touch. She ran her fingers lovingly over the jewel.
Maybe the ring would feel even better if she slipped it onto her finger? Only for a brief moment? What harm could this do?
Lovely to touch. So very lovely.
* * *
The captain of the guard had expected his king to scream, shout and bawl for blood, he had not expected him to stay calm and controlled. But this was exactly what had happened. The news that the Elf - his Elf - had escaped was received seemingly without reaction. For many minutes, the king just stared at the prisoner, who, without a doubt, was an Elf, but not Elcallon. But yet, there was something oddly familiar about this face. So the king did not waste a moment looking at his guards who all awaited anxiously his verdict, fearing for their own skins. No, he studied the Elf.
It had not come as a great surprise that Elcallon had tried to escape. The king's suspicion had been aroused on the very night his Elf had asked to see the world. And after the foolish attempt to flee his kingdom, it had to be expected that Elcallon would try again. It was a surprise, though, that he had been successful in escaping the dungeons. Without a doubt, that was thanks to this one here, which made the king all the more interested to learn who had freed his Elf and killed his advisor.
After what seemed an eternity to the guards, the king sighed.
"My guards shall search the town. Leave no stone unturned, I want him back. He is mine. But be careful not to arouse suspicion, I do not want the peasants to know that one of their precious jewels is in their midst. And make sure you do not harm him. He shall be severely punished, but by nobody's hand but mine, for I am his master. Now go, waste no time. He can't be far away; he is like a child, inexperienced in our ways."
The captain hesitated a moment, looking to and fro between his king and the prisoner, but after an impatient wave of the king's hand, he made haste to leave the hall. He was more than grateful to have escaped so easily, a feeling that was shared by the guards, who ran to the stables to saddle the horses and begin their search of the town.
Orophin's expression remained impassive, and if the king had expected the Elf to grow uncomfortable under his scrutiny, he was wrong. The king got up, stepped down from his throne and circled the Elf.
"So you are Alandel, the smith, I was told. Now who would have thought that I had an Elf in my service that I did not know about?"
Orophin didn't answer, just continued to stare at the wall.
"Now I do know that you speak our language, so you can stop pretending you do not understand me. Why did you come here, Alandel? Were you sent as a spy? Has this anything to do with my new Elf?"
For a moment, the king saw a spark of interest in the Elf's eye, and this was enough to confirm what he had suspected.
"Ah, so it's about the lovely present I recently received. What a pity he's in such a bad shape, I would have loved to hear where he comes from and who he is."
A clenching of jaws, a gnashing of teeth. The Elf was about to get angry. Good. The king was not used to being ignored. He stopped his circling and ran his fingers first over one leaf-shaped ear, then through Orophin's shorn hair. The Elf flinched away, but the king's hand quickly fisted into the short strands, and tugged painfully.
"You are in no position to resist, Alandel, or whatever you real name might be. You murdered my most valued advisor. You helped my Elf escape. You injured four of my guards when they found you in the dungeon. By the laws of this country, your life is forfeit."
He let go of Orophin's hair, noticing with satisfaction the hateful looks the Elf gave him.
"Then kill me. Others will come," Orophin hissed.
"And I will know how to welcome them," the king replied. He called for his personal guard, without taking his eyes off the Elf. The heavily armed warriors arrived and waited for further instructions.
"Bathe him, then take him to my personal chambers," he ordered. "And make sure he stays there. Losing one Elf was enough for one day."
Orophin was seized and dragged out of the hall, and the king was amused by the surprised expression on the Elf's face.
"Because of you, I lost my Elf. It is only fair that you take his place."
He then addressed his guards.
"Take him away. And do not injure him, for now he is my property."
The captain nodded, then the guards left with the still struggling Elf. When the heavy doors closed behind them, the king returned to his throne and sank down in it, suddenly very tired.
The Elf was very fair, no doubt. They all were beautiful, enchanting creatures. But he was not Elcallon, and he would never be able to take the place of his Elf.
However, so the king mused, and he sat up straight again, it was nothing but fair if he got some compensation for all the trouble. He would veil the windows and put out the candles, then he could pretend that the Elf in his bed was Elcallon.
He smirked. Maybe he should keep one candle burning - the Elf was very fair, after all.
* * *
Author's notes: yes, I know that "pyjamas" comes from the Hindi word "pajama" and that there are probably no pyjamas in Tolkien's world. But Orophin insisted his son wears something warm at night so he shan't catch a cold. I don't know about you, but I would rather allow pyjamas in Middle-earth than expose myself to Orophin's wrath.
What can I say? I'm a wimp. Go me.
* * *
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