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 notes: to fully understand the end of this chapter, I recommend that you read SHELTER, if you haven't done so yet.
Very special thanks to Eveiya, the one and only, who beta-read this thingy despite a really busy life. Consider yourself hugged!
CHAPTER 15
In the last chapter(s), we left
... Celeborn in darkness
... Melpomaen and Feronil in shock
... the king in trouble
... Orophin angry
... Firinwë mad
... Elcallon in good company
... Glorfindel very confused
... Nonfindel sarcastic
... Erestor fighting
... Rúmil in charge
... Galadriel determined
... Amaris, Gil-galad, Elrond, Thranduil, Legolas and their respective armies on trees
... Mauburz matchmaking
... Námo disappearing
... Elladan confused
... Elrohir heartbroken
... Eldanar on the window sill
... Feronil having cows.
* * *
Orophin had to swallow hard upon seeing his lord, but he quickly composed himself and returned his attention to the two other Elves.
"Give me your sash," Orophin ordered, and Elfaël, too surprised and confused to ask questions, undid the garment and passed it to the intruder. Both he and his wife stared at Orophin as he used the sash to bind the king's hands behind his back.
"Why are you doing this to our king?" Eledwen asked, attempting to get up, despite the heavy weight of the child she was carrying. Elfaël put his hand on her shoulder, trying to placate her, but she was too upset to notice the gesture.
"You have no right to treat our king in such a way," she said, "I demand that you release him immediately! It is the likes of you who have been our people's ruin! Go away!"
Orophin, whose sole interest had been Celeborn, looked at the two Elves. They were like children - for hundreds and hundreds of years, they had heard nothing but lies and fairytales. How could he expect them to believe him - a stranger, dirty and intruding upon their haven without permission, only identifiable as one of their kin by his ears?
The king suspected a momentary inattentiveness in Orophin and tried to get up. But Orophin saw the movement from the corner of his eye and spun around.
"You sit down here and keep quiet, Man. I would hate to ruin this beautiful carpet."
Orophin waved the knife at the king, and the man obeyed. The Elf knew that he was not dealing with a fool here, and that even the tiniest moment of distraction could mean doom. But he had to take the risk.
In his youth, Orophin had had a reputation for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and his sharp tongue had been feared by all who had dealings with him.
But he had always known how to talk to children.
He went over to the two Elves, and Eledwen paled. She gazed first at Orophin, then at the knife in his hand.
"Please, do not hurt us... or our child... take what you want, but do not..." she begged. Orophin knelt down in front of her, put the knife away and took her hand in his.
"My lady," he said, using the same tone he used when Eldanar woke up crying after a nightmare, "it is not my intention or wish to hurt either you, your husband or your Elfling. I know that all this must be terribly frightening for you. But please, you must listen to me. I have only your wellbeing in mind.
"That Elf over there," Orophin added, pointing at Celeborn, "is the lord of my realm, Lothlórien. He has been kidnapped and brought here against his will. His family and friends worry for him, and I have come here to bring him home. Would you not be worried and sad too, my lady, if your husband were to disappear? Would you not cry and hope he would return soon?"
Eledwen nodded. Her hand had stopped trembling.
Orophine lowered his voice, so the king would not understand what he said.
"So you will understand that I had to come here. You have all been lied to, my lady. You, your husband and Elcallon."
"Where is Elcallon?" she interrupted him.
"He was held prisoner in the dungeons. I freed him and sent him to friends of mine who will look after him. If you stay here, your child will be lied to and held prisoner as well. Do you not want it to see all the wonders of Arda? Do you not want it to walk among the Golden Trees? Would you really rather have it spend all its life here, in this golden cage? Never to see anything but walls, living the life of a well-kept pet rather than that of a free Elf?"
For a moment, there was silence. Eledwen withdrew her hand from Orophin's, and put it on her stomach. She searched Elfaël gaze, and he nodded.
"We will trust you," she finally said, turning to Orophin again. "Elcallon seems to have trusted you, and I feel... I feel that you do not mean us any harm. But I cannot leave; our daughter wants to be born soon!"
Orophin got up.
"Let me see to my lord Celeborn, I will return to you in a moment."
Eledwen shook her head.
"Your lord will not understand anything. He cannot hear, he cannot see, and he cannot speak. Elcallon tended to him. We have tried everything in our power to help him, but he is a prisoner of darkness. He will not know who you are."
Orophin hurried to Celeborn's side. His lord stood there like a statue, his eyes staring at Orophin without seeing him.
"My lord? My lord Celeborn, it is I, Orophin!"
Orophin waved his hand in front of Celeborn’s eyes, but there was no reaction. He reached out and touched Celeborn's hand. The lord started and took a step back, stumbled over the first step of the stairs and would have fallen if Orophin had not caught him in time.
He could see and feel Celeborn's distress, but he had no idea how to help him. White, burning rage grew in him, and he turned to the king.
"What have you done to him, Man," he growled, "tell me at once, or I swear by all that I hold dear that you will not live to see another morning!"
"I haven't done anything! He was as you see him the day he was brought here!" the king protested, and he broke out in cold sweat. Orophin really, truly scared him. No man had ever had such an effect on him. When Orophin stalked towards him, knife again firmly in his hand, the king decided that it was now or never and kicked the table in front of him across the room.
"Guards! Guards! Your king is attacked!" he yelled, and immediately Orophin could hear the sound of men approaching, the noise of their heavy boots and the metallic clinking of their armour. Within moments, the doors would burst open, the room would be filled with armed soldiers, and they would be lost.
"You Valar, help me..." Orophin whispered.
A peal of thunder shook the palace, and out of nowhere, a beautiful Elf, clad all in white, appeared right in front of Orophin's nose. His long, silverblond hair was decorated with tiny white flowers, and he was a bit out of breath.
"Dear, dear, dear," he said, more to himself than those present, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve. "This is such a busy day! But here I am. So speak, child of the Golden Wood, what can I do for you, your friends and the old rascal over there?"
* * *
"I just cannot believe it," Feronil groaned. "For once in my lifetime, I see a real Vala, and what happens? He transports me right into the middle of a battle! What sins did I commit in a former life to deserve such treatment?"
Melpomaen tapped his foot impatiently.
"It is all your fault. When Lórien asked what he could do for us, all you said was 'get us out of here', you did not specify where to. And now stop complaining, Feronil, and take this sword. You might need it."
Melpomaen crouched down and picked up one of the many weapons that littered the ground, trying to ignore the corpses. He swallowed hard - most were Orcs, but he could also see some fallen Galadhrim. Feronil followed his example, then he knelt down in front of the boy, making sure that his body hid the grisly sight from the child's eyes.
"Are the pixies dead?" the boy asked, trying to look over Feronil's shoulder. The advisor grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him slightly.
"No, the pixies are only sleeping. Now listen, lice-boy," he said, "climb on my shoulders and get up into that tree. And stay there, no matter what happens to any other of us! Do not make even the tiniest noise, and do not try to run away or anything similarly silly. You stay up there till everything is over!"
The boy only nodded, then did as he was told and climbed the tree, using Feronil's body as a ladder. Once he had reached a large branch, he closed his eyes and clung to it for dear life.
"So, that one is out of the way. Do you know how to handle a sword, Elcallon?" Feronil asked.
Elcallon shook his head.
"No, I was only trained in the handling of bow and arrow. We were not allowed any weapons of steel."
Feronil growled. "I wish that king of yours was here. I would show him where he could shove his bow... now let me see..."
He stepped over a few bodies and found a decapitated Orc. Even in death, he still clutched his bow, and Feronil had to use considerable force to pry the weapon from his fingers. He also picked up a quiver and arrows, then returned to his friends.
"Here," he said, pressing the weapon into the hands of the flabbergasted Elcallon. "I hope you really know what to do with it. If not, use the arrows as toothpicks and run as fast as you can."
* * *
The door was pushed open with such force that the wood splintered. The king's guards stormed into the room, only to find their sovereign sitting half-naked in a chair.
"My king!" the captain called, rushing to his side. "Are you unharmed? What happened? Where are the attackers?"
The king stared at some point in the distance, his mouth half open.
"They… there was this… and then a lightning… and they disappeared…" he stammered. His words made no sense to the captain, who assumed that his king must have received a blow to the head. So he did not comment, but freed the king instead.
"They have stolen my Elves! My jewels! Arm your men! I want you to bring them back to me immediately!"
The captain looked at the king with a puzzled expression on his face.
"My king, where have they gone? They can't be far, I'll see to it that the palace is searched."
The king grabbed the man by the collar and shook him hard.
"Did you not listen to what I said, you fool? They disappeared! Vanished into thin air! Poof! Gone!"
"Elves know bad magic, my king," the captain tried to reason, "they have powers beyond our understanding, and maybe you should count yourself lucky that they are gone. Who knows what they could have done to you in time! The crimes of the Elves are without number, just remember what they did to the unlucky Lord Annathar!"
The king realised that he was in a fix. Either he could confess now that Elves were no danger, and reveal himself as a liar in front of his men. Or he could maintain the lies but have no reason to chase after his "jewels".
He let go of the man.
"Leave me alone, all of you," he ordered, "I do not wish for company."
The guards hastened to leave the place, for they felt that something uncanny had happened there. As soon as the last had left, the king sat down and ran his hands through his hair. The room, usually filled with the presence of his jewels, was now empty and lifeless. A half-full glass of wine stood on a table, and Eledwen’s crocheting, unfinished and never to be completed now, had fallen to the floor. His jewels were gone, stolen away from him.
At least his most precious jewel was still in his power. Ah, Elcallon… he would make sure that his Elf could never run away again. The walls had to be increased in height, extra locks fitted and maybe a chain would come in handy as well. Nothing heavy – he thought of a slim, elegant steel chain, maybe adorned with some golden charms. With a collar.
The king closed his eyes and tried to imagine his Elf, wearing nothing but the chain around his neck. He felt much better at this prospect, and reached for the wine. He would order the chain first thing in the morning.
* * *
"Oh Elfaël, where are we?" Eledwen asked, moving even closer to her husband. The two Elves looked around – never had they seen such a place! Majestic buildings, trees and flowers of unbelievable beauty, and, most amazing thing of all, the soft splashing of the waves.
"The sea", Elfaël whispered, overwhelmed by the sight. The horizon was hidden in grey mist. Upon seeing the sea, its marvellous blueness, and hearing the cries of the seagulls, Elfaël and Eledwen were overwhelmed by longing. They felt as if somebody was calling them.
A small, elegant ship lay at anchor in the harbour. It shone golden and white in the bright sunlight, and a mild breeze softly moved the silvery sails.
"What is that?" Elfaël whispered.
"This, my dear friends, is the ship that will bring you to the place where you and your Elfling will find happiness," a gentle, deep voice behind them said. Both spun around, and faced a very tall, very regal looking Elf in blue robes. His face was young, but his eyes showed ages of wisdom. The oddest thing about him, though, was his beard. Elfaël felt his gaze fixing on this facial adornment – beards were unheard of among Elves!
"You… have a beard…" he said. The other chuckled.
"Indeed. They say that only the oldest and wisest of our kind will grow beards eventually, so you can see it as a sign of my wisdom." He stroked his beard, then lowered his voice and added with a wink to Elfaël: "In truth, I grew this thing because the ladies are very fond of it. But this is just between you and me."
He coughed, then bowed in direction of Eledwen.
"I am Círdan, the shipwright. Lórien has brought you here so that I may sail with you to Valinor, the place of eternal happiness. This world is too confusing for you, my children, who have been kept unknowing for so many years. In Valinor, you will learn about your people. And you will find it far easier to find an Elfling-sitter than here."
"But what about Elcallon? Where is he? Will he also come to Valinor?" Eledwen asked, worried about the fate of her friend.
"Eventually," Círdan replied. "His journey has not come to an end yet. But yes, one day, you will see him again in Valinor. And now, if you please – board my ship, for my wife is waiting for me with the dinner."
Elfaël and Eledwen looked at each other. Then Elfaël smiled and took her hand, and together they followed Círdan, starting their journey to Valinor. And while the sun went down like a red ball of fire, the two Elves sailed over the sea and out of this story.
* * *
Erestor would have loved to ask Orophin where in the name of all Valar but Námo he had come from all of a sudden, with Celeborn in tow, but he was too busy keeping an Orc from stabbing Glorfindel. All he managed was a puzzled glance before he had to return his attention to the attackers. His wound hurt, he felt weak, and he could not afford to let his guard slip for even a moment.
Orophin's confusion was not less than Erestor's. One moment he had awaited certain death at the hands of the palace guards in Breon, and the next he and Celeborn found themselves in the middle of a battle, Elfaël and Eledwen gone.
Just what had Lórien been thinking? Celeborn was unable to defend himself, so Orophin saw it as his first duty to get his lord out of danger. He grabbed Celeborn by the arm and pulled him along. Celeborn followed him, stumbling again and again over roots, stones and fallen Orcs. Orophin found a huge, hollow tree, long dead from a lightning-strike, and he pushed Celeborn into the opening, hoping his lord would have the wits to stay where he was. Celeborn looked frightened, but he sat down and did not move.
Orophin picked up a sword, gave Celeborn a last, worried glance, then he returned to Erestor, determined to help his friends in this battle.
* * *
The battle was not over yet, but it was obvious to Rúmil that they would be victorious. Already Orcs were beginning to flee, and the strength of those who still fought the Elves seemed to wane. While every battle was horrible and should be avoided wherever possible, Rúmil could not help feeling pride and awe. Pride because his plan had worked and because they would win, and awe to see so many of his kin fighting side by side. Here, in the middle of this battle, there was no place for the sophisticated arrogance of the Galadhrim or the rebellious wildness of the Mirkwood Elves. They were all Elves, and no matter what had happened in the past, they were now a unity. And they all followed Gil-galad’s orders without question, even the Mirkwood Elves.
Gil-galad – what a sight! To see this legend fighting was a revelation. Nothing poets and bards had written about the former High King did him justice. His enemies did not stand a chance, and loyal Amaris was by his side at all times. Rúmil briefly wondered how Elrond might feel about this, but then he was pulled back to reality in the most unpleasant way possible.
"Do not think that you have won this battle yet," a mocking female voice could be heard. "So far, you have dealt with amateurs, but now you will have to cross your blade with a professional."
Rúmil spun around, and took a step back at the sight of Lady Firinwë in armour, a large sword in her hands and an evil grin on her face.
"It was you who ruined everything," she said, walking slowly towards Rúmil, "it was you who detected the ring. You made Galadriel see the truth, and now you try to become Lord of Lothlórien. But nobody, absolutely nobody will rule Lothlórien but me! It is mine, should always have been mine!"
Rúmil retreated further and shook his head.
"I will not raise my sword against a lady," Rúmil said, and Firinwë laughed.
"Very well then, so you shall die all the faster. But your death will not be less painful, I assure you. Too long have you crossed my plans. I will cut you into small pieces, and send them to Galadriel as an expression of my appreciation."
She attacked, and it was only thanks to Rúmil’s honed reflexes that he was able to counter the blow. Firinwë swung her blade, and blow after blow rained down on Rúmil, who hid behind his shield and was taken completely by surprise by the force of his attacker.
"Very well then," he hissed, "you want a fight, you will have it."
He attacked, and the blades collided with a deafening clash of metal.
* * *
"Celeborn… he is here!" Melpomaen cried, pulling on Feronil's sleeve. "He is here! I can feel it! He is here! And he is scared! Come quickly, Feronil, you must help him!"
Feronil, whose attention was fixed on two Orcs running in their direction, pushed Melpomaen away.
"I have no time for this now, Blossom. I am currently too busy not getting killed! I will not go chasing some figment of your imagination! Hold onto that sword, kill Orcs and leave me alone!"
The enemies attacked, and Feronil forgot all about Melpomaen, who stabbed blindly at one Orc, disabling him by sheer luck.
Melpomaen saw that the advisor would be no help to him, so he turned around and began to search for Celeborn, dragging the large sword behind him. He knew his beloved was here, though he had no idea how this could have happened. But he felt his presence, his fear. Melpomaen had to find him, because Celeborn needed his help.
* * *
The war cries of the Orcs came closer and closer, but Celeborn could not hear them. All he knew was that the ground was trembling, and he could smell smoke, Orcs and the nauseating metallic stench of blood. He had fought too many battles not to know where he was. But how had he come here? And why was he here? The last thing he could remember was falling, then somebody gently holding him. There had been a white flash in his head, and next thing he knew, somebody was dragging him along and pushing him into the place where he was now. Celeborn reached out, and his hands touched the tree, felt the bark.
Celeborn was terrified. He had been left in a tree, obviously in the middle of a battlefield, and he had no means at all to defend himself if he should be attacked. Even if he had had a weapon, he could not have used it. He was helpless, and had to rely fully on the mercy of others.
Suddenly, big hands with claw-like fingers closed around Celeborn's neck, and he was dragged out of his hiding place. The pressure cut off his air supply and the claws dug deep into his skin. Celeborn struggled, but without being able to see or hear anything, he was doomed. His heart raced. He clenched his teeth when his head was hit against the tree, but he was too close to unconsciousness to really register the pain.
Just when Celeborn thought that this was his end, the hands let go of him abruptly, and he slumped to the ground. His hands pressed into the soft forest ground while he took in great gulps of air. He coughed and retched, trying to breathe again. His head was spinning. What had happened to his attacker?
A piece of cloth touched his face, and in that moment he knew who had come to his rescue.
Celeborn reached out. He needed to be sure.
* * *
Melpomaen's fingers cramped painfully around the hilt of the sword, and it seemed to him that it weighed a ton. He had no idea how he would use it; he doubted that the Uruk'hai would be overly impressed by his non-existent fighting skills. Every instinct he had told him to run, far away, to hide from the danger, but he could not leave Celeborn behind.
The Elf-lord had one arm wrapped firmly around Melpomaen's leg, needing the comfort of knowing that the young Elf was close by. He could feel how fear made the light body tremble. Celeborn sniffed, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He knew this stench, and now he knew what it was that scared Melpomaen so much. Uruks! He scrambled up and felt Melpomaen's hand holding a sword.
This was not right. It was he, Celeborn, who should have been the one protecting Melpomaen, not the other way round!
Never before had Celeborn felt so helpless and lost. It was less his own life that he feared for, but Melpomaen's. The Elf was still so young, there was so much he had not yet seen or done. Celeborn had wanted to be the one to show him.
It had been the knowledge of Melpomaen's affection that had let him survive the dark days of his imprisonment. He could not allow the young one to die. With all his might, he threw his weight in the direction of the stench, and while he did not hear the Uruk'hai roar, he could feel the pain of the blow to his face. Thrown back by its power, Celeborn stumbled and fell.
* * *
"I cannot believe that you are behind all this," Rúmil gasped, blocking another of Firinwë's blows.
"Did you think this was a "males-only" party? If so, you were wrong. You have escaped the Dark Lord's warriors, but you shall not escape me!"
Firinwë made a feint, which Rúmil easily avoided, despite his confusion.
"My lady," he said, taking a firm hold of his sword, "I do not wish to spill your blood."
"That is fortunate for me, as I have the wish to see yours spilled, and plenty of it!"
The lady had obviously gone insane; any further words would be a waste of breath. It was also obvious that she was a skilled fighter. She had, so Rúmil thought, fought her battles, just like Galadriel. He had to be careful not to underestimate her, or he would end up pinned to the ground.
Firinwë had one big advantage: Rúmil was already tired from the battle while she was rested and strong, and so she attacked him from all sides, trying to exhaust him further. Rúmil was an archer, and while his skills with the sword were fair, he was not a master of the blade. Her chances were good, and she knew it. This knowledge, combined with her hatred of Galadriel, made her attack with all her might, and Rúmil found himself driven back, away from the battlefield and his warriors.
'She tries to single me out,' he thought, 'separate me from my friends, so nobody will come to my aid. I am the sheep, she is the wolf.'
He ducked another blow, which missed his face only by a hair's breadth, and again Firinwë 's blade drove down, aiming for his chest. He managed to evade it, but stumbled over a root, and fell over backwards, losing his blade in the process. He tried to pick it up again, but Firinwë 's foot stomped down on his hand, fixing him to the ground. She put the tip of her blade on his chest and grinned.
"What a sorry sight! I wish Galadriel could see her little toy crawling in the mud! Well, maybe I will send her a drawing, along with your head. Farewell, it has been nice talking to you."
A push, and Rúmil screamed. The blade cut deep in his chest, and he was surprised for a moment that he felt no pain. There was only cold and darkness. Then the blade was pulled out, and the last thing he heard before he blacked out was Firinwë's satisfied laughter.
* * *
Gil-galad would never have admitted it, but he felt more alive than he had all those months before. They were fighting a battle whose purpose he had not quite understood yet, but right here, right now, among the angry roar of the Orcs and the clash of blades, he felt at home. He was needed, he had a purpose, and the adrenaline shooting through his veins made him almost delirious.
And Amaris, loyal, brave, beloved Amaris, was fighting by his side.
Gil-galad cast him a quick glance and admired the wild expression on his face. Amaris' eyes shone as in fever, and his enemies fell left and right, mowed down by the deadly blows the warrior dealt out with his sword.
Elrond and Glorfindel fought side by side, both trying to shield an injured Erestor from the enemy's attacks. The advisor did not look at all well, but the determined expression on his face made it clear that Erestor had not the slightest intention of retreating. How wrong he had been about Erestor. He had thought him a boring scroll shuffler, and now Gil could admire him fighting like a lion, despite his injury.
The sole focus of Erestor was Glorfindel's well-being, so much was obvious, and while the legendary Balrog slayer might have thought that he was defending his beloved, it was in fact Erestor who kept the enemies away from Glorfindel. There was something wild in Erestor's eyes, something not quite Elvish, and Gil-galad shivered for a moment. Erestor, he decided, was not an Elf he would want for an enemy.
"Could you stop daydreaming, please, and come here? I could use your assistance!" Amaris yelled, and when Gil-galad spun around, he saw his advisor besieged by two Orcs.
"Oh come on, two Orcs, and you cannot even handle them yourself? You fight like an Elfling!" Gil mocked, grabbing the two Orcs by the neck and banging their heads together. They yowled and slumped down in a very dirty, very smelly heap. Gil wiped his hands on his breeches, then gave Amaris a smug smile.
Amaris gasped for air.
"What was the reason again why I put up with you? Please tell me, I fear I have forgotten."
"Because I am amazing, wonderful, dashingly handsome, wise beyond measure of man, an outstanding warrior and because I have the virility of a dragon."
"Forget that I asked," Amaris grumbled, "let us rather return to more pleasant things - there is another Orc."
* * *
"Oh dear, two squirrels in a tree, what a lovely sight," Finwë mocked, shifting to sit more comfortably, careful not to crush the velvet of his coat.
"Who are you?" Nonfindel stared at the dark Elf who had appeared out of the blue and now sat beside him and Thranduil on the branch.
Finwë pretended to think about the question, and rubbed his chin.
"Who am I... now, let me see. I appear on this tree out of nowhere. I am powerful, mighty and full of magic, not to talk of irresistible and fair. If I wanted, I could kill you with a wink of my eye. Now who, little Elf, might I be?"
Nonfindel pressed as far back against the tree as he could, clutching Thranduil protectively to his chest.
"You - you are lord Námo..." he stammered. Finwë smiled, feeling no need to correct the Elf.
"Do not fret over names, my dear child - once this battle is over, I will be your owner," Finwë replied. He looked Nonfindel and his charge up and down, and a wolfish smile split his face.
"And my, what a delight will it be to own you and your sadly injured friend! You know, I always found the way Woodland Elves decorate their skin rather erotic. I guess I will have you marked the same way, you would make a lovely pair. I might even get you matching collars."
Maybe it was because Nonfindel's reactions were quicker than Finwë suspected, or because he did not expect the Elf to do anything at all but shrink in fear. But when Nonfindel's boot collided with Finwë's side, the former Vala tumbled over and fell from the tree, too surprised to react in any way. It was with great delight that Nonfindel heard the "thud" of Finwë's impact on the ground, and the pained groan that followed it.
"Am I delirious, or did you just kick the Vala of Death off this branch?" Thranduil asked after a moment of shock. Nonfindel shrugged.
"I am very choosy when it comes to sharing my branches."
"You are a raving lunatic," Thranduil gasped, then groaned at the pain in his rib cage. Nonfindel released his hold of the king a little, and smiled down at him.
"Your compliments make me blush. But better save your breath for now, you can tell me sweet flatteries later on."
Nonfindel began to hum a lullaby, and Thranduil decided that it was better not to argue with this mad Elf. This aside, he really thought that kicking the Vala of Death out of a tree was a very courageous thing to do.
Not that he would have told Nonfindel, of course.
* * *
Melpomaen fought bravely, but without a chance. He was no warrior, could barely lift the sword. Celeborn crouched behind him, clutching his stomach, and Melpomaen simply swung his blade from left to right in the hope of hitting the Uruk, while praying to all the Valar that at least Celeborn would be spared.
'This is all wrong,' Melpomaen thought, 'I should be in the library now, researching for a speech, and Celeborn should be sitting in the garden under a tree, listening to one of Lindir's songs. None of us should be here.'
A sharp, burning pain in his shoulder made Melpomaen cry out. It was followed by a second, similar pain in his thigh. He dropped the sword and looked down to see a black arrow embedded in his flesh. It hurt, oh how it hurt!
The pain brought tears to Melpomaen's eyes and he didn't notice the large Uruk'hai storming towards him until sharp claws dug into his chest, lifting him up and smashing him against the tree. Melpomaen screamed, and felt his legs hit against something soft – Celeborn, probably – before he was backhanded.
"Go away," Melpomaen screamed, trying to fight the Uruk'hai off with his bare hands, "you hurt me, leave me alone!"
The Uruk only laughed, and continued to smash the young Elf against the tree, over and over again, as a child might do with a rag doll. Melpomaen was sobbing; there was so much pain, and he was so scared. This had nothing to do with all the glorious tales of heroic fights he had read as an Elfling.
"I'm tired of playing with you," the Uruk snarled, "I'll snap your neck now and then I'll feed on your sweet flesh!"
Melpomaen struggled and fought, panic overwhelming him.
Then he heard the angry growl.
At first, Melpomaen thought the Uruk had been attacked by a Warg. He only heard a bark, and then the Uruk was fighting for his life.
Melpomaen, trying hard to stay conscious, realized that the blood pooling around him was his own. He slumped down, coming to rest on Celeborn's legs. He looked up to see if the Warg had managed to kill the Uruk, and had to realise that he had been wrong about the attacker.
It was Erestor. Yes, indeed, quiet, stern, boring Erestor, his jaws firmly locked around the Uruk's throat, blood spilling down over his chin from the deep wound his bite had inflicted. He shook his head and his pray from side to side. Melpomaen could not believe his eyes - how was this possible? Was he delirious? Maybe the arrows had been poisoned?
But no, it really was Erestor, tearing the Uruk into pieces with bare hands and teeth. The beast tried to fight the Elf off, but to no avail. A red cloud had settled on Erestor's mind, and all he could think of was the kill. The metallic taste of the blood in his mouth put him in a state of ecstasy, his enemy's yelps sounding like music in his ears. He let go for a second, only to bury his teeth in the back of the Uruk's neck again. He bit down, hard, feeling his sharp teeth cut through the leathery skin. He felt tendons snap and muscles rip apart, and finally, finally the crunch of breaking bones.
Erestor had made his kill.
The advisor pushed up on his hands and growled again. Then he turned his head, looking at Melpomaen, and the young Elf stared with terrified fascination at the Elf he had admired for centuries for his wisdom and kindness, stared at Erestor, who never lost his temper, Erestor, who now stood over his kill like a wolf over his prey, and Melpomaen had to think of Rabbit. Whatever had caused Erestor to lose his temper in this way, the young Elf saw that this was not lord Elrond's stern advisor anymore, but a creature of the wild, dangerous and not to be fooled with.
"Erestor! By Elbereth, are you injured?" Elrond came running, followed by Gil and Glorfindel, while Amaris and Legolas led the Mirkwood Elves after the retreating enemies, their war cries echoing through the wood. They would not let any of them leave the forest alive.
* * *
Firinwë almost jumped up and down at the sight of Rúmil’s motionless body on the ground. She lifted her sword to cut his head off. What a trophy! And she would make sure that she was watching when Galadriel got this little present!
"Well, Rúmil, in your case what the bards say seems to be true: love makes you lose your head."
"The only one losing a head here is you," a calm voice said behind her, and Firinwë almost dropped her sword in shock.
"You…. You… what are you doing here?" she hissed, taking a firm hold of her sword and stalking towards her opponent. There was no fear, only determination in this voice, and Firinwë knew that this would be a fight to the death.
With a scream, she stormed forward.
* * *
Now this had to be seen to be believed! The impertinence! The bleeding gall of this worm to attack him, Finwë! The Vala shook his head, then he stood up, ready to tear Nonfindel to pieces.
"You will do no such thing," a deep voice boomed over Finwë, and when he looked up, he paled.
"Manwë... what a pleasant surprise to see you here. Why, is anything amiss?"
Manwë, manifesting his presence in a glorious, formless light of incredible brightness, radiated disapproval and anger.
"Did you really think that we would let you complete your evil scheme? Allow you to ruin Eru's creation and bring death and despair over Arda?"
"I suppose that is a rhetorical question...?" Finwë asked, giving Manwë his most charming smile.
The Vala shook his head.
"It was a dark day when you were created, and you have caused us all much pain, trouble and paperwork. Enough of it, I say! This battle is over, and I will take you with me. I am sure that Eru will find a suitable punishment for your crimes."
Finwë looked around. He could only hope that Firinwë would finally use the ring, or he would face eternity scrubbing pans in the kitchen of Mandos, or returned to Arda as a dung beetle.
"Do not hope for Firinwë to save you," Manwë snapped. "She will get what she deserves."
Finwë's shoulders drooped. He should have listened to Lórien – females were nothing but trouble.
***
Galadriel blocked Firinwë’s attack with playful ease. She was worried sick for Rúmil, who lay on the ground, unmoving, but before she could look after him, she had to get Firinwë out of her way. She could only hope that rage would make her careless. Galadriel had not fought in battle for thousands of years, and while she was a master with the sword, she had not practiced for centuries.
She could not tell why she had come here. It had felt right. It had been something she had to do. She had wanted to be by Rúmil’s side, even fighting by his side if she had to, and now, seeing him injured, she knew that the Valar had sent her here.
While Firinwë was driven by hate, anger and greed for power, Galadriel’s motivation was love and worry for the life of her loved one. This made up for years of missed training, and Firinwë soon realised that she would not win this fight. It was time to make a decision.
The moment had come, the moment she had been waiting for all along. The ring had been calling to her for weeks and weeks, but she had never dared to answer.
"Galadriel – let us stop this fighting,” she said, quickly taking two steps back. “We should talk about it. See? I throw away my weapon, if you do the same."
Firinwë dropped her sword to the ground, and Galadriel halted her attack. She looked at Firinwë with suspicion.
"Why this change of mind all of a sudden?" she asked, neither taking her eyes of Firinwë nor dropping her weapon.
Firinwë shrugged.
"I feel that we should be wiser than our warriors who know no other means of communication than killing each other. Drop your weapon, and I shall show you something you have never seen before. It will change your life for all eternity."
"I will not drop my weapon. You can show me whatever it is whether I hold my sword or not."
"Very well then," Firinwë said, looking insulted. "I shall show you, but know that this display of mistrust from your side hurts me deeply."
She reached into one of her pockets, and before Galadriel could react, Firinwë had pulled out the ring.
"The battle is over," she laughed, "for you and everybody else here!"
In front of the terrified Galadriel, she attempted to put the ring on her finger.
* * *
Erestor noticed neither his friends nor Glorfindel. He ran over to the tree where Celeborn sat, holding Melpomaen, and crouched down beside him.
"Melpomaen, please speak to me," he begged, stroking the dirty, blood-matted hair of the young Elf. Melpomaen blinked and tried to say something, but then his strength left him, and he lost consciousness. Erestor stroked Melpomaen's face, trying to wake him, but Melpomaen did not move. Erestor swallowed hard, then he picked up the young one, cradling him in his arms.
"Give him to me, Erestor, you are injured, let me look after him," Gil-galad offered, having reached the three Elves. Erestor growled at the High King, and without further ado, carried Melpomaen away, from time to time pressing a soft kiss on the unconscious Elf's forehead.
"Did he just growl at me?" Gil asked, scratching his head. Elrond, who was kneeling beside Celeborn to check the Elf for injuries, looked up and nodded.
"And why is that?" Gil asked, slightly insulted.
Elrond helped Celeborn up and took his arm to lead him back to the camp. He looked at Gil-galad thoughtfully.
"Never come between a wolf and his pup, Gil."
Then he hurried after Erestor as quickly as supporting Celeborn allowed, for a healer was needed. After a moment of contemplation, Gil followed him.
* * *
Author's notes: once upon a time, there was a show called "Stargate SG-1, which was pretty cool. It's still called SG-1, but it went down the drain. Anyway, back in those golden days, Daniel Jackson still looked like a geek and not like Arnold Schwarzenegger's younger brother. In one unforgettable episode, Jack O'Neill called him "plant boy". So credit for "lice boy" goes to Colonel Snark
* * *
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