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Greenleaf & Imladris 18 - On the Edge of Forever	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 3952 -:- 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 18 - On the Edge of Forever

Author: Eressë (eresse21@yahoo.com)

Pairing: Elrohir/Legolas (implied)

Summary: The moment has come for Elrond’s sons to make their choice either to follow their father’s path or partake of the Gift of Men.

Disclaimer: All the Elves belong to the grand old wizard himself.

On the Edge of Forever

Part I

Minas Tirith, Midsummer’s Day TA 3019

The king and queen were now properly wedded, feted and, presumably, despite the early hour, bedded. Aragorn had been, to put it politely, all too eager to end his part in the wedding feast and bear his bride away to the fastness of their quarters. He was fortunate his Elven brothers had not chosen that moment to display their mischievous streak of long ago. The most they had done was delay the couple with all manner of ridiculous speeches and drawn out toasts until the king had looked fit to be tied.

Only then had they relented and allowed their foster brother to finally seek relief. Which he did with almost indecent haste, his and Arwen’s departure accompanied by the gentle laughter of the fair folk of Rivendell and the Golden Wood which in turn amazed the people of Gondor. It seemed there was more to their new king than they’d ever imagined if such elegant creatures as Elves could treat him so familiarly.

Now it was late afternoon. Even with the royal couple finally ensconced in their apartments, folk still lingered in the Citadel, particularly by the green lawn on the prow-shaped battlement, which rose seven levels above the lowermost roads of the City of the Kings. It had been a glorious day, the promise of peace and prosperity in the very air and the people of the Southern Kingdom in the almost forgotten mood for celebration.

But even as those privileged to remain in the vicinity of the White Tower voiced their joy in song and merry talk, their eyes were drawn again and yet again to the far end of the battlement. Drawn to the white-clad figure that stood as still as a young beech, its fair countenance turned to the vista of the Pelennor and fallen Osgiliath in the distance.

Elrohir, Prince of Imladris, son of Elrond of Rivendell, Elvenlord, foster brother to Elessar, warrior Elf, one of the legendary Peredhil—he was known by these titles and many more. When last had such singular comeliness and veiled power graced Minas Tirith as now when the king’s Elven kith and kin resided within the city walls? But the twin brethren of the hidden vale stood out for reasons other than their Edhil—Elven—luminosity.

They were different, these sons of Elrond. They were as beauteous as Elves yet there was an earthy quality to that beauty that made it seem that they may yet be within reach of mere mortals. But after all, did not their king win their sister’s heart and hand? Elladan and Elrohir were also formidable in form and wisdom; their more solid yet graceful frames lending them a sensuality not readily apparent in full-blooded Elves, their youthful, compelling eyes brimming disconcertingly with age-old knowledge.

Was it any wonder that many a woman turned their eyes to the stately Elf-lord with more than mere admiration? Who could blame the men, even the most wizened and knowing, for staring at him in curiosity and awe?

He was still clothed in the raiment worn for his sister’s nuptials. The snowy garb contrasted with his midnight locks, the mithril circlet upon his brow marking him as one of royal lineage even if his father had declined the High-kingship over the Noldor of Middle-earth. In the slowly dimming rays of the summer sun, he glowed with such unearthly light it quite took the breath of any who beheld him

But Elrohir was oblivious of the attention. His thoughts did not center on the beatific present but on the just concluded past and the volatile future.

Was it only days ago that they had faced near annihilation on the slag hills before the Black Gate? Bait to keep the Dark Lord’s eye fixed upon the remnants of Gondor’s waning might, away from the two indomitable souls who had scrabbled and struggled through the arid, festering plains of Gorgoroth.

Brutal, soul-rending, ultimately hopeless had been that last battle before the Morannon. He could still remember the fierce cries and agonized screams, the harsh clang of metal against metal, the fear-etched faces of young Men facing sure and torturous death. He could still smell the grime and gore and the acrid stench of a land long forsaken to wickedness. And the sight of those he held dear battling not only for their very lives but for the life of Middle-earth itself.

When the end seemed at hand, when he saw that all their valor would not avail them, he had applied himself to a last task. To guard the lives of these dear ones, to keep them alive for as long as he could even if he should fall in their stead.

It would all have been an exercise in futility had the aim been to defeat Sauron’s legions by force alone. Only the desperate hope that two worn-out Halflings would persevere and rid Middle-earth of the One Ring once and for all had held them steady in the face of certain ruin.

But just when that hope seemed to fail them, Frodo and Sam, against unimaginable odds, had reached their goal and two little hobbits proved their mettle and secured their places in legend. Middle-earth had emerged from the encroaching darkness into the clean, clear brilliance of a new day.

He glanced down at his formal clothing, brushed his fingers over his ceremonial sigil, his dagger. For so long had he donned hardy mail and soldierly mantles, girded his deadly sword, borne his lethal knife, bow and quiver. It would feel strange to go for long periods on end without need for such martial accoutrements.

Not that he believed that he would never don armor or wield weapons again. The peace they had achieved was by no means inviolable. Sauron was no longer but the evils he had brought forth on the heels of those of his master, Morgoth, still existed in the deeps and plains and peaks of Arda. Vengeful Orcs, hostile realms, disgruntled allies--Aragorn had his work cut out for him. There would be true peace at last – Elrohir did not doubt his mortal brother’s strength and abilities – but they would have to labor long and hard to secure it.

At least, there was no more of the pervading sense of doom from broken Mordor that bent men’s wills and gouged out their courage ere battle had even been engaged. From hereon, whatever struggles took place, be they on the fields of battle or in the halls of negotiation, all would be on near equal footing. No longer would there be full-fledged sorcery or subtle enchantment to aid one side or the other.

Not even for the Men of the West. They would not have the aid of the Elves any longer. The time of the Firstborn was past. Many would soon depart these hither shores to seek the Undying Lands. His father would be amongst them as would many of the household of Rivendell. The Lady of Lórien, the White Rider, doubtless a goodly number of Galadhrim.

As for himself, he did not know. He did not wish to forsake Middle-earth just yet. Both land and love hearkened to him, begged him not to go. But to stay, he would have to make a sacrifice the repercussions of which were enough to boggle anyone’s mind.

To bind himself for eternity to one who did not even know it...might not ever return it...and, worse, turn to another...

He had thought to tell him at last in Rohan but an unforeseen circumstance had made him hold his tongue. Strangely, it had also given him hope bitter though the discovery had been. But he would have to bide his time before making any move. Again.

Elrohir shivered inwardly. Could he do it? Or might the peace of a mortal end be preferable to this – this tormented waiting.

He turned his head as a hand lightly grasped his shoulder. He looked into the keen gaze of his grandsire. Celeborn, Lord of the once golden wood, now master of East Lórien, stood behind him.

More eyes turned to that now radiance-filled corner of the battlement. It was a marvel to see the silver-haired Elf beside his sable-tressed grandson. Truly, Elessar’s marriage to the Lady of Rivendell had brought about wonders such as the folk of the city had not had the fortune to witness in ages.

“Your father desires to speak with you and Elladan,” Celeborn quietly said. “Your brother is already with him.”

Elrohir nodded but made no motion to leave. Celeborn regarded him gravely and silently. At length, the Elf-knight looked at him once more and said: “I was pondering what would become of me.”

Celeborn peered at him, unable to completely veil his concern. “And what did you discern, Elrohir?” he queried.

The twin sighed. “I do not wish to leave Middle-earth,” he said. “Yet I fear I will know more sorrow if I stay.” He heaved a pensive breath. “Though it will be no different were I to take ship with Adar.”—Father. “I see no light to look forward to.”

A thrill of apprehension smote Celeborn as he studied his grandson. Elrohir’s uncertainty and desolation was so at odds with the hope and anticipation that pervaded the city.

“Do you still recall what I told you in Lórien?” he gently asked.

“Aye, I recall it,” Elrohir replied. “Your counsel heartened me greatly.”

“My counsel has not changed, gwanneth.”—younger twin. “I still say the same to you. Time is on your side as it never was with your mortal kin. Do not despair now when a new age is upon us and with it mayhap renewed hope.”

He stayed by the Elf-knight’s side, ready to succor him if need be. He would not allow dark thoughts to take Elrohir and have the victory at the last.

“Grandfather? You came to know him in Lórien,” Elrohir murmured. “What do you think of him? Am I...am I a fool to love him so?”

Celeborn gazed into the distance a space before answering. “Galadriel and I spoke with him before the Company departed and had the chance to observe him as well,” he said at last. He looked at his younger grandson, a small smile hovering on his lips. “Nay, gwanneth, you are no fool to love him. For all his flaws, he is a pure-heart, a loving soul, worthy of you and your devotion. Yet how I wish I could say otherwise that I may help you rid yourself of this passion for him.”

Elrohir bit his lip. “It would not make a difference were he worthy or not,” he whispered. “Only my choices would be affected but not my heart.”

Celeborn sighed and cupped his grandson’s cheek momentarily. “Come, do not keep your father waiting.”

Elrohir silently followed his grandsire back to the White Tower.

They had gathered in Elrond’s chamber in the residential pavilion of the tower – Elrond himself and Galadriel, Gandalf, Elladan and Legolas. Once Celeborn entered with Elrohir, the family circle was complete, with Gandalf and Legolas counted as kin through friendship if not by blood.

Arwen was not present. Her fate was now sundered from theirs.

Elrond beckoned to his sons and they came to him where he sat between Galadriel and Celeborn upon a long couch by the hearth. They each laid a hand in their father’s warm grip and looked at him somberly.

“I have lost another who is beloved to me and with no hope of ever finding her again,” Elrond quietly said. “Yet in her joy I have found a measure of peace and courage.” He tightened his grip on the brethren’s hands. “I know not if that courage will last the night but while I still own it, I would face another grief if that is my fate. I would know your choice this day, my sons. Now, while I can still endure what you may decide.”

They stared at him in surprise, near identical eyes gleaming in the hush light of the chamber, one pair glinting with blue flame, the other glittering with argent fire. Then Elladan withdrew his hand, took Elrond’s between his palms and knelt before his sire.

“You know my heart, Ada,”—Papa—he sweetly said. “It belongs to one of our kindred and I would join myself to her forevermore. I wish to stay on in Middle-earth until she is ready for the journey to Aman but I say to you this day, I will cleave to Elvenkind.”

Elrond smiled broadly, happiness glowing in his dark grey eyes at his older son’s declaration. He could feel his law-parents’ relief and joy as well as they beamed at Elladan. But his felicity faded somewhat when he returned his regard to Elrohir.

The twilight eyes were undecided. There was no certitude of his younger son’s choice.

“Whatever you should choose, I will always love you, my Elf-knight,” Elrond softly said, the slightest tremor resounding in his voice. “But I cannot wait another day to know it. I do not think I will have the fortitude to bear it should you decide to follow your sister’s path.”

Elrohir nodded in understanding. He glanced at Elladan then wordlessly moved away to think hard on this hardest of decisions. He settled himself in a corner of the chamber away from the others.

Elrond waited anxiously as his younger son struggled to come to a decision. He’d had little fear where Elladan was concerned. The older twin had the most compelling reason of all to choose immortality. The Lord of Rivendell thanked the fates once more for bringing his son and Thranduil’s only daughter together in love.

Nay, his worries lay solely with Elrohir.

Elrond recalled the moment when he’d first discovered his younger son’s heartbreaking secret. Until then, he’d known of no attachment that would persuade the younger twin to follow his brother’s path save for his love for Elladan himself. But would that suffice? Elrond had sadly remembered how their twinship had not been enough to keep Elros by his side. His love for a mortal woman, she who became his Númenorean queen, had proved the stronger. Would history repeat itself? Would twin brothers be separated once more not only by distance but also by eternity itself?

It was then that he’d noticed how Elrohir had reacted to the announcement of Arwen and Aragorn’s troth. Envy had mingled with his son’s grief. Envy for his sister’s happiness in having found love. At first, Elrond had wondered if his son sought a love of his own. Yet something had told him this was not the case. And so he’d taken to watching the Elf-knight.

Soon after, Legolas had come to Rivendell for a summer’s visit. In that brief time, Elrond had at last perceived the truth. He saw it in Elrohir’s regard for the Mirkwood prince, hidden when he was in his friend’s presence but revealed once he thought himself unmarked. Elrond had discerned his abiding love and his centuries-long sorrow.

By Elbereth, Elrond had thought in shock. I have been blind.

He had been so immersed in the events that threatened Middle-earth and later distressed by his daughter’s growing love for his mortal foster son that he had failed to see that which was under his very nose. For how long had Elrohir loved with such passion and suffered for it? For Legolas seemed frustratingly unaware of the younger twin’s true feelings for him. Elladan warned me so long ago but I did not realize it had finally come to pass, Elrond had berated himself.

Suddenly, everything had become clear. Elrohir’s choice would hinge solely on his feelings for one person. Elrond had began to look at Legolas with different eyes, fatherly suspicion aroused however belated. Was the Elf-prince worth his son’s life, his very fate?

The revelation of the new condition pertaining to his children’s choice had been a shock to say the least. But after the initial grief, he had set aside his regrets regarding Arwen’s fate. Useless to cling to the what-ifs of her decision. It was done. There was no turning back for his daughter. But Elrohir was another matter.

That condition could be both boon and bane. It could encourage him to choose immortality if by it he could remain by his beloved’s side. But it could also spur him towards the road Elrond’s long-dead brother had trod. For it required a sacrifice of such magnitude as to make a lesser being than Elrohir cringe in despair. What if his son decided at the last that it was not worth it? That Legolas was not worth it? Would he not then choose the relatively quick solution of freedom in death?

Elrond had voiced this concern often enough in the weeks before his sons rode to war. Elrohir, ever plainspoken in all things save with the one he loved, had assured him he would not choose rashly. He’d had to content himself with that and rely on Gandalf’s counsel to trust his son.

But now, with Elrohir’s decision nigh at hand, he could not still his paternal misgivings. Try as he might, he could not help casting an occasional resentful glance at the reason for his Elf-knight’s continuing misery. He felt Galadriel’s tempering hand on his arm, caught her cautioning gaze. Nodding, he sighed and schooled his treacherous desire to vent his spleen upon the Mirkwood prince.

Meanwhile, Elladan went to his twin. He had no compunctions about persuading Elrohir to make the same choice as he. If he had to, he would channel all his strength into keeping his twin’s elven fire burning. It was not something he desired if in doing so it prevented him from giving wholly of himself to Nimeithel. But if it would keep Elrohir from either mortal oblivion or elven waning, he would do it. Now that they had come to the crossroads, he comprehended that he would do anything to secure their eternal twinship.

Nimeithel would not resent sharing him with Elrohir. She had made that clear in the times they had come together down the centuries and in their correspondence. She knew and accepted what might have to be. It was he who had objected to such an arrangement. But she refused to withdraw her offer. She cherished Elrohir as heartily as she did Legolas and would not see him lost to Elfkind. It was no wonder Elladan loved her so.

Now if only Elrohir would cooperate and accept their joint sacrifice. He sat by his brother and spoke pleadingly to him, reminding him of their bond. He winced inwardly when upon softly voicing his and Nimeithel’s loving offer, Elrohir flinched.

“Elladan, I cannot accept—”

“Do not refuse it—”

“‘Tis too much—”

“Yet not enough it would seem!”

Elladan grabbed his brother by the shoulders. He was not surprised that Elrohir resisted his suggestion. It was not in his twin’s nature to allow others to suffer for him.

“We do not wish to lose you, brother,” he urgently said. “None of us do. Please, accept our offer. Nimeithel and I will count it a small price to pay if by it we may keep you with us.”

Legolas watched the brethren with mounting apprehension. Of the Elves present, he alone was not family. But he was as terrified of what Elrohir’s decision might be as the others. Mayhap even more so.

For the memory of kinship would always keep the Elf-knight close to them even should fate itself part them evermore. But what did he have? Were Elrohir to pass away to where the spirits of Men abode, there would be nothing left of their long friendship. They did not share the same blood; they were not kin.

He groaned in frustration when Elrohir’s undecided countenance changed little even in the face of Elladan’s eloquence. He did not know what it was that Elladan had said to his brother; he only knew it seemed not enough to persuade Elrohir. If anything, the Elf-knight looked likely to refuse it. He glanced at the others.

Gandalf would not interfere of course; it was not his place to do so. But what of the others? Surely they were loath to let Elrohir go. Yet they held back; said nothing. Legolas wondered if honor and nobility prevented them from forcing the younger twin into a decision of their liking.

Well, confound honor and nobility! Legolas thought. What use was either if they should lose Elrohir for all eternity? His lips tightening with determination, he rose and approached the brethren.

Elrohir glanced up when the prince came to him then knelt before him as if in supplication. He noted Legolas’ bleak expression.

“What troubles you, Calenlass?” he asked.

“Your possible choice,” Legolas said earnestly, taking his hands in his. “Do you remember your promise to me? You said you would hearken to me first before choosing your course.”

Elrohir did not speak at once. Finally he nodded and said softly, “I could not possibly make this decision without considering your wishes.”

The prince gripped his friend’s hands tightly. “I bring no counsel to you. I have not the skill or knowledge. But what I can do, what I must do is ask you to cleave to Elvenkind. Do not forsake our friendship, Elrohir. Do not forsake me. A Valinorean eternity would be lonely without you, mellon nîn.”—my friend.

Elrohir stared at him. Long ago, the archer had pleaded thusly with him. He was doing so again with even more raw and fervent emotion than he had done then. Hundreds of years of the deepest of bonds had done their utmost on the Elf-prince.

Elrohir studied him then looked long at his brother. Elladan’s gaze remained openly imploring. The younger twin visibly shuddered.

Behind them, Elrond tensed. Every muscle strained as he strove to master himself, to stifle the impulse to join them and add his own plea to theirs. But he knew better than to intrude now. Elrohir’s fate teetered on a precipice and one wrong word, one misguided move could prove lethal.

Galadriel took his clenched fist and clasped it, Celeborn gripped his shoulder. Strength and succor flowed along the tenuous lines of their connection. Elrond drew a deep breath, calmed down and waited.

Legolas’ clear voice resounded once more in the near silence.

“Elrohir, I beg of you, choose our kindred. Please, do not leave me.”

To be continued…
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Greenleaf & Imladris 18 - On the Edge of Forever