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 13
In the last chapter(s), we left
... Melpomaen and Feronil with a new friend
... the king surprised
... Orophin in charge
... Firinwë tempted
... the ring impatient
... Elcallon taking his first steps in the real world
... Glorfindel very confused
... Nonfindel on a tree
... Erestor tired
... Thranduil fallen
... Elladan shocked
... Elrohir and Námo busy
* * *
Thranduil groaned, and it was not only due to the pain he felt from his injuries. Falling out of a tree was, at least in his eyes, one of the most embarrassing things that could happen to an Elf. Being injured in battle – fine. At least one could impress the family during the long winter nights with exaggerated tales about such incidents. But – falling out of a tree? He could only hope that this tale would not find its way beyond the borders of Mirkwood, or the dwellings of Dwarves all over Middle-earth would echo with malicious laughter at the "fallen King of Mirkwood"!
How embarrassing. How degrading. How absolutely humiliating.
“You do not look well”, Nonfindel said compassionately, drawing Thranduil a little closer. They both sat hidden in the crown of an ancient oak, on a branch as wide as one of the benches in a tavern. Nonfindel had promised to make sure Thranduil would stay here and out of trouble once the battle started. The deeper they hid in the leaves, the less their chance of being spotted by Orcs, for Nonfindel doubted that stabbing the creatures in the eyes with a paintbrush would be a successful strategy in the long term.
However, Thranduil was not in the mood for pity, and angrily shook Nonfindel’s hand off.
“My welfare is none of your concern, and I do not wish to be touched, either,” he barked, immediately regretting the action when a sharp pain shot through his ribs. Elrond had applied a makeshift bandage to his ribcage and immobilised his broken ankle between two splints, but Thranduil was still in considerable pain and therefore a miserable mood, especially as he was suffering from a pounding headache, too. All of these injuries, however, could not torture his body more than the fact that he had fallen from a tree and landed in Nonfindel’s arms like a blushing maiden in one of the terrible sappy romances the lady Galadriel was reputed to read. Thranduil’s idea of literary fame was finding his name in a book about great warriors and their heroic deeds, not in a sappy bodice ripper!
Nonfindel rolled his eyes. Why must the fairest beings always be the most annoying ones as well?
“You misunderstood my concern. I merely feared that the most unbecoming green tinge to your face indicated that you would throw up soon, and I wanted to ensure that you would not empty the contents of your stomach over my illustrious person. These are my favourite robes, after all.”
Thranduil glared at the other Elf, and put on his most arrogant facial expression.
“Watch your tongue; you seem to forget who you are talking to.”
“Not at all. I know very well who you are, and I am aware of your reputation as a sourly old grump, too. But you forget that I am not one of your minions, and that I would rather hang you upside down from this tree, holding you by the ankle that is not broken, than allow you to soil my robes. So, unless you wish to follow the upcoming battle from the perspective of a bat, I suggest you stop behaving like an Elfling.”
Thranduil opened his mouth to give a sharp reply to this outrageous expression of disrespect, but he was interrupted by wild cheering and applause from below.
“Amaris,” he said, “go and kiss an Orc.”
Then he sighed. Could this day possibly get any worse?
"Orcs!" Legolas yelled, and Thranduil found his question answered.
* * *
The thought of screaming for help had crossed the king’s mind, but the Elf moved so quickly, he would probably cut off his shout by cutting his throat. The king was no fool – this Elf was not like Elcallon, there was nothing soft and gentle about him, and he could not expect any mercy. The most sensible thing was to wait – and escape at the first chance.
Orophin opened the lid of a chest in search of some clothing. He had every intention of leaving Breon, but not naked. Fortuitously, the chest contained Elcallon’s clothes, and so he quickly slipped into a pair of leggings and a tunic.
‘How odd,’ the king thought when he watched Orophin, ‘he moves without a noise, I can’t even hear the pad of his naked feet on the floor.’
“Time to start our journey,” Orophin said, walking over to the king, who was sitting on the floor, hands tied firmly behind his back.
“Where will you take me?” the king asked when Orophin roughly hauled him to his feet.
Orophin arched an eyebrow.
“If I was of your kind, I would say: ‘bent over the table’. But you are lucky: I am not of your kind. First you will lead me to my lord Celeborn, and then you will accompany me and my friends to the border, to ensure that we will not end up with arrows in our backs. Once we are on Gondorian ground, I shall release you.”
“What are you implying?” the king asked, his voice shaking with anger. “Do you think me a villain?”
Orophin bowed in mock apology.
“Oh, please forgive my thoughtless words, your majesty. How could I possibly assume that you ordering your servants to tie me naked to the headboard of your bed could be anything else but the preparations for the normal interrogation procedure every prisoner is subjected to in Breon. And Elcallon has stayed locked up in these walls for ages by his own free will, I suppose?”
The king shook his head.
“Elcallon is not a prisoner. And I told you that I would not have taken you by force.”
“And I tell you that I do not believe a single word you say. But I will give you some good advice: instruct your minions not to serve a knife together with the fruit bowl next time, for that could ruin your enjoyment, as you can see. And now come, move, I do not have time for idle chatter. Where is the door to the secret passage way?”
The king hesitated a moment, considering denying all knowledge of a secret passage, but then he realized that the Elf knew about it, probably from Elcallon. So he pointed to the hidden door, and Orophin pushed the king towards it, the knife held close to his captive’s throat.
“You will now open the door,” he ordered, “and then you will lead the way to lord Celeborn. Any attempt of yours to flee or scream will cost you your life. Do not imagine that I am joking. I have nothing to lose.”
The king nodded, careful not to cut his skin on the sharp blade, then he pushed against a stone in the wall. With a low, grinding sound, a narrow opening appeared in the wall.
“Walk,” Orophin ordered, shoving the king forward. The man stumbled into the dark corridor, Orophin close behind him. The hidden door closed, and the Elf and the Man were trapped in darkness.
* * *
“My – how lovely you are, Blossom,” Feronil purred, and ducked when Melpomaen threw a hairbrush at him. The young Elf had slipped into his skirt and was now trying to close the lacing of his bodice, once again disguising himself as a Gondorian woman.
“On your headstone it will read ‘Blossom was his last word’, Feronil,” he hissed.
The water boy sat on the bed, watching the exchange between the two Elves with big eyes. Now and then, he scratched his head, making Feronil shudder. The Elf jumped up, opened the door and yelled for a chamber maid to come at once. The wench, whose arrival was sped up considerably by the threatening undertone in Feronil’s voice, was ordered to bring a bath tub, hot water, a razor and clean clothes for the boy. The girl eyed the filthy boy wrapped in rags who sat on the bed suspiciously, but when Feronil gave her a silver coin, she hurried out of the door and all but flew down the stairs to provide the generous guests with all they demanded.
Melpomaen crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.
“You do not intend to give the child a bath right now, do you, Feronil? We must go and rescue Celeborn and Orophin, we do not have time for this!”
Feronil rolled his eyes and waved him off.
“Do you really think that Orophin, a warrior renowned for his skill and bravery, will need the help of a dashingly handsome, yet not very weapon-skilled advisor, an Elfling in women’s clothing and a mortal child with head lice to come to his rescue? We stay here, that is my last word."
Feronil ducked and escaped the comb, then he got up to answer a knock on the door.
A caravan of servants entered. Two men carried a large wooden tub in which potatoes were usually stored. Three girls each carried two buckets of steaming hot water, and the parade was finished by a boy carrying a ratty towel and a piece of yellow curd soap. The tub was placed in a corner, the buckets were emptied into it and then Feronil shooed everybody out of the chamber, giving each servant a silver coin.
"Take off your clothes and throw them on the fire," he ordered, and the child obeyed immediately. Feronil clenched his jaws when he saw how pitifully thin the boy was, and Melpomaen covered his mouth with his hand to stop himself from crying out.
"Open the window, Feronil," Melpomaen begged. Something dark and depressing had sneaked into the room, and the young Elf tried to drive it out with their usual banter, "the steam in here is worse than in the washhouse in Imladris!"
After checking the temperature of the water, Feronil lifted the boy into the tub, then he turned around for the piece of soap. Careful to hold it only between his thumb and forefinger, he sniffed at it, then he wrinkled his nose and threw it into the fire.
"That smelt exactly like the shampoo Glorfindel uses to wash Asfaloth's mane and tail," he said.
Melpomaen sniffled. "Indeed? I would have said it smelt like the horrid oil you use to keep your braids shiny."
Feronil decided not to rise to the bait and began to rummage in his bag. After a while, he found what he was looking for. The boy, who had followed all this with big eyes, looking over the rim of the tub, was confronted with a bar of pink soap.
"This is soap. Not only will you be clean, you will also smell like a field of flowers in spring," Feronil announced. The boy did not really understand why he should smell like a meadow, but he didn't protest when he was first dipped under water and then washed with one of Melpomaen's cloths. It took quite a bit of work to get the child clean. The dirt, clinging to the boy's skin in thick layers, was rather stubborn, but not stubborn enough for Feronil. The advisor complained, cursed and lamented almost without interruption, but after some time, the child looked clean. The water, however, had turned to mud by then.
"I did not know that you had such a way with children," Melpomaen said, watching the proceedings from a safe distance.
"I do not have a way with children," Feronil growled, reaching for the razor. "I do not like children. In fact, I loathe them. I only like them cooked, baked or steamed with mint sauce."
Melpomaen, despite his worry for Celeborn and Orophin, had to laugh. He stepped forward and patted Feronil's back.
"You might be able to fool others, Master Feronil, but not me. Although you put more effort into appearing a villain than any Elf on Arda, I know you have a good heart."
"Will you be quiet now, you annoying Elfling?" Feronil barked, "If somebody heard you, my reputation would be ruined for at least four centuries! Stop talking nonsense and help me to shave the boy’s head. With any luck, the few lice which have not yet drowned will then find their death in the fire."
Melpomaen reached for a soft towel, and knelt down beside Feronil.
"I do not think that will be necessary, Master Feronil - once the lice see your face, they will drop dead with shock."
The boy had followed the discussion in this odd language with wide eyes, and was now staring fearfully at the blade in Feronil's hand. What was his intention? Did he want to hurt him? But no, he had been friendly, and why give him a bath only to hurt him afterwards?
"What are you staring at?" Feronil asked the child, in a rather brisk tone. The boy immediately ducked back under the water. Feronil, blade still in hand, realized that he had scared the child, and rolled his eyes.
"For the Valar's sake - I have no intention of cutting your ears off, boy. Only your hair. Unless you want to keep the lice, that is."
"It will grow back soon," Melpomaen added, with a friendly smile, forgetting that the child did not speak his language.
"What did he say?" the child asked.
"He said he needs a haircut, too," Feronil replied.
The child stared at Feronil, squinting his eyes.
"You have funny ears," he finally said. "Are you a pixie?"
Now this was something Melpomaen understood without knowing the language, and he almost toppled into the tub from laughing.
"One word of this, Blossom, and you shall not sleep another night in peace from fear of waking up a bald elf!" Feronil threatened. Melpomaen, trying hard to stifle his giggles, wanted to answer, but at that moment, there was a knock on the door.
He got up to open it, and found a chambermaid standing outside, fiddling with her apron. She curtsied.
"Ma'am, there is somebody waiting outside. He says he's here to see you and your husband, and you should hurry, he said."
"What is his name?" Feronil asked from inside the room.
"Don't know, Sir. One mighty tall gentleman. Don't know more, Sir, but he said you should hurry."
With that, she turned around and left.
"Some 'very tall gentleman' is asking for us," Feronil explained to Melpomaen, who had not understood a word.
"Do you think it is Orophin?" Melpomaen asked, and Feronil, who had just finished shaving the boy's head, stepped over to the small window, pushing the curtain aside. But it was already too dark to see anyone outside, so he shrugged.
"Could be. Could also be a trap. Whoever it is, we cannot avoid confronting him."
He returned to the tub and lifted the boy out of the water. Quickly, he wrapped him in the towel and began to rub the shivering child dry.
"Here, put on your clothes," he ordered, and the child obeyed. The clothes were too big, but warm and clean. Feronil helped him to tie the laces of his shirt, then he took something out of his pocket and knelt down.
"Now listen. You will wait for us at the top of the stairs when we go down to meet the man who asked for us. If it is our friend, I will whistle, then you may join us. If not, if we should be taken away, I want you to take this and leave this town."
Feronil pressed a small pouch into the boy's hand, and the child looked at him with big eyes.
"Go to Gondor. The king is a friend of ours. Tell him you are sent by Feronil - that would be me - and he will help you. Do you understand?"
The child nodded.
"Good. Well, Blossom - it is time to meet our fate. Have you painted your lips and powdered your nose? We might go to our doom, but at least we shall do so looking pretty."
Melpomaen nodded, hiding a knife in the folds of his skirt, then he and Feronil left the chamber, closely followed by the boy. When the two Elves walked down the stairs, the child stayed behind obediently, as Feronil had instructed. Only now did he realise that he still clutched the pouch. It was made of soft leather the like of which the boy had never seen before. He opened it, and almost let it drop.
The pouch was filled with gold and silver coins.
* * *
"Elrohir! Open this door now, please! Elrohir, I really need to talk to you!"
It took a while for Elrohir to come to his senses. What a strange dream this had been, and how inappropriate to have such dreams of a Vala! He blushed to remember the details. Lórien certainly had an odd sense of humour!
"Elrohir! Open this door right now, or I shall kick it in!"
Elladan's voice now had a desperate quality, and the sound of his fists banging on the door made the younger twin wince. Elrohir would have loved to stay and bask in the afterglow of the dream, but instead he crawled off the bed, wrapping a sheet around his middle, and went to unbolt the door. Elladan stood outside, worry and anger obvious on his face.
"Did you think you could just lock yourself away and never speak of these things again?" he said, pushing his way past Elrohir into the room. He raked a hand through his hair, then he turned to Elrohir, who had closed the door behind them.
"I want to apologise, Elrohir - it was not right to talk to you in such a way in front of others."
Elrohir did not answer. He knew there was more to come - the part of this conversation he had dreaded the most.
"You said Orophin grovelled at your feet."
Elrohir looked up. Elladan was calm, but his eyes told of fear and anger. The younger twin shook his head.
"I was upset, Elladan. It meant nothing. I was only trying to hurt you. Please forgive me."
Elrohir walked over to the bed and sat down. He ached all over, as if he had just returned from two hours of sparring with Glorfindel. Elladan knelt down in front of him, resting his hands on his twin's knees.
"Did you forget that we are brothers, Elrohir? Do you not think that I can tell truth from lie when it comes to you? I want to hear the truth - has anything happened between you and my husband that I should know of?"
Elrohir took his brother’s hands and pressed them gently.
"Elladan - the only thing you must know about your husband is that he loves you. Only you, and nobody else. He would never look at another." He sighed. "It is true, I find him very fair, and had it not been so very obvious all along that his heart is yours, I might have tried to pursue him. I - I kissed him."
Elladan pushed Elrohir's hands away and jumped up, staring at his brother in disbelief.
"You - kissed my husband?"
Elrohir looked at Elladan with pleading eyes.
"Please, do not hold this against me. When I woke up in the Healing House, he was there, and I thought I was dreaming, and so... I would not have done it had I known that it was for real. I - I sometimes feel very lonely."
Elladan's head spun. His first impulse was to hit his brother, hard, and return some of the pain he suffered, but then he remembered the many times he had followed Elrohir's admirers with wishful and envious eyes. He had felt bad about it, but he - had sometimes felt very lonely.
For a while, the two brothers stared at each other without a word. Elrohir's hear beat like a drum for fear that he might have lost his brother now.
Finally, Elladan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You are my brother, and I love you. Nothing will change that. But I want an honest answer: do you love Orophin?"
Elrohir had feared this question ever since Elladan had come to his room. He knew that he could not lie to his brother, Elladan knew him far to well.
"No, Elladan. No, I do not love him," he finally replied, and to his great surprise and Elladan's relief, this was the truth.
* * *
"They are coming."
Glorfindel turned to Erestor and nodded. The warrior did not know what or who he was fighting for, or what this battle was about. He was still confused, but this he knew: the Orcs were the enemy. He looked at Erestor. The Elf was exhausted, and did not look well. But Glorfindel saw the determination in his eyes and the fist closed in an iron grip around the knife. Suddenly, Glorfindel felt overwhelmed by the need to protect the other. How could that be? Only days ago, he had tried to kill Erestor. The wound on the other's shoulder was of his, Glorfindel's making. And now he found himself wishing he could take Erestor in his arms and hold him tight.
What madness was this?
Erestor, noticing that he was being watched, turned to Glorfindel. There was so much he wanted to say, but how could he tell Glorfindel that he loved him, talk of Estorel and the happy life they had had, if the other would throw his words back in his face as if all this meant nothing to him?
The black-haired Elf smiled sadly. Of course it meant nothing to Glorfindel. He did not remember. As far as he was concerned, there was no Estorel, no happy life, no Last Homely House - and no Erestor. Whatever world Glorfindel lived in, there was no place for a boring advisor anymore.
"Does your shoulder still hurt?" Glorfindel asked, trying to break the awkward mood.
Erestor shrugged, but did not answer. What could he say? No wound could ever hurt as much as the pain in his heart.
Without thinking, Glorfindel bent down and pressed a kiss on Erestor's lips. The advisor gasped in surprise, and the warrior used this moment to intensify the kiss. He had no idea why he was doing this, but he knew that he enjoyed it - a lot!
Maybe this was not the wisest thing to do when an army of Orcs was about to attack, but this was - right. No, better than right. He put an arm around Erestor and pulled him closer, which was a little difficult, as his sword and one of Erestor's knives were trapped between them, digging in painfully.
Finally, the two separated, and Erestor stared at Glorfindel, eyes shining with hope.
"Are you sure that we have kissed before?" Glorfindel asked after a while, and Erestor's heart fell.
"You do not remember then," he stated sadly.
Glorfindel shook his head.
"No, I do not."
The warrior frowned when he saw the sadness in the advisor’s face.
"I am absolutely sure we never kissed before, Erestor. I cannot imagine that I could have forgotten a thing as precious and sweet as your kiss."
Glorfindel gently ran the back of his hand down Erestor's cheek. The other Elf leaned into this unexpected caress, and closed his eyes, purring softly.
* * *
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