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Greenleaf & Imladris 12 - Prelude to Grief	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 5841 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Greenleaf & Imladris 12 - Prelude to Grief

Author: Eressë (eresse21@yahoo.com)

Pairing: Elrohir/Legolas

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: All Elves are Tolkien’s property. Only the story is mine.

Summary: The twins face heart-rending changes in the wake of a horrific transgression that takes place in the depths of the Misty Mountains.

Prelude to Grief

Part I: Atrocity

Imladris, lairë TA 2509

Legolas looked upon Rivendell with a deep sense of foreboding. Gloom seemed to suffuse the entire vale as he had never felt it do before. Even the trees seemed to conspire with whatever calamity had struck the elven refuge, their foliage unaccountably sparse, the aromatic scent of pine mysteriously muted.

He glanced at his father, Thranduil, and brother, Brethildor. They, too, felt the difference. Their expressions were half grim, half alarmed. The evil that had befallen the Lady of Imladris had reached beyond her ruined body to strip her valley home of its lilting charm and welcoming warmth.

It was barely a month since they had received the appalling news of Celebrían’s abduction by a band of Goblins and her subsequent torture in their dens. Just over two months since the unspeakable incident in the Misty Mountains. Elrond’s wife had been on her way to Lothlórien for a visit to her parents. It was one of the rare sojourns wherein neither Elrond nor any of her children were able to accompany her. And Glorfindel had been away on lengthy patrol, investigating reports of brigandage northeast of Rivendell. Only Erestor and a small company of warriors had been with her.

No one had thought anything untoward could happen. There had been no recent reports of Orcs near the Redhorn Pass and once past the mountains, a company of Lórien Elves was expected to meet her and protect her the rest of the way to the Golden Wood. The ambush had been totally unexpected and the numbers of their foes chillingly large.

The Orcs had scattered her escort through sheer brute force, wounding or killing several warriors. Before the Elven soldiers could regroup, the Goblins had borne Celebrían away. Erestor was among the grievously injured but despite a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder and multiple gashes, the steward had had the presence of mind to order his men to track the Orcs as far as they were able while he saw to the care of the other wounded. Upon fulfillment of his orders, the remnants of Celebrían’s escort hastened back to Rivendell and informed Elrond of her abduction.

Within hours of learning of his wife’s fate, Elrond had led a rescue party into Hithaeglir. There they split into small search parties, their intent to find and retrieve Rivendell’s lady and not to wage war on her captors. That would come later.

Elrond had led one group, Glorfindel’s second-in-command, Daurin, another and the brethren, Elladan and Elrohir, the third. It was the twins who discovered their mother’s whereabouts; they who rescued her from the noisome hold of her tormentors.

Elrond had sent word to Thranduil as soon as he’d dealt with his lady’s erstwhile abductors. It was as much a warning to the woodland king about the increased boldness of the Hithaeglir Orcs as the exchange of news between their realms.

Thranduil had not wasted any time arranging to go to Rivendell at once. Naturally, Legolas had insisted on coming along. Brethildor, on the other hand, led the well-armed troop that escorted them to the elven refuge. It was fortunate they had been warned by Elrond. They easily beat off a band of marauding Goblins as they descended the Misty Mountains from the High Pass. At the feet of the great range, they were met by Glorfindel and a band of soldiers. Guarded by so formidable a company, the rest of their journey was made without incident.

Remembering his own mother’s tragedy, Legolas wondered worriedly how his friends were coping with Celebrían’s misfortune. The pall that blanketed Imladris was disturbing to say the least.

They were greeted by Elrond and Elladan at the doors of the Last Homely House. Arwen was attending to her mother at the moment. Elrohir was nowhere in sight. Legolas stifled his impulse to inquire about the younger twin and followed the others as Elrond led the way to his bedchamber. They learned that they had missed Celebrían’s parents, Celeborn and Galadriel, by just a day. The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood had arrived in Imladris a scant three weeks after word of their daughter’s rescue reached them, riding long and hard and fast with scarcely a pause for rest on the way. They’d stayed for a sennight before returning to Lórien; times were such that even grieving parents could not turn their backs on their duties and responsibilities overlong.

The bedchamber was awash with light, every window left wide open to let in fresh air and sunshine. Elladan softly explained that it was necessary since dark stillness only recalled to his mother the deeps of the orkish den where she had been kept captive for nigh a week. The nights were the worst for even the light from several lamps and candles was oft not sufficient to keep her fears at bay.

Arwen and her former nurse, Almáriel, had just finished sponging Celebrían and had tenderly dressed her in fresh bedclothes. The Lady of Imladris lay cocooned in warm covers upon the wide bed she shared with Elrond. She was asleep, lulled into dreamless slumber by the strong draught her husband had prepared for her.

The Mirkwood Elves gazed at her in mingled horror and pity. Her glorious silver tresses were no more. Entire plains of bare, scarred scalp showed through the thinned locks. One side of her face was rough with abrasions and her lower lip was covered with scabs where she had bitten down hard in her extreme pain. Her gown and blanket hid a multitude of atrocities rendered upon her slender body. Her lamentably slow healing was as much evidence of the trauma she had experienced as it was of her body’s failing strength.

“Sweet Eru! What in Arda did those scum do to her?” Legolas heard his brother mutter in shock.

Afterwards, Elrond led his guests to his study where Glorfindel and Erestor soon joined them, Erestor noticeably limping. With help from his son and chief steward, Elrond recounted to them all that his dear wife had endured.

The Orcs had easily recognized her, of course. No one could mistake the silver beauty of Rivendell’s mistress for any other. And so they had made her pay for being Elrond’s wife. They had wreaked all their rage and malice against the Imladrin lord upon his hapless lady. And when each stage of torture rendered her unconscious, they cruelly brought her back to awareness with a chilly dousing of foul water from the nether regions of their underground realm.

It had started with whips. For two whole days they had scourged her intermittently. When she would faint, her body a mass of welts and bruises, they stopped only to forcibly revive her for another round. On the third or fourth day of her captivity, her nails had been pulled out one by one from her fingers and toes, the exposed and excruciatingly tender nail beds then trod upon or tweaked or bitten until she was hoarse from screaming.

For added sport, they had hauled her wounded form from chamber to chamber, dragging her by her hair, yanking whole handfuls out in the process, leaving her with a bloody patchwork of a scalp. At last, when they’d finally tired of their game, they’d inflicted the worst torment of all.

They’d brought forth one of their rough-hewn clubs and, in a ghastly parody of the sexual act, had impaled her repeatedly with the filthy instrument until she bled profusely. Not content with the damage they’d done to her now torn body, they’d forced her awake then flipped her roughly onto her stomach. And rammed the club up her backside until her thighs ran crimson with her blood.

It was this horrific scene the twins had come upon, guided to the torture chamber by their mother’s agonized shrieks. It was a testament to the brethren‘s self-control that they had not fallen upon her torturers in foolhardy rage. Instead, they had lured the majority of the Orcs to another cave where their waiting warriors had sealed in the creatures with a rockslide.

Knowing the trapped Orcs would eventually dig their way out, they swiftly returned to the main chamber and slaughtered the guards. In the melee, one Orc sought to render their rescue attempt vain by slaying the captive Elf-lady. Elrohir had opened its entrails with one savage stroke and the most it had done was wound Celebrían.

The twins had perforce borne their mother halfway down the mountain before they were able to stop and inspect her injuries. It was only then that they discovered that the wound dealt her bore poison. But ever aware of the possibility of pursuit, they were forced to continue their flight. By the time they met up with the other search parties at the feet of Hithaeglir, her injuries had festered, infection made possible by her severe weakening. And the poison had seeped into the flesh and muscles around her right shoulder causing great pain to her neck and right upper arm and breast.

Elrond had managed to calm down enough to bring his wife home and treat her, drawing as much of the poison from her body as he could and tenderly administering to her many wounds. The worst had been the damage inflicted upon her lower body. He’d been forced to cut her open to cleanse her innards; her delicate flesh had been riddled with splinters and infiltrated with the filth of the unclean club. He’d barely managed to hold in his fury until he’d finished sewing up the incisions.

Then he’d let it out in full. With Rivendell’s fiercest warriors at his command, he and the twins had returned to the Orcs’ hold. They’d lured the creatures from their den then driven them into a large deep pit they’d filled with kindling and dry wood. Elrond himself had thrown in the burning faggot that set the wood afire. All around the rim of the delved inferno, the Imladrin Elves had prevented the Orcs from clambering out by forcing them back at spear or sword point.

“I never thought I would so delight in the screams of creatures being roasted alive or enjoy the stench of burning flesh,” Elrond said, steel limning his deceptively soft voice. “But Elbereth help me, I did.”

Thranduil shook his head. “None can blame you, Elrond,” he pointed out. “What they did to Celebrían...” He scowled in remembered rage. “Had those brigands done the same to my Ithilwen, I would have been as ruthless with them. Mayhap even more.” He looked at Glorfindel and Erestor. “I think we’d best discuss how to protect our people from these creatures. They are grown over-bold to have dared abduct the Lady of Imladris.”

Erestor said: “It was a well-planned ambush. They knew our route and that our numbers were not great. And they struck when we least expected it.”

“Then they are no longer as witless as we thought,” Brethildor remarked with a concerned frown.

“They are no longer leaderless,” Glorfindel pointed out. “We suspect that the Necromancer may have had a hand in this.”

“Accursed sorcerer,” Thranduil scowled. “What has the White Council decided about Dol Guldur?”

Elrond replied: “We have reason to believe the Dark Lord may be taking shape once more. But we have no proof. And, admittedly, our attention has been drawn to the south and the calamities there. Since Osgiliath’s fall, there has been no surcease of troubles upon Gondor. Of late, the Steward Cirion has been barely holding the line at Anduin against the Balchoth.” He looked at Brethildor. “Have you encountered these men?”

The darkling prince said: “Only infrequently. They seem more interested in the southern kingdom than in our realm.”

“That is not surprising if Dol Guldur is behind their aggression,” Glorfindel said. “Gondor is the only remaining bastion of the Dúnedain. If the Necromancer is indeed Sauron returned, he would desire the destruction of the last of the Númenoreans in Middle-earth. He will not have forgotten Elendil’s part in his defeat in the last age.”

At this point, Elrond and Thranduil began to discuss in detail the mutual defense of their respective realms. Ordinarily interested in such matters, Legolas now found himself restless instead. The continued absence of a certain Elf greatly bothered him.

He glanced at Elladan and caught his eye. “Where is Elrohir?” he quietly asked.

The older twin sighed. “In the drill yard spending himself in archery. At other times ’tis swordplay or wrestling. ‘Tis his way of venting his anger over what happened to Nana.”

Legolas eyed his friend compassionately. “And you?”

Elladan shook his head. “Elrohir has always felt more deeply about everything than anyone else. I’d often thought it a failing that I do not feel as profoundly as he does but now I am grateful. I, too, am enraged by what they did to her but it does not consume me as it does him.” He smiled wanly at Legolas. “Go to him, meldiren.”—my friend. “He would welcome your comfort.”

Legolas rose at once and left the study.

He found Elrohir as Elladan had said. It was apparent he’d been at it for hours though he continued to hit his marks with admirable precision. The evidence of excessive exertion showed itself in the weary cant of his shoulders, the uncharacteristic lassitude of his movements, the tendrils of black silk that clung to his sweat-sheened cheeks and neck. Only his expression betrayed the fires of rage within that refused to be quenched even by incessant activity. The younger twin let loose arrow after arrow, his entire mind so focused on the task that he did not even note Legolas’ appearance. It was only when he’d emptied his quiver yet again and made to retrieve his arrows that he sensed the presence of another.

“Legolas!” he softly exclaimed.

A moment later, he was caught in the balming embrace of his friend. They remained thus for a while, the younger twin unable to express his deep-seated emotions, the Mirkwood prince eager to sooth him as much as he could. Finally, Elrohir sighed and drew away a little.

“‘Tis good of you to come,” he whispered, grey eyes suspiciously bright.

“As you once succored me in my grief, so am I here for you,” Legolas softly said. He gestured to a bench by the yard. “From the looks of it, you have been at this far longer than is wise, gwador.”—sworn brother. “Come, take some rest.”

Elrohir acceded to the suggestion and allowed the prince to lead him to the bench. He sank down carelessly, none of his usual grace apparent. Legolas eyed him with concern. The younger twin was spent beyond reason.

“How often do you wear yourself out like this?” he asked anxiously.

Elrohir dully replied: “As often as she dreams.”

“What do you mean?”

Listless pewter pools met his gaze. “She screams in her sleep. She can find no respite even in slumber, day or night. Adar”—Father—“has had to resort to his most potent draughts that she may rest.” A spark of feeling lit in the Elf-knight’s eyes. “You can feel her pain and terror when she screams. I—I cannot bear to hear her thus and not go out and slaughter as many Goblins as I can find. And so I do whatever I can to still my rage.”

Legolas blew his breath out, shocked at his friend’s state of being. He pulled the Elf-knight into the curve of a bracing arm, letting him rest his weary head against his shoulder, stroking the damp tresses comfortingly.

“Ai, what wrong has your mother ever done that this should happen to her?” he murmured.

“Evil knows no reason or pity,” Elrohir softly answered. “It only seeks to hurt or corrupt or destroy.” To this Legolas could provide no reply. He fell silent and let his stroking hand convey his sympathy and support.

After a few minutes, Elrohir asked: “How long will you stay?”

“Father must return within a fortnight,” Legolas said. “He cannot entrust Mirkwood to Melthoron just yet. Not in these days. My brother is still too intemperate to rule with wisdom.” He glanced at Elrohir. The warrior nodded in acknowledgement but his tightened lips betrayed his disappointment. Legolas slipped his fingers beneath the twin’s chin and compelled him to look at him. “Adar must leave but I will stay through the winter if I must. I will stay for as long as you need me.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on the Elf-knight’s lips. His eyes gleamed gratefully. Legolas pulled him back into his consoling embrace.

**************

Glossary:

lairë - Quenya for summer

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Greenleaf & Imladris 12 - Prelude to Grief