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Oh, Sorrow	By : narcolinde Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 3486 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction based on The Lord of the Rings series written by JRR Tolkien.I do not own Lord of the Rings or any of its characters, settings, or scenes. No money of any kind is earned through this story.

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Oh, Sorrow
A Legolas/Elladan Story by erobey, unbeta'd
Something of Beauty yet Remains
Eriador betwixt Angmar and the Ettenmoors
"Enough of this. It is time."

The words were calm, quietly loosed into the wreaking air and declaimed with irreducible finality for those who could hear no more than that, and that was enough. The bitter weariness borne upon the syllables was lost to most; the barren anguish that forced them into life obscured so that just the expression of ending and passing came through. Yet there was also a sombre note of defeat, of futility; he tried to hide that but it grew ever louder and stronger as the years stretched on so that betimes even the men detected it, as now. That drew anger, for everyone's blood was still so high. Elladan turned from his comrades and moved across the plain, watching where his feet trod amid the refuse of battle, sword still to hand and ready. It stabbed down quickly, reflexively, finishing one among their own who lay upon that bloody field dwindling toward death, and his step did not falter.

"No." Brusque denial followed and was ignored and so the man came after him, staggering so great was his rage and so numerous the corpses underfoot that one snagged his boot. "This is but another raiding party; the main refuge of our foes has yet to be uncovered. If you leave now…"

"Nothing hinders you from continuing the campaign." Again, that cool, flat dismissal sounded, an undertone of bemusement in it, and these men could not understand that either, though most had come to accept it. Their leader had not.

"Do you go now, when we are so close to finishing this, and I will name you craven and foreswear our friendship!"

A harsh gasp resounded from among the soldiers at this ultimatum, the actual source indistinguishable. Such raw fury defined Arador's threat that it was like a blade itself and the cut it made was deep, but still Elladan did not stop nor even pause. Another answered in his stead, as expected, as he knew he would.

"Be mindful, Arador, lest you call into being a fate you truly do not wish, for words have a power of their own." That voice was not so much calm as icy and replete with rebuke. Elrohir watched the man from a stern and reproving countenance, cleaned his sword or gore and seated it in its scabbard.

Silence followed this familiar friction of metal against leather and the strained atmosphere tightened into restive tension as the Dúnadan Chieftain spun round to face Elrohir, the residual adrenalin of battle unabated. Motionless the company waited as their lord wrestled within himself and with his immortal kinsman, eyes locked with the elf, wills battling though the outcome was indisputable. Elrohir remained sorrowful but adamant, Arador angry and unrepentant. He did not want to mean those words, and yet in part he did. The man lost the staring contest, as would any man. He made an inarticulate, disgusted sound as his gaze averted and he gestured with his sword, a useless expression of frustration, before returning his troubled face to Elrohir.

"Is it time for you, also? Do you abandon us to fly home after your brother?"

That brought an audible rebuke. "Father!" The younger man moved to confront Arador, for to insult Elladan first and now his twin was inexcusable, but a kinsman barred his way. This was not something he could mediate.

Elrohir saw him and recognised the desire to mend the rift, but it was unnecessary and he smiled, a soft laugh arising from his heart that was a little dark beneath its mirth. "To think that dour Arathorn should be the peacemaker here," he said and proceeded through the carnage, his intent now to bring healing for the wounded, and spoke to Arador over his shoulder as he summoned two aids to him with a beckoning curl of his fingers. "No, for me it is not time. Soon, but not yet. Even so, it is strange to hear you speak of abandonment, given our service to your father and your father's father, and many generations before that, even prior to the cause for which we now fight came to pass. Do not fret, Arador, I will stay on. We will enjoin another battle together, or two, before I must follow my brother home."

His words shamed the man and Elrohir knew it, but Arador was too proud to beg pardon and so the anxious strain remained, suspended in the rank and steaming air. There was a chorus of swords being sheathed and the men began gathering their dead, thankfully small in number, and dragging the carrion into a massive heap to be burned. It was high summer and not a whiff of a breeze arose to ease the humid heat; the stench of decay was already rising. Elrohir tended the injured quickly, enough to stabilise them so to be quit of this place as soon as possible. In short order the company mounted, the wounded borne by their comrades, the dead borne by the horses they had ridden in life, and set forth in silence across the plain, heading ever northward. Arador led, his son beside him, Halbarad between them and the elf, the rest in ranks behind them.

Elrohir exchanged a rueful glance with Halbarad and shrugged. He regretted the harsh reprimand, but that only produced a moment of self-mockery, for had he not been the one pontificating about the strength of speech to alter fate? When it came to it, though, he was also too proud to offer the apology that would set things right between them, and that warned him as nothing else could that it was indeed time to follow Elladan home, away from the killing and the weight of the blood, slipped from the bonds their vow imposed if only for a few days to bandage up his battered soul. He must heed that caution.

"Arador," he called and met aggrieved eyes that almost made him reconsider, but the danger was too great. "I misspoke; it is time. I go after my brother." Waiting for no reply, for the indignant disbelief that filled Arador's expression was answer enough, Elrohir wheeled his charger out of the van and set him cantering in Elladan's wake.

"Apostate!" shouted Arador and turned his horse to watch him go. In high wrath over both twins' desertion, he hastened after them, determined to bring his grievance before Lord Elrond, leaving the Dúnadain under command of his son Arathorn and his kinsman Halbarad. He caught up to Elrohir who deliberately slowed the pace to give his brother time to gain a greater lead, understanding Elladan's need for solitude. They did not encounter him and made the ford of the Bruinen a mere day behind, but in the course of that brief interval everything had changed irrevocably.

Something of beauty.

The phrase held his thoughts captive, a lure for his wayward and careworn soul, and Elladan hurried over the dismal plains toward Imladris, sparing only time to rest the horse and then he paced, irritable and impatient to proceed. In these abbreviated pauses he did not reflect, too agitated in heart and mind to do so, but once mounted and cantering overland through the rasping grass, then the rhythm and the motion soothed him and he could think.

Something of beauty yet remains, awaiting your discovery.

They were not his thoughts but Galadriel's and represented the summation of the wisdom she'd tendered to him once news of his dreadful quest reached her. He liked to recall them and it was part of his ritual to do so, part of letting go of one reality so to engage another, or perhaps it was more truthful to say he needed this ritual to draw him out of his warped and darkened world of vengeance and violence. His grandmother believed there was still goodness and joy to be found in the world, in life. Because she was certain, he believed. He wondered if she knew the power of her words; decided she must.

Once she understood what he and his brother had sworn, so great was her concern she'd travelled to Imladris and confronted her grandsons there in their father's house. What she said to Elrohir he didn't know for they never discussed it, though he assumed it must have been similar to the words she spoke to him. She had tried at first to turn him from the vow, expounding an eloquent recount of the consequences that could ensue from rash oaths, no matter how heartfelt when first loosed into the world, bequeathed a life of their own by the breath of the body that invoked them. How quickly Vairë would snatch them up, how unpredictable would be the newly spawned variations wrung from the simple, noble intent of those honourable words. None could say what sorrows might spring up because of this.

Sorrows sprang up all the same, whether he would pledge his sword or no, he had countered, angry. Should he do nothing and suffer the thought that others would endure the same terrors and tortures his mother had borne? How could she care so little for the plight of her own daughter, born of her blood and bone? 'It is because I care so much for her and for you, child of my daughter's blood and bone, that I entreat you to reconsider. She would have you follow her instead of this, you and your brother.'

Follow her? She wanted him and Elrohir to sail? Struck dumb for several seconds, Elladan had only stared at Galadriel's pleading countenance, noticing for the first time the Ages of pain in her ravaged eyes; eyes filled with first-hand comprehension on the subject of vows gone awry. At length he drew air and answered, firmly but with sadness. 'I cannot, not yet, though I pray that day may come. For now there is in me only black anger and a morbid thirst for killing, and I dare not take those things to her lest she blame herself for them. She is my mother; I would not add to the darkness crowding her spirit.'

Then Galadriel enfolded him in her arms and shed tears upon his hair, but spoke no more of forsaking the vow. At length she gave him needful instruction on the keeping of his soul and named for him the signs he must not ignore if he ever wished to make that journey over sea with hroa and fëa intact:

'This world you love will dim and diminish so that those things of nature that were your delight you will neither see nor hear. The wild landscape of the empty plains, the soaring peaks that tempt and challenge, the cold torrents and the quiet pools, these will no longer register in your awareness. No birdsong will reach you; no rain will cleanse you, no gentle glade or shaded knell appease your wrath or soothe your soul. Colour will drain from the land until there is only a dull and grim shading in greys and lesser greys.

'Then the people you love and the comrades you befriend will grate upon your patience, testing both your courtesy and your temper. Every word will seem an offence and an insult; every look a sneer or a snarl, every comfort offered appear as a trade for some curried favour. You cannot wait that long, Elladan, or it would be too late. When all the world about you goes grey and even the sky is but a blank white glare, then you must turn for home with all haste. Shelter in the light of Vilya or come to Lorien, if it is nearer, and let Nenya wash away the stain that blinds your vision and robs your soul of any delight.'

He remembered the chill that took hold of him then and the dread that fell upon him as she described the stages of fading in such succinct terms, her voice trembling as she tried to be brave. Her foresight saw and the vision terrified her, and her fear transferred to him so that he went willingly into her arms as he had gone to his mother when he was just a child frightened by the cries of wolves in the night. Then she found her strength and drew apart enough to see his eyes and smiled gently, soothing his hair with her delicate hand. Nay, fear not, for even when the world turns drab and bereft of colour and joy and life, something of beauty yet remains awaiting your discovery.

Elladan smiled, reliving that moment, and felt the healing begin as he anticipated the comforts of home. He had obeyed her assiduously, yet the first time he'd realised he had to go came as a shock, revealed in a casual comment from among the Rangers: 'You need not kill them all personally, Elladan. We be but men, but we have swords and know how to use them skilfully. Indeed, you taught me yourself, remember?' Laughter had followed, a break in tension after another bloody struggle, and Elladan had not found it amusing. He found he wanted to skewer the offending soldier and watch him bleed out. That was sufficient to make him realise it was almost too late; he'd departed immediately and without a word.

Entering the valley, he'd gone to the House of Healing and had his wounds tended, but that had not brought about the peace he so needed. Fractious and irritable, he'd picked at the evening meal and growled at family and friends alike, taking himself to the Hall of Fire reluctantly, scowling as though to disdain the merriment and the music there. It was all farce, a means to cover his fear that he had waited too long and now must fade. That was when he saw her watching him, not with concern and worry as it seemed everyone else did, but with hunger and appreciation and open invitation. She hadn't even waited for a flirtatious seduction, coming to him and leading him away. She gave him solace and sated both her passions and his. By dawn they were inseparable; by two turns of Ithil they parted amicably. He left the valley and resumed the rigorous work his vow demanded, renewed and rejuvenated.

Ever since, he returned to Imladris eagerly, searching for and finding diversion, succouring his desires and salving his soul in whatever person seemed most beautiful and most willing to accommodate his darkness. As the years passed, this partner turned out to be male more often than female, for the vehemence of the intimate encounters was generally more violent than a lady wished to endure for the sake of pleasure. He spent his rage as he spent his seed and after a month or two of this lusty cure his guilt was assuaged. He became once more Celebrian's son, alive in the world and able to appreciate it fully. It became his pattern, accepted, albeit with some worry and reluctance by those who loved him, and his reputation for possessing an almost insatiable appetite for rough bed-sport spread through the vale as the seasons wound away into years and the years turned into centuries.

And then he ventured from Lothlorien one morn with the notion to enlist with the Wood Elves, for the talk of the Necromancer was growing and Celeborn believed their struggle to survive was dire.

Elladan pulled up short, his charger snorting and dancing, as this thought intruded, disturbed that it had done so. It was definitely not part of his ritual to think of that journey. Quickly he forced its memory down, upset to have it arise here at the borders of Imladris, so near to safety and healing and hope. Ten days and nights he'd ridden without that event breeching his defences and he would not give it precedence. He would not think about that; it was over.

At mid-morning he crossed the ford and saluted the guards, galloping for the last Homely House, wondering why Elrohir's endurance was greater than his, why the sickness did not seem to poison his brother so sorely. Few were the times they had returned together, though generally Elrohir followed quickly. Invariably they resumed their covenant together. He shrugged off the unanswerable complaint as he dismounted, pleased by the numerous calls of welcome that rang through the courtyard, moved by the heart-felt embrace of his father, gladdened by Erestor's hearty slap on the shoulder. He took himself to his rooms, bathed, donned fresh clothes, made himself alluring, as he thought, though others saw primarily the predatory glint in his eyes. He strode for the kitchens and ordered an elaborate meal to be taken to his rooms, gave instructions to have the linens freshened and the bath readied, chose what wines and liquors he wanted. All jumped to his clipped commands and scurried to carry them out and it pleased him. Now, he need but choose.

He was not taciturn or dour at the midday meal, though he only nibbled, sitting at his father's right hand and engaging Erestor and Glorfindel in amiable conversation, though his mind was far removed from most of it. He saw their glances one to another, but none would dare jibe about his reasons for being home. There were no ribald jests or suggestions as to who his designated partner might be, but none missed that Elladan's keen eyes swept the crowded hall, assessing potential lovers. Few met his gaze and those that did quickly turned aside.

Elrond observed his eldest keenly and openly; there was no point attempting to hide his concern and if he was less than happy over the remedy he kept silent. Elladan brought himself home regularly and while the wounds in his spirit had not closed, at least his soul was not bleeding away into the ether. None of the amorous affairs amounted to anything; his son's heart was never engaged nor were those of his temporary bed-mates, and so, satisfied over the condition of Elladan's health, he permitted his eyes to remain blind. Elrond felt a small prick of alarm, noting the ragged edge of frustration and discontent contaminating the region surrounding his son and knew the cause for that, too: today no one answered the bold challenge of his hungry eyes. Hoping to divert him, Elrond spoke.

"Ionen, many have departed since last you were home. Our people diminish."

"So I see," Elladan frowned. "No folk from Lorien have moved here since?"

"Nay, nor has any couple brought forth new children. Times are dark and growing darker. It may be time to consider…" Elladan suddenly focused on him so sharply and with such fury that Elrond paused and reached out to take his shoulder in a strong grip. "Steady, Elladan."

"I know what you would say, but it is not time. I will not sail, not yet." His voice was brittle and overly loud; conversations at other tables grew faint and faltered; eyes flickered near then shied away.

"That was not what I would say," Elrond reprimanded gently. "I was going to elicit your thoughts on renewing the alliance between Gondor and Arnor. Soon, there may not be enough of us left to carry on and all must then sail or perish. I would keep my vow to Gil-galad, but my patience wanes."

"Forgive my sharp tongue, Adar," Elladan gave a brief laugh at his own expense and inclined his head at his father's instantaneous absolution. He addressed the political question. "That is certainly true, but Arador is not the one for whom we wait. He has trouble keeping his own kin loyal, for he is harsh and relentless in his desire to reclaim the lands his ancient fathers ruled."

"It will need a strong and relentless hand to hold those lands," remarked Glorfindel.

"True, but Arador dreams of glory, of estates and wealth and comforts and adoring subjects. It is personal for him, a desire for power and control, to show that upon him rests the favour of the Valar."

"Men have ever desired power over their kin even as most men are willing to let one among them have it. That being true, Arador may indeed be the best choice. We need a strong leader willing to unite the people and heal the divisions wrought at Eärendur's death. If we wait much longer, our enemy may become so entrenched that all the men of Gondor and Arnor combined cannot unseat him. Woe to all of Middle Earth then," spoke Erestor.

Elladan set down the goblet he had just raised to his lips without tasting its contents and met his old tutor's gaze, his own troubled. "He asks for tribute." That shook the others and they all sat up and stared at him, dumbstruck.

"Tribute?" Elrond finally barked. "From whom?"

"Fornost mainly," Elladan shrugged. "Even to Bree and the borders of the Shire, but also the scattered people throughout Rhudaur and the few who have ventured back into Cardolan."

"Ai Valar!" Glorfindel swore. "He would tax the Halflings? By what right does he so?"

"None," observed Elrond archly.

"He is nursing a sore in his heart that grows with every year he breathes," explained Elladan, "resenting the people of the divided kingdom who supported Eärendur's lesser sons and broke the land apart, thus causing the rule of Numenor in the north to collapse. He feels no love for them and is jealous of the effort his army makes to defend such 'disloyal subjects' without recompense. The Hobbits especially inhabit a rich land he deems men should possess and says that is land within the bounds of old Arthedain, so a tribute should be paid by any who would dwell there."

"He has confided this to you?" Elrond was appalled.

"Yes, and to Elrohir and Halbarad, who in turn complains of him and his harsh treatment of the poor folk who have nothing to tithe and no men to swell the ranks of the Rangers. Even Arathorn argues with him constantly over this, yet no voice will Arador hear but his own, no pain does he feel save that he imagines himself to bear, and when pressed too hard claims he is doing all that must be done to assure there is something for his son to inherit."

"No, he is not the one," conceded Erestor with a sigh. "I thank you for this candid report, Elladan. I shall have to summon him."

"As soon as may be," Elrond agreed and rose from the table, the others following suit. With his elder son home, Elrond had no desire to go to the Hall of Fire and watch the selection of the next - he knew not what name to use: lover, partner, victim? All of that. He grimaced mildly and bade his son good rest, pulling him near to kiss his brow ere he left for his private chambers.

Erestor and Glorfindel had no such compunction, curious to see the conclusion of the hunt, and openly trailed Elladan as he prowled down the corridor. Suddenly he stopped and faced them, smiling in a wicked way that made them want to cringe. "I think I spied Lindir heading out through the kitchens. I need to have a word with him if you will excuse me?" He didn't wait for their reply as he changed course and left the house, intent upon crossing the minstrel's path in the gardens. Seneschal and Balrog-slayer traded doubtful glances over it.

The singer was not interested in Elladan's proposal, favouring a more romantic encounter with a lady fair instead of a warrior, and could not be cajoled into any novel experience, though he did promise to stroll beneath Elladan's balcony once the moon reached its zenith and sing a few ballads. Elladan was not in good humour when he reached the Hall of Fire. The vast chamber was surprisingly full, considering all his offers had been rejected before he could even voice them. Of course, many wagers had been set on who would willingly have him in so dark a mood; he knew it well and did not care about that. His need was too great. He searched now for anyone who had not been at table, any face not turned aside for fear of catching his roving eye.

Yet it was not sight that first discovered the ellon, but his ears, for a musical laugh arose above the music and when he turned to mark its source he found blue eyes regarding him from a smiling countenance so fair he caught his breath and forgot to breath for a moment.

Something of beauty.

Tall and slender, he stood in a half-shadowed alcove near the open archway to the gardens, a bounty of golden hair loose about his shoulders. He wore elegant attire meant to accentuate his allure that could not conceal the tempered strength of a warrior's physique. Alone, he exuded that aura of solitary self-sufficiency that so effectively made strangers keep their distance, yet he was most definitely on the prowl and gave Elladan a thorough inspection. The smile he tendered was one of recognition and relief and unbounded desire. He came forth boldly and stood before the stunned orc slayer, and when he spoke the words made Elladan forget his pat and practised seduction:

"I have been waiting for you such a long time."
TBC

Oh, Night compassionate and colourless and sweet,
stare upon this face of horror, sorrow, horrow, harrow

and soothe the Hollow-husk, the empty heart where once my soul thrived. Succour me

with the distant, indifferent caress of infinity that warns, cajoles,

and promises that none of this matters, none of it, and all will pass

just as soon as I do, following my soul and its endless morrows into oblivion.
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Oh, Sorrow

Oh, Sorrow

Something of Beauty yet Remains