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Greenleaf & Imladris 1 - Meldir: At First Sight	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 5912 -:- 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-Part 1
- 2-Part 2
- 3-Part 3
- 4-Part 4
- 5-Part 5
- 6-Part 6
- 3
- 4
- 5
Part IV

It was one of the first but most certainly not the last of their misadventures. In the succeeding days, the three young princes got into enough scrapes to sorely test their parents’ patience. It was as if the incident with Melthoron had unfettered their natural ebullience, which they had tried to suppress at their respective fathers’ behests.

As Elrond wryly put it: “I had hoped Legolas would have a calming influence on them.”

To which an exasperated Thranduil replied: “I had hoped your twins would have that effect on him!”

Adding to the already volatile stew of their combined mischief was the twins’ predilection for involving as many other Elves as possible in their schemes. Thus, Legolas’ friends, Sirgon, Mithrael and Heledir, found themselves hip deep in as much trouble as was possible to get into for any reasonably sensible Elf.

All three had cause to wonder if friendship was worth the peril of being regularly sought by irate Elves bent on ending their young lives. And all three went into hiding when an enraged Elvenking threatened to string up from the highest tree in the forest the perpetrators of the dastardly crime done to the palace’s supply of ale. None of them had ever imagined that Legolas, in collusion with the Rivendell twins, would be audacious enough to lace the ale with a harmless dye that left virtually every guard and servant with shockingly purpled lips and tongues!

But even amidst the turbulence, there were lessons to be learned and knowledge to be uncovered. More so when matters of life and death were at stake.

The twins were adept hunters but they especially relished the challenges of the chase within the deeps of Greenwood with its densely packed trees, hidden trails, tangled thickets, and dark corners, a far cry from the sprawling forests that surrounded Rivendell.

One chase found them with a hunting party a few leagues south of the elven path, the farthest distance the twins had yet traversed from the Wood-elves’ realm. The hunters had tracked a magnificent stag for the past hour or so, cornering it at last in a small clearing.

Elladan crept up silently, bow in hand. It was he who had first seen the stag and now he closed in for the kill. Elrohir and Legolas stayed close behind him. The other hunters hung back, deferring to the older twin’s right to claim this bounty. Elladan looked back as Legolas lightly tapped his arm. The prince pointed across the clearing.

“I will go around and cut it off should it try to escape us that way,” he whispered.

The twins nodded their acquiescence and spared the princeling a brief glance as he moved into the brush before focusing their attention on the stag once more. A moment later they heard a birdcall in the near distance. At the signal, Elladan raised his bow, took aim and let loose his arrow. It flew straight and true into the animal’s breast. The stag reared up and turned and attempted to dash away only to be met with another arrow in its flank. Its knees buckled and then the great beast collapsed, thrashing its legs feebly.

At that instant, the unimaginable occurred. One moment, Elladan was leaping to his feet, an elated cry issuing from his lips; the next moment, something large, hairy and obscenely black crashed through the brush and lunged at him. The older twin just barely managed to dodge the heaving mass of hideous legs and gnashing jaws. The monster went after him, its reeking mouth splayed, revealing a pair of formidable fangs.

“Elladan!” Elrohir was at his brother’s side in an instant, sword drawn and hewing at the creature. The elven blade sliced easily through the thick leathery hide and a ghastly shriek emanated from the spider. Shuddering convulsively, it dragged itself a short distance then collapsed, leaving a viscous trail of foul-smelling chorea in its wake.

Hardly had the brethren managed to catch their breath when another spider emerged from the foliage. Followed by another. And then several more. The twins snapped into fighting stances, back-to-back, facing the new menace with grim determination.

But even as the first of the creatures, slightly smaller in size than the others, hurled itself at them, the brothers heard the twang of arrows and watched as several embedded themselves in the spider’s body. However, the deaths of two of their fellows did not deter the others. They continued their onward march. In the twinkling of an eye, Wood-elves appeared out of the brush, knives and swords drawn. The twins had a moment to recognize Legolas in their midst before plunging into the fray themselves.

The stench was almost overpowering. It was no simple task trying to slay the spiders whilst trying not to gag from the smell of their hides and breath. Not even a Wood-elf of Eryn Galen could long endure such a stink.

Felling yet another spider, Elrohir glanced up to look for his brother. With relief, he saw Elladan rising to his feet after having slaughtered his foe. He turned to go to the older twin when something struck him from behind. He dropped hard to the ground, the breath knocked out of him. In the next instant, he felt sharp fangs sink deep into his left shoulder and he cried out from the shock and pain. The creature bore down on him and a burning, agonizing sensation spilled into his very flesh and blood. His head reeled as darkness threatened to take him but he fought it off furiously, refusing to become so much meat for the abomination that pinned him down mercilessly. He heard Legolas shouting something, the singing of knives as they sliced through the air and sickening thuds as they struck the creature above him.

He gulped down much needed air as the dead weight was rolled off him by the other Elves. But as he staggered to his feet, excruciating pain lanced through his left arm, from the slope of his shoulder to the tips of his fingers. He gasped, reeling, and was caught by Elladan and the Elven prince. They lowered him back down to the ground.

Elrohir drew in a ragged breath. The pain in his arm dissipated only to be replaced by a frightening numbness. His shoulder still throbbed abominably but his arm was an unfeeling appendage that hung uselessly at his side. And the lack of sensation was slowly spreading along his entire left side. He raised horrified eyes to Legolas, eyes swimming dizzily.

“I cannot feel anything!” he hissed. “What devilry is this, Legolas?”

“‘Tis the spider’s venom,” the archer replied, drawing his knife and cutting through the twin’s tunic and shirt at the shoulder. “They render their prey helpless by paralyzing them. Then they store their victims, alive and breathing, as fresh meat for their young.”

Elladan sucked in his breath at the sight of the angry red wounds on his brother’s flesh. A vile-looking amber-colored serum trickled down his pale skin from the deep punctures, mingling with Elrohir’s blood.

Instinct took over and he set to work drawing out as much of the poison from Elrohir’s veins as he could. Neither twin could claim their father’s brilliance in the healing arts as yet; they were too young to have apprenticed for long after all. But they were still his sons and therefore bore the gift in their very blood. Time and experience would hone this inborn talent and there was every indication they would be as skillful as any healer in Imladris.

Legolas watched in fascination as Elladan deftly manipulated the torn flesh, his fingers teasing the venom out of the younger twin’s body. The archer stared in admiration at Elrond’s older son. How could an Elf still in his first century manage such a feat? He pondered the enigma that was Elrond Peredhil, his illustrious forebears and the legacy he would bequeath to his children.

“I am sorry, mellyn nín”—my friends—he apologized at length. “The great spiders have never come this far north before. We did not expect to encounter them.”

“How long have these creatures been here?” Elrohir asked, wincing at a stab of pain as the lack of feeling slowly retreated under his brother’s able fingers.

“No one knows for certain but ‘tis believed they came here from Nan Dungortheb during the Elder Days.”

“Ungoliant’s foul descendants,” Elladan muttered tightly. “Would that they had perished when Beleriand was destroyed.”

Legolas shook his head. “It seems they fled those lands before the Great Battle and took refuge in the east,” he said. “But my people forced them out of the northern reaches of this forest in ages past and have kept them at bay all these millennia. ‘Tis curious and troubling that they dared to venture so close to our realm. All the spider colonies lie further south.”

“Mayhap these were driven here by their fellows and were attempting to establish a new colony,” Elrohir mused, temporarily distracted from his discomfort by the subject at hand.

“Mayhap,” Legolas conceded. “But we will have to search out any survivors and destroy them. We cannot allow them to breed this close to our home.”

Elladan stopped his ministrations, exhausted and a little defeated. “‘Tis all I can do. I have not the skill for more,” he exhaled. “I am sorry, gwanneth.”—younger twin.

“Nay, muindor”—brother—Elrohir replied. “You have done me much good.” He managed to flex his left hand. “There is some feeling in my arm again. And the numbness has ceased in my legs.”

Elladan managed to smile slightly. “I am glad,” he said. “But, come, we must get you back to trained healers.” Together, he and Legolas hoisted Elrohir to his feet.

“Can you walk?” Legolas queried.

“I shall manage,” Elrohir said stoutly. “Here, Elladan, give me your arm.”

Legolas swiftly offered to support the darkling Elf on the other side. As they slowly made their way back, he kept glancing at the brethren with amazement. He was still awe-struck by Elladan’s healing skills at such a tender age. And he was stunned by the younger twin’s fortitude and strength of will. Other Elves had been known to quickly succumb to lesser spider-inflicted wounds but Elrohir had staved off unconsciousness despite the severity of his injury and the amount of venom in his system.

He eyed the Rivendell twins with greater respect.

*******

It was perfectly understandable that many an Elf thought the twins’ mishap would bring some respite to Thranduil’s beleaguered household. With Elrohir confined to the healing rooms and Elladan reluctant to leave his side, it was even forgivable to believe that peace would reign for the duration of the Elf-knight’s recovery.

Everyone should have known better.

Barely two days into his confinement, Elrohir was bristling at his enforced bed rest and demanding he be released. Elrond, knowing the younger twin all too well, sagely advised the Elvenking’s healers to heed his son’s demand. But they indignantly refused. Spider venom was no laughing matter, they gravely pointed out. Elrohir was still suffering from its toxic effects as evinced by his pallor and bouts of weakness. Judging that it would be better to let matters run their course, Elrond graciously acquiesced. As he told Celebrían in private, let them learn the hard way what crossing their son could entail.

The Elf-knight’s scowl when he learned of the healers’ decision was enough to send even the most imperturbable of them hastening out of his room. Refusing to bow to their dictates, he then promptly inveigled his brother into bringing entertainment to him if he would not be permitted to go to it. Elladan did not need much convincing and humored his brother with alarming alacrity.

A day and a half later, the healers hastily and unequivocally decided the younger twin was well enough to leave their care. Their sudden change of heart was not too difficult to fathom as Thranduil soon discovered.

He and Elrond were in his study, just beginning a discussion on the finer points of the proposed alliance, when their conversation was interrupted by his head healer. The Elf pleaded most ardently for an immediate audience. Thranduil acceded to the request and spent several minutes listening to the reason for the healer’s obvious distress. Elrond watched in bemusement as the Elvenking’s expression underwent a startling transformation.

After the healer departed, the king turned back to the Elvenlord, his face a picture of shock and disbelief. He began to pace the room distractedly. Elrond remained seated, awaiting enlightenment.

“They have decided to release your son,” Thranduil suddenly announced.

In an instant, Elrond comprehended what was bothering the golden-haired Elf. He had already been apprised of the situation by his well-informed wife just before his meeting with the king. His lips twitched suspiciously. “Indeed,” was all he said, however.

“It seems he convinced them of the wisdom of letting him go soonest.”

Elrond pursed his lips, manfully stifling the smile that was aching to break out.

“May I inquire as to exactly how he convinced them?” he murmured and prepared himself for the inevitable explosion.

Thranduil’s calm collapsed abruptly. “Maidens and minstrels cavorting in the healing rooms!” he exclaimed incredulously. “And ale, wine and miruvor dispensed to all and sundry like water! Your sons had a third of the patients and apprentice healers giggling like fools, another third sunk in drunken stupors and the rest sneaking into empty chambers for romantic trysts! Elbereth! Do they never run out of ideas to plague all of Arda?!”

Elrond sighed with been-there, done-that equanimity. “I understand ‘twas Legolas who brought in the minstrels,” he smiled wanly. Thranduil stopped his pacing to stare at him in surprise. “It seems he also chose the songs they performed; rather bawdy ones, I believe.”

Realizing Elrond was already cognizant of what had occurred, Thranduil groaned, kingly veneer breaking down under the strain. “If only for your ability to survive in the face of your sons’ capacity for mayhem, I must salute you, Peredhel!” he growled. “Thank the Powers Legolas has no twin. I cannot imagine having to deal with two of him and your sons as well!”

Elrond chuckled. “You would have my deepest sympathy had I not already lived through more than ninety years of mischief multiplied by two. I assure you, this is but a morsel of what Celebrían and I endure nearly every day.”

Thranduil almost groaned again, caught himself, then broke into another exasperated tirade. “Do you know what else they did?” he demanded. “They took it upon themselves to introduce Legolas to the pleasures of the flesh! Right in the healing chambers!” He glared at Elrond. “Where did they think they were? In a brothel?!”

Elrond’s eyebrows lifted at that. “Did they now?” he mused. “I wonder which elleth”—Elf-maid—“they selected for that honor. No doubt she counts herself most fortunate to have been in the right place at the right time.”

Momentarily distracted, Thranduil stared at him. “Honor?” he echoed. “Most fortunate?”

“Aye, Thranduil,” Elrond smiled. “To bed an Elf as comely as your youngest son would be considered a stroke of utmost luck. To be the first to do so would be accounted the greatest privilege.”

The Elvenking regarded him with something close to amazement. “You really are used to this,” he commented on a calmer note.

Elrond leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his wine. “My sons are as voracious as they are precocious,” he admitted. “Do not ask me where they came by this hot-bloodedness of theirs. I certainly was not that profligate in my youth.”

Thranduil stared at him a few minutes longer. Then, unexpectedly, he began to snicker then chuckle and then guffaw until, finally, he was laughing so hard, he had to hold his sides to keep them from hurting overmuch. Elrond stared back at him in surprise.

“I am glad to have amused you,” he remarked. “But, pray tell, what did I say that you find so humorous?”

Thranduil shook his head, struggling to bring his mirth under control. “Ai, ‘tis only that I imagined my father’s reaction had he been here to witness the twins’ questionable abilities. He’d have promptly sailed West even if it meant putting up with all the Noldor of Valinor.”

Elrond’s eyes gleamed with amusement at the image painted by the king. Remembering Oropher’s haughty countenance with its perpetual sneer ever reserved for all the Noldor, he could not help deriving great pleasure from picturing the testy Elf discomfited to distraction. He chuckled heartily, turning the image over in his mind with relish.

“I am heartened to see that you have recovered from his loss,” Elrond remarked after a while. “I hope you no longer think all the Noldor responsible for it.”

Thranduil sobered, the merriment fading swiftly from his face. He shook his head and sighed. “You and your family have done much to convince me that not all the Gelydh are kinslayers at heart. But I will always hold Gil-galad culpable for that tragedy,” he added. “My father’s rashness and folly brought him to his ruin but our people were merely following orders as was their duty. They should not have had to pay for their loyalty with their lives. Your High King failed to consider their welfare when he vented his ire on my father.”

Elrond hesitated then nodded. “I agree,” he quietly conceded. At Thranduil’s surprised reaction, he continued, “Gil-galad let his pride and anger rule him and in doing so contributed to the deaths of innocent Elves. I cannot allow my loyalty to blind me to that fact particularly since I know that his anger towards Oropher began much earlier. Your father’s foolhardy charge was not the main reason for the King’s rancor; it was merely the final straw so to speak.”

Thranduil stared at him wonderingly but when Elrond declined to elaborate further, he decided to let it go for the time being.

“Then we are in accord on this matter,” he said instead. “You surprise me, Elrond; you and yours. My father was wrong about you. I regret I let his prejudices influence me against you.”

Elrond smiled, cheered by the Elvenking’s words. “You surprise me as well,” he countered. “Despite your aversion to my kin, you still sought to mend the rift between our peoples. Few would bend so far if it meant curbing their pride. You are far wiser than your sire ever was, Thranduil, and I say this meaning no offense to his name.”

Thranduil dipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment. After a thoughtful pause, he said: “Elrond? Would you indulge my curiosity?” At the Elf-lord’s encouraging gesture, he pressed on. “About you and the High King—were you and Gil-galad...?” he trailed off delicately.

Elrond groaned out loud. “By Elbereth, if I ever catch him, I will skewer the Elf who fed you that tale, roast him alive and feed him to the Wargs!” he exclaimed. “For the last time, nay, I was not the High-king’s lover! The closest I ever got to his bed was the time Círdan and I had to tuck him in after a particularly liquid feast in Lindon.”

Thranduil stared at him. “Gil-galad passed out from too much drink?” he gasped disbelievingly.

“He never could hold his liquor very well,” Elrond said reminiscently. “And dwarven ale was never meant for elven consumption. At least, not in such copious quantities as he imbibed that night.”

Thranduil began to shake with renewed laughter. “Valar, that is a surprise,” he chuckled. “But if you were not his lover, who was? I confess I believed the tale because he’d named you his herald.”

Elrond suddenly grimaced with melancholy, an expression so at odds with his earlier demeanor, the king was taken aback.

“Actually, he had several lovers of both kind,” the Elvenlord replied. “But I recall one particular Elf he favored so greatly that the departure of this Elf from Lindon caused quite an upheaval in court the likes of which I have yet to witness again.”

Thranduil raised his eyebrows in obvious interest. “Indeed. And who was this esteemed Elf?”

“He was born in Lindon after the Great Battle,” Elrond said, “had golden hair, was of noble lineage being a kinsman of Thingol of Doriath and lived with his father south of the Lhûn. Can you remember the only Elf residing in Lindon at the time who fit that description?”

At first, the Elvenking looked at him in perplexity. And then his eyes widened incredulously as comprehension came upon him.

“You don’t mean—?”

Elrond nodded in gentle affirmation. Thranduil sank down into the chair opposite him, mouth gaping in uncharacteristic gracelessness.

“Sweet Eru, no wonder my father was so eager for us to leave Lindon with Celeborn when he and Galadriel decided to move east,” he muttered. “Elbereth, I never would have guessed!” He glanced at Elrond. “That’s what you meant earlier,” he said. “The main reason for Gil-galad’s rancor towards my father.”

“And for your father’s hostility towards him,” Elrond agreed. “A matter of conflicting interests, you might say. Unfortunately, it also deepened your father’s distrust of the Noldor,” Elrond added. “We weren’t just kinslayers in his eyes; he saw us as corruptors of youth because of Gil-galad’s attraction to you.”

Thranduil snorted. “That was absurd of him. I was no Elfling and knew my own mind even then.”

“Nevertheless, he must have feared you would be seduced by Gil-galad’s position if not by the king himself.” Elrond frowned in remembrance of that distant past. “After you left, Gil-galad had a succession of lovers but he always had a soft spot for you. You were the argument Círdan and I used to persuade him to send help to your father despite his premature attack on Mordor.” He smiled sadly as Thranduil’s eyes flickered in shock. “Though his passion for you had long passed, he did not want to see you harmed.”

Thranduil shook his head in amazement. “Who would have thought it?” he murmured. “Did he know of my rage against him before he...?” he paused, recalling the High King’s fiery end.

Elrond shook his head. “Círdan and I took care to keep your reaction from him,” he said kindly. “We did not want further distractions to cloud his judgment. We led him to believe that you were merely overwhelmed by grief.”

Thranduil let out a pensive breath. “Strange as it may sound, I am glad that you did,” he admitted. “Whatever his role in the deaths of my father and people, I would not have had him bear my hatred unto his death. We all suffered enough as it was.” He shook his head regretfully. “My father should not have hidden this from me. Events may have turned out differently had there been trust and goodwill between us rather than anger and animosity. And had I known the truth, I think I would have accepted Gil-galad’s friendship though not his love. Even had he survived the battle on Orodruin that would not have been possible. You know of my people’s choice in this matter.”

“Aye, I am well aware of the path you had to take,” Elrond said. “I even understand the reasons behind that decision. But I do question the wisdom of sustaining this prohibition indefinitely. Not even we can excise from our beings something we are born with.”

Thranduil smiled slightly. “Time will take care of that matter,” he pointed out. “Time and, possibly, this alliance of ours.” He pursed his lips musingly. “This has been a most interesting afternoon. I wonder what Ithilwen will make of this last revelation.”

Elrond’s suddenly grinned, melancholy quickly forgotten. “She will most likely think you even more desirable for having drawn the High King’s affections,” he suggested archly. “In which case, shall Celebrían and I assume that you will be too busy to attend to us tomorrow?” he asked with spurious innocence.

Thranduil blushed a nice shade of crimson. He glared at Elrond. But his lips twitched. The Elf-lord’s grin was infectious to say the least. The blue eyes narrowed with the king’s effort to keep his feelings in check. With purposeful crudeness, Elrond suggestively licked the rim of his goblet. That did it.

The proud Elvenking threw regal dignity to the wind once more and dissolved into raucous laughter in which the Lord of Rivendell ably joined him. When they finally emerged from the study, both were red from their mirthful exertions. But something more than hilarity had been enjoined. By the evening meal, the alliance between the woodland kingdom of Eryn Galen and the elven-realm of Imladris was duly and most amiably sealed with a chuckle or two thrown in for good measure.

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

Glossary:

Elder days - the First Age

Ungoliant - the giant spider that caused the deaths of the Two Trees of Valinor

Beleriand - northeastern region of Middle-earth in the First Age that sank beneath Belegaer after the Great Battle

Great Battle - the battle between the host of Valinor and the forces of Morgoth in the First Age

Gelydh - Sindarin name for the Noldor

To be continued…
- 3
- 4
- 5
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Greenleaf & Imladris 1 - Meldir: At First Sight