Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

The Promise	By : kathmco Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1052 -:- 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.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Title: The Promise

Author: Emmess

Rating: NC17

Pairing: Elladan and Elrohir

Summery: Elladan and Elrohir search for each after tragedy strikes.

Warning: Character death

Written in response to the January Challenge for the Imladris/Slash Group which was "the twins doing something someplace different."

Chapter 2 - A Promise Remembered

The Elf Knight sat ramrod straight in his saddle, eyeing the approaching party with wariness. His hand stayed his archers from action, allowing the weary-looking group to approach the Imladris borders unhindered.
Bedraggled and careworn, the band made their way slowly up the rock-strewn hillside, bearing several litters of wounded between them. Ill-kept and ragged, it appeared to the Elf Knight's eyes that these poor souls had seen more than their share of battle and were worse for the experience. He eyed the bloodstained litters, and the moaning bodies bore upon them, feeling a thread of compassion run through his soul.
For decades, nay, tens of decades, he had patrolled these borders, a promise made long ago tethering him to this land long after the last of his family had sailed. His heart had hardened over time, a necessity for survival in a cruel world, and yet…he could still find it within himself to feel for those who suffered unjustly. One glance at this pitiable group of tearstained travelers told him that they were just that - innocent bystanders crushed by the uncaring fist of LIfe.
As they approached, his practiced eye sought out the one most likely to be their leader, flicking from face to weary face, discarding most at a glance. They all looked too young to be in charge - most of the males still beardless, a fact he knew to mean youth in the reckoning of Men.
Silently, a soft nudge to his horse's delicate side urging the beast into motion, he rode slowly down the hill to meet the party of human survivors.
Hollowed eyes looked up at him, the stink of fear rising above the odor of unwashed bodies and untended wounds. They had not seen him or his warriors watching their approach, and to their exhausted eyes it seemed as though the Elf Knight, majestic upon his warhorse, had appeared out of thin air. Stopping dead in their tracks, they trembled, some whimpering, most cowering, a few hardier souls trying to put themselves between the Elf and their wounded.
"Who leads here?" Elrohir asked in a strong voice, his eyes still searching the party for some sign of leadership.
Silence greeted his ears, although the whimpering sounds increased with his words.
"Fear us not…but answer me. Who leads here?"
"None leads, my Lord," answered a small voice. He looked down to see a young lad of no more than twelve winters looking up at him with round, sad eyes. "They are all dead or wounded, my Lord. Killed by men who wished to take what little we had with us. We are all that is left."
Nodding at the youngster, the only one brave enough to speak, Elrohir addressed him. "From where do you travel, and why?"
"From Longwell, my Lord. We sought to travel to Gondor, where we heard tell of better times. It was as we crossed the High Pass that we were attacked."
Elrohir was concerned by the information the lad imparted, of a roving band of rogues in the High Pass -too close to Imladris for comfort - although he gave no such indication to the boy. He would send a party of his warriors to the High Pass to route them out and finish them.
"Follow us. We will take you to Rivendell, as your kind know it, where you may rest and be healed before continuing your journey."
Without another word, Elrohir turned his horse, leading the humans toward The Last Homely House. What Elrond had created as a hidden refuge for the Eldar, his son had turned into a sanctuary for any in need who crossed his path. His men fanned out, surrounding the weary wanderers, some dismounting to take the burden of the litters from the hands of the young humans.
Upon reaching the gates of the once great Elven city, Elrohir directed his warriors to bring the wounded to the House of Healing where the few healers who remained in Imladris would see to their wounds, and to escort the rest to rooms where they might wash and rest. He directed that food and water be provided at the earliest opportunity.
Weary himself, he handed over the reins of his horse to the young Elf who served as stableboy, and entered his father's house.
Never did he step past the threshold of Elrond's House that he did not feel an assault of memory. Snatches of images from long ago played across his vision…his father, resplendent in his robes of office, welcoming visitors…his mother's hair, silver and shimmering, as she danced at a festival…his sister, the lovely Even Star, smiling indulgently…Elladan.
It was as always when the memory of his brother, his twin, came unbidden to his mind that Elrohir felt his heart crack anew. Even after all this time, all these years of patrolling the borders of Imladris, all these years of unending battle, unceasing vigilance, still the pain was as new and as sharp as it had been the day he died.
Elladan. His sweet, caring brother. His twin. The half of himself he had lost so long ago. Never had he felt whole again, not since that last day in the forests of Imladris…that last day…that…
Elrohir did not notice that his tears had begun again, so often did he weep for his loss when in this house. Sighing, trying to push the memories back into the small locked chamber in his heart where he kept them safe, he made his way to the chambers he used now, ridding himself of his clothing as soon as he entered them. Using a pitcher of water on the nightstand, he washed most of dust of the road from himself, too weary to bathe properly.
He grunted, half-smiling, hearing a ghost of his brother's voice in his mind as clearly as if he were still in the room with him, "'Ro…you are a pig. Get you to the bathhouse before the smell of you permeates the very walls of the room!"
The smile left quickly, serving only as a reminder of the emptiness he truly felt. Never would he again hear that sweet soft voice touch his mind, or feel those strong arms envelope him…NO! He would not allow himself to believe that it would never be again…Elladan had promised! He had promised, and it was to that promise that Elrohir stubbornly clung. It was the only thing that had kept him from fading when his brother had been lost to him. It was the only thing that kept him from sailing to Valinor with the rest of his kin. It was the only thing that kept him from falling upon his own sword, even now, so many years later.
The promise was the reason he kept up the patrol of the borders, meeting and searching each wandering party that stumbled upon it…he was searching for the fulfillment of that promise. Waiting. Watching. Peering closely into each haggard face that made its way into Imladris, hoping against hope that he would see in one of them a flicker of recognition.
He saw pain…he saw gratitude…on occasion he saw anger, greed and lust, but never did he see remembrance - never. And so still he searched.
Wearily, he lay down upon the soft pallet, stretching himself out to his full length, trying to push the memories aside and allow sleep to claim him.
After a long while, it did.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He wandered through a barren land of ice, sparkling, irregular blocks jutting up from the ground in haphazard groupings, the only relief from the flat frozen plains.
**I am cold, 'Dan…so cold.**
**I am coming, 'Ro…coming…**
**When? When, Elladan? I cannot bear this life much longer. Cold…so cold…**
**Strength, tór…be strong for me…coming…**
Looking ahead, shielding his eyes from the glare of the ice, he could see a shape far, far ahead, indistinct in the swirling snow.
**I miss you, Melleth nin…my heart cries, my soul weeps still…**
**As does mine, Elrohir…my arms ache to hold you…I come**
He runs, slipping and sliding on the frozen ground, his arms reaching out for the form that beckons to him. His voice echoes back to him.
**When? Whenwhenwhenwhenwhen?**
**Soon.**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He found himself sitting bolt upright on the pallet, his arms reaching out before him, fingers grasping at empty air. Drenched with sweat, he covered his face with his hands, giving in to the overwhelming emotions that battered his soul. Weeping softly, he felt the blackness, which he had fought down successfully throughout the years, come creeping back, inky tentacles of despair wrapping themselves around his soul.
Shaking himself fiercely, as if physically trying to rid himself of the cold grip of despondency, he rose from the pallet, wiping his tears with the back of hand, and dressed himself, intent on occupying his mind with something other than his own sorrow and loss.
Making his way from his father's house - he always thought of it thusly, even though Elrond had sailed decades before - his feet followed the familiar path that led to the House of Healing. Once there, he greeted the healers respectfully, grateful that they chose to remain with him still, rather than sail the Straight Road. They escorted him into the healing rooms, where the newest arrivals had been treated.
Two had died, their wounds too great, their spirits too far gone for the healers to save them. Elrohir bowed his head in reverence, showing his sadness for their loss, though they were strangers. Any loss of life was unacceptable to the healers, and he well knew this. He knew also that the healers suffered with the fading of each life-force, whether it be kin or outsider, and took each as a personal failure. His grief was for them, as much as for those who had died, and those who survived them.
The third lay upon his pallet, his form covered by a starched, clean white sheet. Approaching, Elrohir appraised him, thinking him to be the oldest of any in that particular party, although his face was still beardless. His eye found the sleeping face pleasing, which shocked the normally stoic Elf, since it had been many years since he last had thoughts of a carnal nature. His libido had died with his brother. He felt unfaithful, even now, even with just that one, innocent thought, but could not seem to force his eyes away.
The face of the sleeping one was strong-looking, even though a fresh scar ran the length of the left side of his forehead from scalp to eyebrow. Thick dark lashes rested on his high cheekbones, a shade darker than the gold of his long hair. A rather patrician nose, and a set of full and shapely lips were set above a strong, square, cleft chin.
One of the healers came to stand by the bedside of the wounded traveler, an enigmatic look on his face. He stared hard at Elrohir, his hand drifting down toward the tangled, sweat-dampened hair of the one who lay on the pallet. Long fingers gently pushed away a hank of dark gold hair, revealing an ear to Elrohir's eyes.
An ear that ended in a delicate, pointed tip.
An Elf.
Elrohir's brows shot up in silent surprise at the healer's revelation. How did one of the Firstborn come to be traveling with this ragamuffin group of humans from Longwell?
Shaking his dark head, Elrohir ordered the healer to fetch him the moment the stranger awoke…if he awoke at all, for the fresh scar on his forehead was not his only wound.
Elrohir, his mind awhirl with questions, first sought to find the young lad who had had the courage to speak up for the group when Elrohir and his warriors had met them on the hillside. The boy informed the Elf Knight that the strange Elf had appeared in their village not long before they had left it, saying only that he traveled west, and would keep their company if they would allow it. He had fought bravely, the boy said, saving the lives of several of the survivors, before falling himself. The boy said that he knew not the Elf's origins or name.

Thanking the boy, Elrohir again found his way to Elrond's House, going this time into his father's study. Here, he usually found solace among his father's treasured books and histories. This day, however, there was no peace to be had. His mind fluctuated between memories of his brother, and the stranger who slept fitfully in the House of Healing. Sighing, he lay his head down on his folded arms on his father's desk, drifting into a light reverie.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two figures stood on the edges of opposing cliffs, fire belching from the chasm between them, filling the air with acrid smoke as a river of lava snaked its way between the rock walls.
**You promised, Elladan…you swore to me!**
**I know, tór, I promised…I promised…**
Heat choked what little moisture there was in the air, embers snapping and crackling around their dark heads.
**Keep your word, Elladan…please**
**Coming, 'Ro…I am coming…**
**When, "Dan? When will you come back to me?**
**I am here.**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Snapping his head up from is position on the desk so hard that his neck cracked with protest, Elrohir awoke from his reverie to find the healer standing quietly at his side.
"The stranger has awoken, Lord Elrohir."
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Promise