Tôl Bar Crebain an Idh [The Crows Come Home to Roost.]
Legolas leaned against Fearfaron, one arm encircling the older elf's
abdomen, fingers digging somewhat painfully into his waist, and the
other wrapped around his shoulders. Out of bed for the first time
in three days, the archer was garbed in a long, soft bathing robe of
spun silk lined in finely woven wool, dyed emerald green, while the
outside was a pristine white purer than winter's first snows. The
loose garment was held closed with a wide braided belt of matching
green silk, and was carelessly tied just enough to keep the covering
from slipping off. Legolas panted with every hopping step
forward, left leg carefully angled at the knee to keep his foot clear
of any jarring contact with the rough stone floor that might aggravate
the stitched wound.
Because the wrap belonged to the carpenter, it was too long for the
smaller elf and Fearfaron held it up, slippery fabric bunched together
in one fist, to prevent Legolas from stumbling on the dragging
hem. While assisting his foster son awkwardly across the room,
Fearfaron had to be cautious of where he gripped onto the woodland
warrior, for the tear in his side was just healing up and could not be
disturbed. There was also a much shallower laceration on Legolas'
hip, making a solid handhold even more difficult. Yet somehow he
managed to support the wounded elf without allowing Legolas to bear any
weight upon the torn thigh muscles.
Even so, the journey of these few steps between the bedside and the
bathing room was strenuous for the archer and harrowing for
Fearfaron. He would have preferred to keep his foster son down
for at least another full day, but Legolas steadfastly refused to empty
his bladder in a chamber pot, even when Fearfaron had sent everyone
else from the suite. No reason for such obstinacy would the
former prince give.
The carpenter sighed in resignation; he really could not see what
difference it made whether the commode was in one room or another, but
Legolas had remained adamant in his demands. Fearfaron supposed
he should be pleased to note his adopted son's irritable mood, for it
was a good indicator of returning health. If he was able to give
so much effort to complaining, Legolas must be in far less pain and
feeling much stronger. Fearfaron knew Legolas despised being
confined, and hated even more requiring help with these most basic of
the body's functions.
"Slowly, Legolas, there is no need to hurry! I fear you will fall
or exhaust yourself!"
"There is a very good reason to be quick!"
"That would not be the case if you would comply with Gladhadithen's
instructions and allow an appropriate receptacle to be brought in here!"
"Nay! I would not be so pressured to rapidity had you lent me
this robe earlier! If I come to harm it is your fault, Fearfaron,
for keeping me captive and unclothed!"
"Hush, I will not let you come to harm! Just rest a moment here
against the bureau; we are almost there."
"Ada, I cannot!" Legolas snapped and continued his shuffling hop-step
towards the doorway, regarding the threshold of the unremarkable room
with a feeling of grim determination usually reserved for far more
desperate situations. Never had so humble a destination proved so
challenging a goal to achieve!
At last they entered the room and Legolas was finally able to tend to
nature's demands satisfactorily, though having Fearfaron support his
weight during the procedure was humiliating. He let his foster
father help him over to the bath and seat him on the broad, sanded rim
of the wooden tub to catch his breath. Fearfaron held him
carefully until he was certain Legolas was stable, braced up on his
arms, and not stressing the injuries.
"Wait a moment; I have clothing for you. You may as well have it
since you refuse to be reasonable and remain in bed," the carpenter
fussed as he turned and walked back into the bedroom.
He returned to find Legolas breathing more normally but with head bowed
and eyes shut, a distinct pallor to his features that bespoke a
profound fatigue. Under the gleam of the single oil lantern, a
filmy sheen of sweat
shown, coating his face and neck. His arms were trembling just slightly
from the effort to bear his weight and keep him upright, absorbing any
pressure that might disturb his injured side and leg, and looked as
though they might fail in the endeavour any moment.
Fearfaron hurried over and sat down next to him, quickly reaching an
arm around Legolas' shoulders so that he would not have to hold himself
up any longer. The relieved gasp that left the younger elf's
lungs as he sagged against the carpenter was ample proof that
ambulatory activity would have to be restricted for some days
still. Fearfaron refrained from scolding, however, and just held
on to Legolas firmly. After a few minutes, Legolas lifted his
head and met his foster father's compassionate gaze with a weary smile.
"I will try not to worry you; I will stay in bed except for this," he
promised.
"Good!" Fearfaron grinned and taking up a washcloth from the tub used
the opportunity to wipe away the clammy perspiration from Legolas'
face. Then he held up the clothing he had brought for Legolas'
inspection.
The trousers were loosely made for sleeping, woven from raw silk, and
constructed with a wrap front so that they were easily opened to attend
the body's needs. The open fly overlapped, with one panel in
front of the other, and long ties attached to each. On the left
side of the trousers, in the waistband, a slit had been cut and
finished to accommodate the tie end of the inner flap. This belt
then passed around the waist at the back to be knotted to the outer
fly's corresponding sash on the right.
A soft tunic of the identical material was tailored in the same manner,
made to wrap in the front and knot at the side. The sleeves were
long and wide, slightly flared at the wrists, and attached to a dropped
shoulder for loose fitting comfort. Both pieces were lined with
soft lightweight wool material that added warmth, for the caverns
remained cool year round, and prevented any seams from irritating the
skin. The garments were died a deep yellow colour and were
cheerful and bright.
Legolas was careful to smile and nod approval, for he knew that his
foster father had gone to some trouble to have these things made.
The silk was not cheap to purchase and even more costly to have dyed,
woven into cloth, and turned into finished garments. The wool was
also expensive, as the elves did not keep livestock of their own and
had to trade with the woodsmen or the Men of Dale for the fleece.
He realised Fearfaron must have bartered for this service, for he was
not one to charge much for his carpentry skills and could not afford
these things otherwise. The outcast prince had no wish to seem
ungrateful or critical of this gift.
In reality, however, Legolas thought the clothes far too similar to
something a child would have to wear. Only an elfling too young
to be able to get dressed without help would be garbed in such
apparel. He distinctly remembered having outfits just like this
when he was so small he could barely walk and was barred from
stairways. In spite of his good intentions, Legolas' stoic smile
slip-shifted into a darkling scowl as he viewed the garish hue of sunny
gold with distaste.
How can he expect me to put these on?
"I know you are displeased now," Fearfaron could not help a small laugh
at the doleful expression that quickly won dominance over the forced,
polite smile on the archer's countenance. "Yet in very little
time you will come to appreciate why I had the clothes made like
this! Come on, I will help you get into them."
Indeed, it is no mystery! He has found a clever way to keep my
confined; I would not be seen in such nightdress or this ridiculous
colour!
Reluctantly, the Tawarwaith accepted the aid and the covering, for it
was either that or remain swathed in the over-sized robe that kept
slipping open and revealing too much. In the forest, he had
experienced no embarrassment from being so scantily clad, for he was
always, barring recent events, alone. Here in the heart of the
Woodland folks' city, Legolas felt his lack of appropriate apparel
acutely and was reminded forcefully that he was not allowed to don the
Greenwood's signature combination of sienna and sage shaded cloth.
In no time he was dressed and gripped Fearfaron's shoulder to pull
himself upright once more. The craftsman would not permit this,
however, and lifted Legolas easily into his arms, careful not to press
the injured side against him.
"Nay, do not even say one word of complaint, Legolas! You have
had enough exercise, and I refuse to allow anymore argument. I
compromised on your demand for privacy in order to relieve yourself,
now you must do the same with my request that you rest abed for the
remainder of the day."
"I am not arguing, complaining, or demanding!" Legolas replied as he
leaned his brow against Fearfaron's head. Now that the clothes
were on, he found great comfort in the sensation of the material
against his skin, a tangible reminder that he was cared for and
loved. He was also pleased at the warmth the clothing provided;
for in his weakened state he felt the change in temperature between the
outside and the underground rooms keenly. He had been chilled
without even realising it. But for the tint of the material, he
could be quite satisfied with his new garments.
He complied wordlessly as Fearfaron settled him propped up upon the
pillows with the covers over his lap and other than a murmured 'thank
you' continued the silence, for he could tell there was something
bothering his foster father.
Fearfaron sighed and glanced quickly at Legolas, climbing up and again
seating himself next to the archer, back against the headboard.
He reached around Legolas' shoulders and gently pulled him closer so
that he could rest his chin on the younger elf's head and sighed in
contentment to feel the fuzzy locks nestled into the crook of his neck
as Legolas relaxed against him. Still the carpenter remained
quiet, uncertain exactly how to bring up more ill news.
Legolas stifled a slightly irked sough.
"Please just tell me."
"I fear that you will be angry over this, and that I am the cause of
it," the gentle craftsman began. "You know I would never do or
say anything that would bring you harm, yet unwittingly I have done so!"
"I will not be angry with you; I understand you mean only to
help. What is it?" Edgy impatience marred the carefully chosen
words of the Tawarwaith.
"I have met with Iarwain, and have shown him the letter you sent to me
from the woodsmen's village. He is outraged at the interference
from the Noldor interlopers, and is aware of who the elves are.
The Council will draft a claim against Imladris for this cause."
"What? Nay, I do not want any of that known! I will never
see them again, and the wrongs need not be addressed! What good
can come of this, for the acts cannot be undone, and I would not have
this be public, Fearfaron!" Legolas was shocked; it was not what he had
been expecting at all. "Why did you do this?" he wailed in misery
as he pulled back to search his foster father's eyes for the answer.
And then confusion invaded his thoughts, for how could Iarwain
comprehend what elves he had encountered, for at the time he had
written to Fearfaron, Legolas himself did not have that
knowledge. Cold dread joined the bewilderment. "Fearfaron?"
"Please try to understand, Legolas, I had no choice in the
matter! Your letter was not the only one sent here with the
woodsman. Remember the communication I spoke of between Elrond
and Thranduil; it arrived the same day and reveals all. Thranduil
plans to use the document to discredit you before the Council and our
people. He is feeling threatened by the growing regard the
Woodland folk hold for you, especially among his troops!"
With concern Fearfaron observed the archer's crestfallen features as
the doubt gave way to an expression of betrayal and hurt that was
unbearable even to look upon, for Fearfaron was uncertain whether he
was the perpetrator of this reaction or the Noldo Lord. The
carpenter tugged Legolas back into his embrace and held him tightly.
"Forgive me for bringing this upon you; it was never my intent to
increase your distress!" he implored.
"Nay, it is not of your doing and you need not plead for pardon!"
Legolas' mind struggled to encompass all the woe that had been conveyed
in these few simple words. That Thranduil still treated his
existence as a personal affront was nothing unexpected, yet going to
such extremes to eradicate the banished warrior from the King's reality
was a surprise. The idea of Thranduil viewing Legolas as an
opponent was a disturbing twist the archer had never considered
possible.
However, it was the revelation of Elrond's rejuvenated hostility that
shook the wild warrior's fragile composure. What motive could the
renowned healer and veteran of the Last Alliance have for bringing
greater shame upon an elf already outcast and shunned by his own
people? How could the degradation the Noldo had already dealt him
not have been sufficient? And from what stemmed this craving to
humiliate him? Legolas wondered when the Elf Lord would have
chosen to reveal his real identity, had the archer not fled from the
enchanted glade.
"Elrond did this? Does he tell why? We had put some of the
rancour between us aside before we parted, or so I believed. What
does this letter say, Fearfaron?"
"It is not complimentary, so I can only assume the attempt at settling
your differences was false on his part, as were all his interactions
with you. I have never read anything like it before, and hope
never to again. It is not the sort of document one expects a
noble ancient to commit to record, for it is more telling of his
character's deficiencies than yours!
"As to why, that is equally despicable. Legolas, Elrond knows you
are Thranduil's own child. From what Thranduil indicated, it was
Elrond who first cast doubts upon your parentage, and with a method
even I would be hard put to ignore! Suffice it to say this is not
the first time he has sent so timely a message to the King.
"He has done this as a means to destroy Thranduil's peace of
mind. He was ever the target, and you have been the Elf Lord's
weapon of choice. Elrond did not care that he would ruin you
while he pursued his malicious game. He stole from you the life
you were born to live and removed any chance of belonging to a loving
family. And he wanted to make it clear to Thranduil exactly how
well he had achieved his goal. His obsession with this vendetta must be
consuming his soul. This letter is so vindictive!
"I will not repeat any of it to you; these are not words you need to
hear. If I can prevent it, I will keep Thranduil from offering
the communication for public perusal. However, there is no way to
stop the grievance from being formally presented to Imladris, and
possibly to Lothlorien and Mithlond as well."
Hearing this Legolas groaned and shook his head against Fearfaron's
shoulder in futile denial.
"The Council will not allow so blatant an attempt to compromise our
borders go unchallenged. I will do all I can to keep the focus on
the intention of the Elf Lord to make you turn against your own people
while leaving the methods he employed out.
"Iarwain is sympathetic, and understands Thranduil's motives in
this. He will assist me in any way possible to keep that letter
from being read into public record or being incorporated into the
demand for an accounting from Elrond for his actions.
"But I will not lie or mislead you. If Thranduil wishes it, he
can make this known at any time, for he is in possession of the
missive. Also, once the complaint is delivered, there is no way
of perceiving how Elrond will respond to it. He may choose to
defend himself by attacking your character and debasing your nature,
even as he has done in this letter." Fearfaron felt Legolas
cringe at these words and soothingly stroked his hand against the
beleaguered elf's shoulder in commiseration.
"Ai! Fearfaron, I never thought my actions would lead to such harsh
reprisals! I should never have allowed this to happen!"
"Legolas, you are not to blame yourself for these things! It is
not wrong to feel such attractions or to act on them. For long
years have you been alone, even before you were removed from contact
with any of your kind. It is natural that upon encountering elves
you would be drawn to them and seek solace from them, if such was
offered. I am fairly confident in saying you were not the one to
initiate sex, correct?" Fearfaron sighed as he felt the brief
movement of Legolas' head assenting to this statement.
"You are not bound to anyone, Legolas, despite what you feel regarding
Maltahondo. You and he are not mated one to the other. His
intentions we shall deal with separately," the carpenter felt the
shiver that coursed through Legolas' body and hurried past the
dangerous topic.
"That these elves were deceitful was not possible for you to
understand, for they planned only to use you from the outset.
That idea is so completely foreign it would never enter your thoughts,
Legolas, I am happy to say, and yet your own honest outlook has been
twisted into a weapon against you now! This Iarwain saw plainly,
and Mithrandir also attested to the same, explaining how Aragorn was
the bearer of these unpleasant tidings.
"And I must say that I feel Elrond should be made to face the
consequences for his base manipulations of an innocent heart.
Never have you done anything to cause him to despise you so, and in
fact I believe you held him in some regard. It is well he is not
of our people, or I would already have driven him into exile for his
actions, if only to prevent myself from committing him to Mandos Halls!"
As Fearfaron finished this lecture, Legolas felt his own anger growing
to match his foster father's. The reasoning the carpenter
supplied to account for the Lord of Imladris' bitter hatred toward him
added to the sense of non-existence Legolas had experienced with
Elrond. Memories flooded his psyche and in vain he tried to push
them away, but the image of their last coupling presented itself in
vivid detail such that Legolas' stomach wrenched uncomfortably in
response.
He had wanted to give and receive pleasure and consolation, nothing
more, yet in some way Elrond had deemed this desire an affront.
Because he viewed me as he would a common prostitute among Men. I
was
to satisfy his purpose; my needs were irrelevant!
Legolas could not understand then what he had done that was so
repugnant, so offensive as to generate the intensity of the Noldo's
subsequent cruelty. In fact, he had done nothing to warrant such
treatment. Comprehending this did nothing to alleviate the
intensity of the tainted shame attached to their intercourse.
Elrond's mocking laughter and sarcastic, cutting words rang through his
mind.
'No need to be so distraught, pen-rhovan, with more practice you
will
improve, I am certain! It was enjoyable nonetheless.'
The conclusion was as inescapable now as it had been then: Elrond had
enjoyed hurting and humiliating him just for the pleasure of being able
to indulge such baseness uncontested, and he had undoubtedly hoped to
repeat the experience if possible.
It seemed he had found a way to do so, even far removed from the wild
elf in the secluded haven of Imladris. And in the Hidden Vale,
introspection of a differen sort was simultaneaously underway.
The surface of the object was smooth and cold to the touch, only a few
pits, scratches, or flaws marred the body of the satiny material, and
he ran his thumb against it, feeling the tacky coat of oils left on the
glassy stuff by his skin. The slick polish bore testimony to
hours of smoothing friction by work of careful hands employing running
water and the finest grit.
Tentatively, the tip of his index finger probed closer to the edge,
transmitting the information gleaned from this sensitive investigation
to his inner vision. He could clearly replicate the image in
perfect detail; a regular pattern of delicate scallops all along the
tapered sides thinned the dense mass into a razored outline. The
meticulously deadly sharpness culminated in an apex so diminished it
must be but the size of a pollen grain. He ghosted his touch
across it delicately, scarcely feeling the impression, not desiring to
prick his skin and spill blood.
He held to the article in secrecy, fondling its utilitarian beauty
obscured from observant eyes, hidden even from his own view in the dark
confines of a pocket.
"…harvest of apples is even more abundant than last season! I
took the liberty of distributing the excess to the human villages
across the river near the East Road…"
Elrond was vaguely aware of the allocution taking place, but it hardly
seemed worthy of his full consideration when he held so fascinating an
artefact. He tested the dimensions of the stone point by
compressing it between thumb and forefinger. The width was barely
more than a sliver, no thicker than a sheaf of parchments stacked
together, and he marvelled at the material's ability to mask its
durability within so gracefully slender a form.
Like its maker.
He followed the edge down the opposite leg of the arrowhead's angle,
absently counting the scallops and wondering if the number of
depressions was significant in some way, adding to the efficiency of
the flight of the missile or increasing its ability to cut through
flesh and bone.
An archer would know such things; I am no archer.
It had never occurred to him before to question the practical reasons
for design; the making of arrows was a skill for his lesser
citizens. He had no idea who among the elves of Imladris was
responsible for the task or even where the material to make them
originated. How did one acquire the knowledge for making a blade
from stone? Were his archers still using stone to tip the shafts
of their feathered bolts?
Surely not, they must cast them from molten metallic alloys, even as
sword blades are created. The Noldor have not used stone
implements since before the First Age.
And yet Elrond had to admit it; he did not truly know, merely assuming
Imladris' archers armed their arrows with metal points. The
warriors' quivers were kept filled, that was all the information he had
ever cared to have.
"…a small group from Lorien, making for the Havens. They are a
single family, fifteen in number, having lost three in the passes…"
The Lord of Imladris sighed and frowned as he sent a glance in the
direction of the speaker of these words. The remarks were but a
sample of a seemingly endless recitation of everything that had
transpired since he was last at home, down to the most mundane of
details. Elrond shifted in his chair and drummed lightly with his
fingers against the exquisite whorls and burls of the wood's grain
exposed through the gleaming sheen of the lacquered tabletop. He
turned his insight back to contemplating the primitive device of death
deep in the pocket of his robe.
His hand flipped the arrowhead over, for the hundredth time at least,
to examine the other face of the weapon. He counted the scalloped
indents at the bladed rim, identical to the previous number on the
reverse, as he already knew. He felt along the gently convex
bottom, the place where the point would be joined to the sturdy,
slender wooden body of the projectile. Here the bulk of the stone
on both sides had been worked, not to achieve lethal sharpness but to
fit it snugly into a ready shaft.
It is shaped like a leaf, how appropriate!
Elrond wondered if the configuration of his souvenir was a common shape
or one specific to the Woodland Realm, or perhaps unique to
Legolas. None of this had occurred to him when he had selected
the relic from among the handful spilled from the outcast's quiver
while he lay, naked and slumbering, after the rains in Mirkwood that
day. The Elf Lord had chosen the point hastily, picking this one
solely for the beauty of the stone's peculiarly mottled green and black
pattern.
He had never been interested enough before to consider what designs the
individual barbs might take, merely acknowledging the steep triangular
pinnacle gracing the weapons. In the end, what one saw upon
viewing an armed archer was a quiver filled with notched, fletched
shafts. The tips were only visible for mere seconds when a
warrior aimed and launched the arrow into the air.
But now, he found that he very much would like the answers to all of
these questions. Elrond longed to possess the thoughts passing
through Legolas' mind when he had chosen this bit of rock and made this
arrowhead. Why could the stone not give up these secrets to his
healer's touch?
"…have been required to quarantine the mortal merchants until we can
determine what illness this may be. While none have died of it,
two Men's villages have fallen prey already…"
The ceaseless resume of activity at the Last Homely House
continued. Elrond grunted a noncommittal response and then
promptly drove the words from his attention again. One day was
very much like another in Imladris, after all, and he had left his home
in capable hands.
The Noldo Lord let go the arrowhead and fumbled around in the pocket of
his velvet vestments, fingers seeking, heart lurching when they failed
to clasp the item he sought. Elrond unconsciously sighed, his
pulse relaxing back into its normal rhythm, as soon as his digits'
recognised the soft, felted lock of hair coiled in the corner of the
garment's concealed pouch. He traced around the spiralling knot
he had carefully constructed from the heavy strand, absorbing the
remainder of the wild elf's essence infused into the hair.
If he breathed very slowly and deeply, he could catch a faint whiff of
the fallen archer's intoxicating aroma at the height of his
passion. Elrond drew in a long breath and held it as his eyes
dropped shut of their own volition. An image of Legolas surged to
the forefront of his mind; the feral elf appeared as he had on that
first day in the forest, staring down upon them with bow armed and
drawn, that odd mixture of youthful curiosity and jaded distrust
shining in the unsounded fathoms of those pools of radiant blue.
"…then the entire goat herd burst into flame and went raging about the
paddock. It took every elf in the barracks to extinguish the
ensuing blaze, and I had no choice but to instruct my archers to kill
the poor beasts mercifully! I suspect some malicious Maia
attached to the service of the Dark Lord was responsible."
Silence. The voice had ceased chattering, quite suddenly.
What had the elf said just now? Elrond's eyes opened into a narrowed
glare as he exhaled a prolonged, silent sigh. His brow creased into an
array of furrows that usually signalled his rising wrath and was
matched by the deep down-turning of his stern lips. He raised a
most daunting scowl to the speaker.
"What did you say, Glorfindel?" he demanded. "I am not in the
mood for your unremarkable attempts at humour! Just continue with
your bloody report!"
"Forgive me, my Lord, I just needed to reassure myself that you were
listening, as it has been over an hour and you have made no reply to
anything I have said thus far!" If the venerable Vanya warrior
was surprised to hear this discourteous remark from his Lord, he did
not show it. He stood at the other side of the broad table, arms
crossed against his chest, gazing down upon Elrond with a rather
bemused expression tinged with the smallest taint of worry.
Rarely was the Lord of Imladris so distracted.
"I assure you I am getting every detail!" Elrond retorted.
"Perhaps you have mistaken my complete confidence in your ability to
manage these trivialities for disinterest!"
"Nay, I mistake nothing!" Glorfindel snorted. "It is hardly my
doing that Erestor is not here to attend to these matters! If you
wish me to deal with all this without informing you of the incidents
occurring in your Realm during your unexpected absence, please say
so! I have twice the work load and half the assistance to
complete it!"
"My journey was hardly unexpected, Glorfindel, as you were informed two
weeks before I set forth!"
"Oh, aye, yet you never arrived at your proposed destination!
Your sons are out searching for you even now! Where did you go,
Elrond, and what has become of Erestor?" The Balrog slayer leaned
down and slapped his ample palm against the solid wood with a jarring
thump.
Elrond rose from the table and met his noble retainer's stare in fury
as Glorfindel stood tall and straight. Whatever his first life's
glory may have been, Glorfindel was bound in service to the Peredhel's
house in this one.
"You forget yourself, my friend," hissed the Noldo Lord. "I owe
you no accounting of my activities! As for Erestor, he must be in
Lorien by now safely tucked away between his two loves in their cosy
Guardsman's talan!"
The two glowered at one another for several seconds and simultaneously
broke away, each taking a step or two to create a calming distance
between them within the close confines of the Elf Lord's study.
Elrond rubbed his temples as though his head pained him, when truly he
was only irritated due to lack of sleep. Little rest had he
achieved since his abrupt departure from the woodsman's village.
He had but to drift off for a moment to find his memory assailing him
with the unpleasantly stimulating events he had witnessed in the wild
elf's sanctuary. When he managed to force these reflections from
his mind, he found his thoughts invaded by erotic fantasies of the
golden archer offering the Noldo Lord his wanton charms.
Added to this disturbing drain on his resources, his reappearance had
been anything but unobtrusive. Upon arriving home the previous
day Elrond had discovered that his careful plans to spare his children
worry had not been as punctiliously constructed as they might have
been. He should have considered that a chance message addressed
to him from Arwen, currently residing with the Lord and Lady in
Lothlorien, would arrive in his absence. Elrond had chosen
suitable destinations with which to conjure his lies, inventing false
needs to journey from Imladris. To Glorfindel and his sons he had
spoken of meetings with Galadriel; meanwhile informing Arwen that he
would be away from home for a month or more conferring with Cirdan at
the Havens.
His daughter was nearly as annoyingly precise and painstaking as
Celebrian had been, dating the outside of the sealed missive so that
the intended recipient would know how long had been the delay between
the sending and the delivery. Elrond had never asked Celebrian
what the purpose of this comparison might be, suspecting it had
something to do with ensuring the messengers went about their tasks
without side trips to brothels and gaming houses. The date on
Arwen's note made it obvious he was not in Lorien as he had indicated,
for an uneventful trip would have placed him in the Golden Wood two
weeks prior to her letter's departure.
It was Elladan who had found the sealed scroll amid the accumulating
stacks of correspondence on his father's desk and raised the alarm that
the Lord of Imladris and his faithful seneschal had gone missing.
Elrond mentally winced; it was also Elladan who had first discovered
that his mother had never made it to Lorien, all those years ago.
Causing his son to relive this dread despair had not been Elrond's
intent.
The note had not even been of any importance, merely a reminder of
Erestor's Conception Day celebration to be held on the autumnal equinox
in Lorien. Prudent to a fault, Arwen had already mentioned this
months ago, and used the written method as a failsafe lest he forget
she had done so! That such ridiculous redundancy could be the
cause of his sons' alarmed concern and possible harm at the hands of
Orcs was unbearable!
Silently the Noldo cursed Legolas and Ningloriel, and the entire
pedigree of Thranduil's long lineage.
And then there were the horses. He and Erestor had been on
horseback when they set out and the animals had not returned on their
own. This they would have done if capable of movement, even
should their masters be lost, so this produced a mixed signal of both
ominous and hopeful mien. Elrond could imagine his sons arguing
about that point; Elladan taking the alarmist view that both elves and
horses had perished, Elrohir the more positive approach that riders and
steeds were alive and merely delayed for some benign reason. The
horses had been safely cared for in Beorn's secluded valley during the
unwholesome adventure, from whence Elrond had retrieved his own trusted
mount on his way home.
Elladan and Elrohir had left almost at once to track down their father
and his kinsman. That had been a week hence.
All of this Glorfindel had explained upon his Lord's arrival in the
courtyard at tinnu of the previous day, demanding answers in scalding
tones of relieved distress covered over with fiery rage.
Elrond sighed.
"Glorfindel, I cannot reveal more to you. My plans went awry,
nothing more. The fact that Elladan and Elrohir assumed the worst
is horrible enough for me to bear; their fate is what concerns me right
now. If they come to harm searching for me, I will never forgive
myself!" the Elf Lord quietly spoke his greatest fear.
Yet it is not they that I turn my thoughts upon! Indeed, I
have
envisioned the face and form of only the outcast since leaving the
woodsmen's village!
The Balrog slayer turned back to observe his Lord carefully and caught
the forlorn expression of guilty remorse transform into one of barely
controlled fury. The renowned loremaster and former Herald to the
High King must have noted this for he turned slightly away as though
attempting to compose his countenance. Glorfindel raised
perplexed brows; in response to this scrutiny, the Lord of Imladris was
fidgeting! One hand was buried deep in his pocket aimlessly
toying with something; the other pushed listlessly through a stack of
parchment scrolls on the corner of the table. Elrond did not seek
to meet his Master-at-Arms' eyes.
Glorfindel frowned, that also was an uncommon event.
What is he hiding?
The reborn warrior had already done the calculations and knew the twins
should be scouring the feet of the Misty Mountains on their way to
Caradhras. He had sent a rider after them at first light hoping
they would be taking their time and investigating every possible cave
where Orcs might be lurking. Knowing the sons of Elrond, the veteran of
Gondolin expected there would be significantly lesser numbers of the
beasts once the brothers completed their traverse of the divide.
If his rider did not overtake them, the pair would reach Lorien in
three more days assuming everything went smoothly through the High Pass.
He only hoped Erestor was indeed there and could give Elladan and
Elrohir reassurance of their father's planned return home, stopping
them from a laborious and painstaking hunt through the wilderlands
surrounding the Gladden Fields and Mirkwood. Such a venture would
carry them too close to the Dark Lord's fortress of Dol Guldur for
Glorfindel's liking. Elrond, he knew, had already worked all this
out as well.
So Elrond must have realised that the timing of the arrival of Arwen's
message, the twins' departure from Rivendell, and his sudden
reappearance was also noteworthy. Had Elrond returned through the
High Pass, he would have met his sons upon their way. The Lord of
Imladris must have travelled an entirely different direction, never
having been even remotely near Lothlorien.
Where could he have gone that he would not report the journey?
Not to Rohan or Isengard, for again the way would cross the path of
Elladan and Elrohir on the return. Besides, even in the unlikely
event that Elrond had some clandestine dealings with the horse lords,
or an undisclosed meeting with Saruman, he would have told
Glorfindel. In all the long Ages of their friendship, the Balrog
slayer had been party to every political manoeuvre his Lord had
undertaken.
West towards the Havens or to the Shire could not have been his goal,
for neither destination would require subterfuge and deceit.
Elrond would surely not venture south to Gondor with only Erestor at
his side. Such a diplomatic mission would require the counsel and
company of Mithrandir at the very least and certainly demand the
strength of Glorfindel's warriors, for the concerns of Men were often
at odds these days with the interests of elf-kind. Or so, at
least, the Steward of Gondor deemed them.
No, whatever Elrond had been up to was removed from the business of
overseeing the welfare of Imladris, separate from the trying conundrum
of the rising veil of Darkness emerging from the region of Mordor.
That could only mean concerns of a purely personal nature, and pointed
to the Woodland Realm to the east.
This must be connected with the flight of Ningloriel to Valinor,
Glorfindel reasoned.
If he had been in Mirkwood, Elrond would have travelled north along the
Anduin, crossing the Great River at the Ford in order to scale the
narrow gap connecting to the Old Forest Road and thus to the safety of
the eastern borders of Rivendell. This was a more dangerous way to
conquer the Misty Mountains due to the infestation of excessive numbers
of goblins and Orcs, yet it was the only logical solution. For
whatever reason, Elrond had been in Thranduil's Realm for nearly two
months and had returned without Erestor.
What were you doing there, so far from the borders of fair
Imladris? We have no allies to our east!
Glorfindel's unasked question hung heavily in the air between
them. He hoped Elrond was not lying about the seneschal being
safe in Lothlorien. He would learn soon enough; Elladan and
Elrohir would send back news as soon as they reached the Golden
Wood. Until then, he knew Elrond's worry for his sons would
increase daily, as would the guilt for sending them into possible peril.
Glorfindel sighed.
"They will return in good health, Elrond. They are seasoned
warriors and the very scent of them sends the Orcs running in
terror! Although, they will be very disgruntled when they do
return!" he tried to send his old friend a reassuring smile. It
was hard to endure the bitter tang coating his throat that Elrond's
lack of faith in him generated, however, and he could not keep the
gleam of cold umbrage from his gaze.
"Aye, I am certain you are right, Glorfindel. I will have to
suffer their ire meekly, I fear, for no more than I have told you will
I say to them!" Elrond hoped this admission might soothe his trusted
comrade's injured pride. Elrond lifted his vision in time to see
the genuine surprise upon his friend's features before they smoothed
into polite acceptance.
Moving from behind the table, Elrond paced across the room to a tall
shelf lined with books and scrolls. Just to give his eyes
something to do he let the fingers of his left-hand drift along the
spines and trace out the runes and letters there. The other
remained concealed. Of their own accord his hand moved from book
to book and touched upon the titles displayed, spelling out the fallen
archer's name from among the components therein. Elrond cursed
again as he realised this, a hissed whisper that passed his lips before
he could halt the sound. His oblique vision discerned the hasty
movement of Glorfindel's startle.
The Balrog slayer was stunned by this behaviour from the Elven
Lord. Elrond was never so preoccupied, never at less than full
command of his emotions, at least in the Vanya's record of
memory. Glorfindel watched as Elrond jerked his hand away from
the texts and strode back to the table, resuming the ruse of examining
the documents now strewn across the surface in untidy disarray.
Elrond's other hand was still hidden, occupied in its own activity
within the flowing robe's concealment.
Perturbed, the warrior pressed his lips together in a grim,
disconsolate line. What events could be so unnerving as to bring
about the loss of the venerable loremaster's coolly controlled
demeanour? Not since the death of Gil-Galad had Elrond been so
disturbed in spirit, so unaccountably abstracted one moment and
futilely angry the next. Glorfindel watched the Noldo's hand
twitch within the folds of the fabric. No doubt the restless fingers
mimicked the erratic meandering of the elf's thoughts. The hidden
hand's activity was as a nagging strike upon the Vanya's irritated
nerves, and suddenly he could stand it no longer.
"By the will of the Valar, what have you got in your pocket?" he barked
out this demand more harshly than intended and was about to retract his
forceful request when he witnessed something he had never thought to
see, even if given a third lifetime of observation.
Elrond of Imladris had a definite bloom of crimson climbing to his ears
and a look of panic in his eyes. The Lord of Imladris was
blushing.
Tbc
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