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.
(Unusual) author's notes: there has been a break of many months between chapter 15 and chapter 16. I read up on the previous chapters, but if I should have committed the sin of inconsistency or plot-holeism, please let me know, so that I may put ashes on my head and rewrite the passages in question. I'm aware this is an odd request, but I'd rather make corrections than confuse my readers.
Then again: confusing readers is fun. Heh.
Very special thanks to Eveiya, the one and only, who beta-read this thingy despite a really busy life. Consider yourself hugged!
CHAPTER 16
Firinwë was just about to slip the ring onto her finger when she felt a terrible pain in her back. She stumbled forward and fell down face first, sending the ring flying through the air. Galadriel leapt to catch it before it landed in the mud.
She almost dropped it again when it touched her hand. There was such an air of cold and dread about it; the urge to run away and hide was almost overwhelming. At the same time, she longed to wear it, use it – but no. Though it cost her all the willpower she could muster not to give in to the longing, she slipped the ring into her pocket and hurried to Rúmil's side.
Galadriel could see the hilt of Rúmil's knife protrude from Firinwë's back. Was she dead? Galadriel could not have cared less. Rúmil was still alive, but had put all the strength he had left into that one last attack. How he had managed to throw the knife she did not know. Rúmil loved her, had always sworn he would give his own life for hers.
Had it really come to this now?
"Let me take him, my lady."
Galadriel looked up, and saw Gil-galad behind her. Without further ado, he picked up Rúmil, and though the warrior wore full armour, it seemed to Galadriel as if the king was carrying a doll.
"And what about her, Sire?" Amaris asked, pointing at Firinwë, who was beginning to move again.
"Take care of that mess any way you like."
"Very well then," Amaris replied, grabbing Firinwë by the collar and dragging her back to the camp like a sack of flour.
"It is always the same," he muttered. "He is the hero in shiny armour, I have to clean up."
* * *
The enemy had fled; the victorious tended to their wounded and lighted pyres for their dead. Elcallon found it very hard to understand what was going on. To him it was like being trapped in a nightmare, and while he did not doubt that freedom was a wonderful thing to have, he secretly missed the safety of the palace back in Breon. He had been lied to and cheated, that was true, but at least he had not witnessed death and blood and Elves screaming in pain.
"This must be very confusing for you," Orophin said. Elcallon turned around, grateful to see a familiar face.
"I do not understand this. I feel – helpless."
"You not helpless. You got bow, and if bow not work, you use teeth."
Elcallon almost fell in the mud when Mauburz handed out her helpful advice. Orophin caught him in time.
"Do not fear – Mauburz is a friend, she lives in the same place that I call home, in Imladris. See the Elf over there? That is Lord Elrond, the master of Imladris."
Elrond, who had just come from the battlefield where he had made sure all wounded had been brought to the tent of healing, heard his name and approached Orophin. He stared at the tall Elf next to him.
"What are you doing here, Orophin? And while we are at it: what is Celeborn doing here? And what lunatic is responsible for Feronil's presence? Did my family think Orcs would not be enough to keep us busy here?"
This was a tricky question, especially for a bad liar like Orophin.
"I would prefer it if we discussed this some other time," Orophin said, eyeing Elrond nervously. This would be a very long and very complicated story to tell, including some incidents in Imladris that he'd rather not tell Elrond now. Or tomorrow. Or ever.
Elrond regarded him with suspicion, but then the Elf standing next to his son-in-law caught his attention again. He felt as if he had seen him before, but when?
"As you wish. I wonder if I even want to know. But pray tell, where have you come from, my friend?"
Elcallon shook his head, still very confused.
"I do not know. First I was there, then I was here, then there was that Elf in a skirt, and then there was a light and a fight, and…"
"He hit his head," Orophin interrupted. "Badly. I think I had better take him to the tent of healing now, and I have to look after Rúmil, too."
"That seems a very good idea," Elrond replied. "Later, I will come and see if you need anything. What is your name, friend?"
Elrond's calm and friendliness were a blessing to the frightened Elf.
"My name is Elcallon," he said, and smiled at Elrond. The effect of that smile on the lord of Imladris was as if he had been hit by a bolt of lightning.
"I will definitely come to see if there is anything I can do… you need… might wish…" he stuttered, then quickly headed for the tent of healing.
Mauburz had watched this exchange with increasing interest. Now she poked Elcallon's arm with one of her claws.
"You, Elcallon – you have Elf wife at home?"
"I – what?"
"Elf wife. Wife of Elf."
"Eh… no?"
"No wife. Good. Husband?"
"What?"
By now Elcallon was convinced that due to some deity's cruel sense of humour he had ended up in a camp full of lunatics. He decided it was better to play along than to infuriate a heavily armed Uruk'hai.
"No husband," he finally croaked.
Mauburz winked at Orophin.
"That good! That very good!"
Elcallon closed his eyes. In hindsight, the dungeon had not been that bad after all.
* * *
"I dare say that this is the biggest mess we have had on Arda since the trouble with the Silmarils," Lórien said, looking at the Elves he had summoned to the clearing where the camp had been set up.
"Some superior beings we are – a Hobbit could have handled this better than us!"
"Could we have this discussion later, please?" Manwë hissed through clenched teeth. "You are not exactly helping our predicament here!"
"But it is true!" Lórien protested. "I lost track of this story long ago. We should have paid more attention, and you, of all the Vala, should know that."
"Quiet!" Manwë thundered.
Lórien shrugged. "As you wish. Allow me to look after one of my children while you prepare your little speech here, then."
The Elves looked at each other, amused by the antics of the two Vala.
"I cannot help noticing they sound like you and I," Gil-galad whispered to Amaris.
"I hope Eru will have mercy and keep them apart once he sees how I suffer," Amaris whispered back.
Meanwhile, Lórien had approached Celeborn. He stood next to Galadriel and Orophin, not hearing or seeing anything, but sensing that the battle must be over. Lórien stopped in front of him, and the Elves took a step back, with exception of Orophin, who would not leave his lord's side.
Lórien shook his head.
"It is terrible what has happened to you, my child." He gently ran his hand once over Celeborn's face. "The spell is now broken."
After the long time of silence and darkness, Celeborn almost fainted at the overwhelming sensation of light and colours, voices and the neighing of the horses. He stumbled and was caught by Orophin, who helped him to sit on the ground.
"You have been through dark times, but now everything will be well."
"Where is Rúmil?" Celeborn asked, shading his eyes against the light. "And where is Melpomaen? I know he was here! He saved my life!"
Galadriel and Orophin looked at each other, and when he saw her shake her head, he urged Celeborn once again to sit down.
"Please rest, my lord," he said. "All will be well."
Manwë raised his hand, and immediately all conversation ceased. The Elves stared in awe at the Vala, who looked a little uncomfortable.
He cleared his throat, and glared daggers at Lórien, who stood among the Elves and feigned a yawn.
"Return to your homes now, my children. Nobody shall disturb the peace of your houses any more. We shall take those responsible for this chaos with us; you have my word that justice shall be done."
"Very vague," Lórien mouthed.
Manwë counted silently to ten. Then he addressed Galadriel.
"Now there is only one last thing to do, child of the Golden Wood. Return the ring to me; it has caused enough unhappiness, and shall not remain in the hands of the Firstborn any longer."
Galadriel reached in her pocket. She placed the ring on the palm of her hand and looked at it. Just a plain ring, no adornments, no letters. And all this trouble because of that little item of jewellery? She considered the matter for a moment.
"I shall give you the ring, my lord Manwë," she finally said. "But I ask you for a favour in return."
"A favour? Now, that is most unusual." The Valar did not look pleased.
"Indeed. Usually they ask for three favours, so giver her what she wants and do not delay our return," Lórien said.
Manwë, who had seen enough of Arda, Elves and rings to last him for at least five ages, agreed for once with Lórien.
"So be it. Come here and tell me your wish, my child."
Galadriel's hand closed tightly around the ring. This time, she would truly defeat Námo.
* * *
It had been difficult to make Erestor leave Melpomaen's side for a moment, but Elrond had been persistent and Erestor had eventually given in.
Erestor was confused, terribly so. He had seen Melpomaen attacked, then the next thing he knew, they were both in the tent of healing. He had no recollection of the goings-on in-between those two moments. Erestor remembered rage, but that was all. There was an awful taste in his mouth, and he spat on the ground several times to get rid of it.
Elrond grabbed him by the arm and dragged him outside.
"Erestor, I have done all I could for your son, but I am not sure he will make it through the day."
Upon hearing Elrond referring to Melpomaen as his "son", Erestor jumped, staring at him in shock.
"Erestor, did you really think I would not know? But we have no time for this now. I am in great sorrow about Melpomaen, his wounds are grave and my ability to heal him here is limited. You must tell him the truth."
"The truth? Now? Are you insane?" Erestor cried, and pulled free of Elrond's grasp. "How can I confess now that I have lied to him for centuries? Given him up, denied him? He will heal, and once he is strong enough, I will tell him. But not now."
"He has the right to make his choice, Erestor! How can you be so cruel as to deny him it? We cannot know what would happen if he were to die without knowing who he is. Would he go to the Halls of Waiting? Or would he pass on to the place mortals go? As a half-elf, he has the right to make his choice, whether to be counted among the Firstborn or the mortals."
Erestor shook his head.
"I will not do this."
"Then I will."
Glorfindel had come to stand behind Erestor.
"You have no right to do this!" Erestor snapped. "I am his father, not you!"
"It seems a little late in the day to claim your rights as a father, Erestor. What has happened to you? I never thought you selfish."
It could not have hurt Erestor more if Glorfindel had stabbed him with a sword right through his heart. And it hurt all the more because he knew that his beloved was right. He was thinking of himself. He was scared witless of seeing the contempt and hurt in Melpomaen's eyes upon learning that his much-admired mentor was nothing but a coward.
"You do not know what you ask of me, Fin."
Glorfindel took Erestor by the shoulders and shook him slightly.
"Erestor, my own son died in my arms, and it was entirely my fault that I lost him. We make mistakes. We are not perfect. And the consequences of those mistakes may follow us to the end of all days. I know that you are scared, but please, Erestor, if you love your son, go to him now. It might be your last chance to speak to him. You would never forgive yourself if you missed it."
Your son. Your son. Why did they have to repeat this over and over again? As if he did not know – had it not been he who brought Melpomaen to Imladris? Found a family for him? Watched over him and later taken him under his wing? Had this not been enough?
No. Of course not. And Erestor knew it.
"I will talk to him," he finally said, pulling free of Glorfindel and heading for the tent.
* * *
Melpomaen was in a dream-like state. He could see and hear the Elves around him, but the noise was muffled. His head seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool, and he had lost all sense of his body. Luckily, this also meant he did not feel any pain. Through half-lidded eyes he watched Rúmil, who had been placed in the bed opposite his. Rúmil did not move, and the paleness of his face as well as the numerous bandages did not bode well for his health. Celeborn sat by his side, holding his hand. Melpomaen could see that he was crying.
Why was Celeborn sitting by Rúmil's side? Did he not care for him anymore? That was a pain Melpomaen could still feel, an ice-cold stab through his heart, a hard ball in his stomach. And Erestor had left as well. By now Melpomaen was close to missing even Feronil, but the advisor was nowhere in sight. He was probably looking after the boy.
The flap of the large tent moved slightly, and Melpomaen saw a tall Elf entering. How beautiful – was it possible for any being to move so gracefully? The long black hair held back in one single, simple braid, the plain black garb – there was nothing extraordinary about the Elf but his face. Amazing beauty, but also terribly frightening... white skin, razor-thin lips and black eyes. Melpomaen had to think of the water of the Bruínen in winter, dark and cold, and he held his breath for a moment upon realising who had come to visit.
A young archer from Lothlórien who had never regained conscience after being shot in the back by an Orc opened his eyes all of a sudden. He stared at the visitor and smiled.
"So you have come for me, my Lord Námo," he said.
The Vala nodded.
"It is time. For you and some of your kin. Are you prepared for our journey?"
"Oh yes, my lord. I have been longing for your visit."
Námo nodded. He walked slowly down the aisle between the two rows of beds, sometimes stopping before a bed and holding out his hand to the injured. They all heard Namó's call, and did not resist.
Melpomaen wondered if Námo would claim him too. But he did not feel like dying yet! He was not prepared for the Halls of Waiting, too many things had been left undone! But if his life were not in danger, he would not have seen Námo in the first place. If only Celeborn were here, or Erestor. Melpomaen's confidence in those two Elves was so vast that he did not doubt they would fight even one of the Valar if they had to.
Námo came to stand beside Rúmil's bed, and Melpomaen caught his breath. He saw Rúmil slowly opening his eyes, looking at the Vala.
"How about you, my child? Do you wish to end your journey?"
Rúmil shook his head tiredly.
"As you wish. Stubborn as usual," Námo replied, and continued his inspection.
Melpomaen was distracted from his observations by Erestor, who had returned to his bedside. He looked terrible – dirty and tired, with a haunted expression on his face.
"Are you awake, Melpomaen?" he asked. "I need to talk to you."
Very slowly, Melpomaen turned his head in Erestor's direction, producing a faint smile.
"I can hear you, Master Erestor. It is very kind of you to come and keep me company."
Erestor fiddled with the ring he wore, turning it around and around on his finger.
"It is not kindness that brings me here, Melpomaen. There is something I have to tell you, and it will come as a shock. Please do not get upset or angry, Melpomaen, not now. You may ask for my head on a plate later on when you are back on your feet, but for now, I just want you to listen to me."
Námo had reached the end of the tent and was now moving in Melpomaen's direction. Erestor would have to hurry up if he had something important to say.
"Please speak freely, Master Erestor."
Erestor took Melpomaen's hand, a gesture that touched the young Elf but also scared him. This was not the behaviour he would have expected from the stern advisor.
"Melpomaen, do you know how you came to live with your family?"
He frowned – what an odd question!
"Of course I do, Master Erestor. You found me in an abandoned village, my real parents being dead, and brought me to Imladris, finding a home for me."
Erestor shook his head.
"That was a lie. And I am the liar, Melpomaen. A liar and a coward. Many, many years ago, I was sent to Gondor, where I met a mortal woman, fell in love with her and lost her to the fever. She was your mother. You are my son, Melpomaen."
Had Erestor just told him that he was his father? Námo was now standing beside Erestor, a curious expression on his face. It was clear to see Erestor had no idea that the Vala had come to watch the family reunion.
Melpomaen groaned.
"Please do not get upset! Are you in pain? Shall I fetch Elrond?" Erestor asked anxiously.
"No, it is nothing, merely a headache. So if you tell the truth, why did you give me away? Why did you lie to me all those years?"
"I never thought I could be a good father to you. I wanted you to grow up in a loving family, surrounded by light and laughter, not to be trapped with an advisor full of self-doubts and bitterness."
"And why tell me now?"
Erestor swallowed hard.
"Your injuries are grave, Melpomaen. While we are all confident that you will recover, there is the small chance that… see, with your mother being a mortal, you are a half-elf, and as such, you have the choice to be counted among the Firstborn or the mortals. This choice must be made before you – before you…"
He broke off and covered his eyes with his hands. Melpomaen looked first at this newly-found father, then at Námo.
"I am not here to take you with me," Námo answered Melpomaen's unspoken question. "Enjoy your newly found family and live a fulfilled life, so that you may have something to tell me on the day we eventually meet again."
He winked at Melpomaen – what an outrageous thing for the Vala of Death to do! – then left the tent, taking the fallen Elves with him.
There was a long silence. Then Melpomaen smiled.
"That is fine by me," he said.
Erestor looked up.
"Fine?"
"Yes. Fine. I had a wonderful childhood, loving parents and siblings. Why should I complain? You did what you thought was the best thing to do at that moment. Who am I to judge? It cannot have been easy for you, either."
Erestor was flabbergasted. He had expected anything from fury to tears, but not acceptance without further questions.
Melpomaen, feeling much better all of a sudden, snuggled deeper into his pillow.
"I am very tired. Please do not worry, I just need to sleep for a while. Why do you not return to Glorfindel? I am sure he is waiting for you."
Erestor tucked the blanket tighter around Melpomaen, just as he had done when his son had been a wee Elfling. Then he pressed a gentle kiss on his forehead.
"I would not be so sure about that."
"But I am, ada," Melpomaen murmured, and when Erestor finally left the tent, he found that his son had been right all along. Glorfindel stood there, ready to take him into his arms and hold him.
* * *
The sound of voices and the neighing of horses filled the air. The Elven army was preparing to leave, the tent with the injured the only one still standing. Melpomaen, deeply and soundly asleep after drinking one of Elrond's draughts, and Rúmil, who had suffered the worst injuries, were the last patients. Rúmil was determined to stand up and leave with his army for Lothlórien. Celeborn sat by his side, making sure that he was really eating his meal and staying in bed. At times, Rúmil felt like an Elfling again. He had always thought Orophin was a pain in the neck, but Celeborn surpassed him by far when it came to fussing.
"Are you sure you feel well enough to ride, Rúmil?" Celeborn asked. "We can stay here a little longer, find a village close by to make camp. I could stay with you and make sure you receive all the care you need."
Rúmil shook his head.
"Thank you for your concern, my lord. I really appreciate it, but I cannot wait to see Lothlórien again. I miss the trees and the river."
"You will return, and then it will be your responsibility to look after our people – and Galadriel."
Rúmil slipped back under the covers. This was not really a subject he wished to discuss, especially not with Celeborn, of all Elves!
"Do not hide, Rúmil. Eru certainly knew what he was doing when he filled Galadriel's heart with love for you. I am not angry. I have nobody to blame but myself. I shall follow Elrond back to Imladris, and will hopefully find a new home there. Though my heart will always be in Lothlórien – I hope you will allow me to visit once in a while."
Celeborn was not exactly renowned for being sensible and lenient, and Rúmil wondered if this might be just another example of his lord's sarcasm. But no – the clear blue eyes showed honest concern, there was no anger.
"I do not know what to say, my lord. This is all so terribly confusing. Galadriel, you, the ring, the war – all this was difficult to understand, but all those revelations about our families! I feel like a character out of a very badly written tale. Orophin is Haldir's father. Melpomaen is Erestor's son. Glorfindel has a brother who is a bit on the batty side. By the Valar, one more revelation about long-lost relatives, and I shall lose my mind!"
Celeborn took Rúmil's hand, looking sheepish and a little guilty.
"Rúmil, I have to tell you something, but you must promise me something first: do not get upset, do not scream, do not try to strangle me or hit me with a blunt object. Promise?"
There was an expression of greatest suspicion on Rúmil's face, but he nodded.
"You have my word, my lord. I shall stay calm, whatever you tell me."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. I am a Galadhel – nothing could shock me enough to break my promise."
Celeborn sighed.
"Very well then. Let us talk about your parents."
* * *
"Good grief, what was that?" Erestor asked, jumping upon hearing the hysterical scream coming from the tent of healing. It was followed by a flood of rude words, and the voice uttering them sounded a lot like Rúmil's, but surely he would not lose his composure like that?
"Either somebody tried to take the wine away from Gil-galad or else Celeborn finally confessed that he is Rúmil's father. It will be easy to tell – if Celeborn turns up with a blackened eye, we will know that all family crises have been solved to everybody's satisfaction."
Erestor had to smile. That was his Glorfindel again. How he had missed his sarcasm, annoying as it was at times!
"All family crises? How about ours?"
Glorfindel raked his hair with his fingers.
"Erestor – whatever I did, whatever I said, I cannot remember. The last thing I remember before waking up here was sitting in Elrond's rose garden. But this you may believe: in my heart, I never forgot you."
Erestor caressed his cheek.
"I know, Fin. I know."
He kissed him again, and Nonfindel, who sat next to his brother, gently elbowed Thranduil in the side.
"See, my king? That is true love. Sweet nothings in the middle of a battlefield. It warms my heart to see that romance is still alive! Would you believe that this big romantic here is the same Elf that cut off my braids to adorn his kite with when we were Elflings? Ah, time goes by so swiftly. How is your ankle, by the way?"
Thranduil felt like he had a living cat in his stomach.
"My ankle hurts, and I feel terrible. And those sweet nothings make me feel nauseated. Could you please take your hands out of my hair? This is outrageous! Is there nobody else around that you could annoy?"
Nonfindel grinned.
"Your hair is a mess and needs some care. But do not worry, my king, I understand what you are trying to tell me. I do not expect you to speak it out loud, as I can see that you are shy. I accept your invitation, and will happily follow you to Mirkwood!"
"Mirkwood? You will not be going to Mirkwood! I will go and throw myself on a sword before I have you in my kingdom! Go to Imladris! Return to Lothlórien! Or, even better, go to Mordor! Bother Dwarves or Hobbits! Just do not bother me!"
"I have never seen my father so enthusiastic about anyone," Legolas grinned. "It will be a delight to have you as a guest in our realm, Nonfindel."
"Traitor," Thranduil hissed.
Then he gave up his struggle and allowed Nonfindel to comb his hair. After all it was not that unpleasant.
* * *
"And why is it again that the mortals call us wise, beloved?" Glorfindel asked Erestor, watching the bickering with increasing amusement.
"I guess they give us a lot of credit because they like our ears, Fin."
Glorfindel chuckled, put an arm around Erestor's shoulders and pulled him close.
"I cannot wait to be home. I dream of cosy evenings by the fire…"
"… of screaming Elflings in the wee hours of the morning, dirty nappies, stomach cramps, squabbling among siblings…"
"… but no more adventures, battles, fighting and danger. We shall spend the next ages in peace and harmony."
Erestor rubbed his cheek on Glorfindel's chest.
"That does not sound very exciting, beloved. One day a scribe will write our memoirs, and call them 'Yawning and Idleness in Imladris'."
Fin scratched his head.
"How about 'The most boring life of Master Erestor of Imladris' then?"
"I like that," Erestor said. "But I pity the person who has to write that tale."
* * *
Firinwë awoke from a deep slumber, feeling rested and refreshed. She looked around – what place was this? A luxurious room, with silken bed sheets and intricately carved furniture. Through the open windows she could see a clear blue sky. Birds were singing, and when she sat up, she found the floor was covered with a white carpet so soft that she sunk in to her ankles.
"So that is what the afterlife is like? By the Valar, had I known this earlier, I would not have fought so hard to stay alive!"
"I take it you approve of your chambers?"
Firinwë spun around.
"Who are you?" she asked the tall dark Elf, who seemed oddly out of place. He indicated a bow.
"I am Námo, my lady, also known as the Vala of Death, or Mandos, Keeper of the Halls of Waiting. I am here to see that you receive everything you are entitled to."
She laughed.
"This is amazing!"
"It is. And you have not seen the best part of your chambers yet, my lady. This way, please."
Námo pointed at a golden door.
"What is it?" Firinwë asked curiously.
"The private pool, my lady. I really hope you will enjoy it."
"How delightful! A hot bath is just the thing I need now."
She reached for a soft, white morning gown and slipped into it.
"You may call anytime if you should need me again, my lady," Námo said.
"I will," Firinwë replied, batting her lashes at the Vala. Then she opened the door.
"Valar! What is that?" she cried, but before she could take a step back, Námo had pushed her forward and quickly closed the door behind her. For a brief moment, the stench of sulphur and rotten meat filled the air, but it did not linger, unlike Firinwë's screams.
"That was truly evil," Lórien said, stretching out on the bed and poking at the cushion with his index finger to check its softness.
Námo shrugged.
"What can I say – I have a dark sense of humour."
* * *
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