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Aearlinn	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > General Views: 9032 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- 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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Aearlinn - Úgerth uin Ionnath

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ A Little Past Midnight ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Elrohir stood for a long time, watching, fury and hunger mixing, blood rising with more than wrath, enraged as much by his own desire as by the sight of his foster brother busy between the sylvan's wide-spread legs.

They didn't know he was there, of course; no one save Elladan could know he was already in Imladris. Glorfindel's message had reached him, camped with his brother and a group of Rangers on the eastern shore of the Brandywine just north of the Shire. He had not set forth for Rivendell alone, both twins heeding the summons with equal urgency, but he was so now. Elrohir had left his brother behind at the Prancing Pony in Bree, ensuring victory in the race homeward by bludgeoning his sibling over the head with an empty wine bottle. Upon regaining his senses, the elder twin would find his departure further delayed, having also been tied to a chair and gagged. Once he managed to free himself from that, or when the maid entered, whichever came first, Elladan would again discover his pursuit thwarted, for Elrohir had taken both their horses with him.

He'd urged his steed for all haste, despite the solid lead his nefarious cheating guaranteed, avoiding the road after traversing Hoarwell at the Last Bridge. Driven by some aberrant compulsion he couldn't, or wouldn't, define, Elrohir then cut through the bucolic peace of the Angle, crossing Loudwater into the outskirts of Eregion, following in reverse the very path they had taken that dreadful day, camping in the same place where the Wood Elf had first earned his repugnance by teasing his cock.

Now the vile scene replays; my foster brother ensorcelled just the same.

The sylvan Elf sighed faintly, a sound full of anxious discomfort, and shifted on the bed. Elrohir barely breathed, watching, struggling to master his hatred, yet not really, for if that cooled what more virulent emotions must he face then?

"Sîdh," Aragorn soothed. "Does this cause you pain?"

"Nnnay, prezh…pressure." The Wood Elf's voice, hesitant and thick, wavered between fear and hope, hoarse and filled with tears unspilled. A hitched sob followed.

The sound did not move Elrohir to compassion and his lips snarled up in disgust. Drugged again. Worry not, I have an antidote certain to rouse you fully.

Too long he'd restrained his craving for the dissolute creature, fighting the unnatural attraction foisted on his soul the day they'd saved Legolas' life. He didn't find the consuming desire a fitting reward for so valourous a deed. Nay, this was a poison, a morbid, noxious disease. The unwanted perversion gave him no peace. Visions of Legolas troubled his dreams, always just like this, just like he had been then, luring him in with that helpless vulnerability, inciting a need to possess and claim the elf. No matter how much he resisted the hunger never diminished.

I did resist, though, and oh how you punished me for it!

A sharply drawn breath issued from the room. "Daro!" Legolas cried as he tried to pull back.

"Forgive me; you are still tender there," whispered the Man. One hand came away from its work and reached to caress the Elf's smooth belly.

Elrohir's eyes glinted and he swallowed to keep the bile down. He must not harbour anger toward Estel; he was only a Man and had not the strength to resist enchantment.

I resisted, muindor. Why didn't you?

Memories of Elladan's betrayal tore at his heart. The vivid image invaded at the worst moments. Moments when he felt his love for Elladan soothe his spirit, enjoining him to forgive and mend their broken bond. The memories stopped him every time. Over and over he relived it, finding his twin, the other half of his soul with the wounded archer, moving in him, gently supporting the injured body, whispering and cooing into the sylvan ear, stroking excited flesh to completion to the sound of his long low groan of glorious release. So clear was the vision that he could smell Legolas' semen where it shimmered, slick and silver, on Elladan's fingers, see the confusion and fear in glazed blue eyes trying to focus on the elder twin, hear the tender mercy in his brother's insistent reassurances that all was well, he was not alone.

Elrohir thought he would die that day, or become a murderer. He abhorred the Wood Elf, feeding the loathing with the unspent energy of his turbulent cravings. He had to for he couldn't bring himself to despise Elladan. Maybe it would have been wiser to kill the sylvan then, but he hadn't realised that day just what it would mean. He understood now; as long as Legolas breathed he would never be free. Nor would he be able to forgive Elladan, cold wrath drenching his desire for reconciliation, replacing compassion with disgust, reducing his love to impotent despair. It was madness, Elrohir knew that, but it couldn't be stopped. He couldn't fight it anymore.

"Saes, daro," the sylvan mumbled, shifting on the bed.

"Shhh, little one, it is well. Almost done here."

Elrohir's stomach turned even as his libido rose. He encouraged it, unlacing his breeches and fondling his erection. He imagined what the Man was doing with Legolas' unique anatomy. Were his hands in one hole, cock in the other? Aragorn certainly had his hands all up inside the Wood Elf. These final stages of coupling involved that particular fetish of Elladan's, something Elrohir hadn't done for his brother in many years. They didn't do much of anything any more and that was all Legolas' fault, too. Elrohir squeezed and pumped slowly, not wanting to come yet, tantalising himself, the odour of his lust slowly permeating the room so that Legolas would know he was there, waiting his turn.

Does that make you more eager to be done with your latest conquest or do you think to torment me by drawing out this encounter?

He wondered what Elladan would do were he here now. Would he charge in and yank the Man out? Would he be heart-broken to see this and henceforth spurn even the thought of Legolas? Or would he join them, offering the intoxicated Elf his engorged penis to suckle? So lost was he in his fantasy that he missed their moment of culmination, for suddenly Aragorn rose from the bed.

"All is well. There is no harm done that I can detect. Be at peace; I will go fetch Elrond."

"Nay, saes, avvedi," the archer protested.

Elrohir ceased his masturbation, watching as his foster-brother leaned down and kissed Legolas' forehead before leaving the chamber. He heard the low moan of misery that arose from the sylvan throat as the archer struggled against the bonds and a surge of repugnance and excitement coursed through him.

"Still so needy?" he said and stepped into the room. Legolas' eyes instantly sought his and Elrohir smiled cruelly as panic bloomed within them. He wasted no time gloating, however, for his father would soon arrive. Quickly he climbed on the mattress and spared just a moment to appreciate the sight before him, for Legolas was not only incapacitated with drugs but bound to the bed, each arm secured. Rope didn't encircle the wrists but instead was knotted about the crook of the elbow. As for the rest of him, the archer's legs were splayed wide and propped up on cushions, his genitals on display, lax but red and chaffed as if from continuous and vigourous friction. Elrohir's nose crinkled in distaste. "How many times have you been fucked this night?"

"Nay!" the Wood Elf cried and sluggishly aimed a kick at the younger twin. He struggled as his ankle was neatly caught, as was the other when he tried again to fend off this assault.

"Please, you have been wanting this for ten years, as have I." Elrohir's harsh words interrupted the futile effort at escape. He sent the captive Elf a triumphant leer, pulling the legs up high and wide, and penetrated the tight, dry anus with a powerful thrust bearing all the strength of his body and all the weight of his hatred. Legolas' frantic shout of pain, outrage, and desperation thrilled him and while a part of his soul recoiled from this grotesque delight Elrohir couldn't stop, ramming in and out in a quickening tempo, shutting his eyes to the writhing figure beneath him, refusing to acknowledge the overprint of sheer terror in the sylvan's sweat, driven to achieve orgasm and thus be cleansed of this unholy obsession.

"Will you be appeased now and lift the enchantment, now you've had us all?" he panted out, pounding against the rigid resistance, trying to block out the high-pitched keening issuing from the Wood Elf. He heard the faint impression of elven steps running down the hall followed by the heavier tread of a human. They were coming, but so was he. With a final, brutal shove Elrohir threw back his head and shouted out his deranged satisfaction just as the door flew open.

"Elrohir! No!"

Elrond's voice rang with horror and Elrohir turned to share his moment to victory. He pulled out of the body encasing him and dropped the long, lean legs so his father could see him, still half hard, still trembling as delicious tendrils of pleasure coursed through his nerves. With a gurgling wail, Elrond turned aside and bent double from the waist, vomiting in revulsion.

"Ada? Nay! Adar!"

With a painful lurch of his gut Elrohir came to his senses, gasping and crying out as he flailed against his blankets, his hand sticky and the air redolent with the scent of his release. He sat up with a loud groan of anguish, chest heaving in the aftermath of the dream and its sordid conclusion, shocked and shamed and terrified of what it meant. Hastily he snatched at the grass and leaves, wiping frantically at the mess on his fingers, realising that those were tears falling from his eyes and the strange noise he was hearing arose from his pitiful whimpering. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and sat still, waiting for his heart to settle.

Praise Eru I am alone.

He got up and fastened his leggings. Knowing he would not sleep again, or rather fearing to do so, Elrohir gathered up his things and departed the camp, intent upon crossing the Bruinen before dawn.

Glorfindel was right; Legolas must go back over the mountains and into the forest. With so much distance between us, this dark passion will torment me no more.

Before he had journeyed a league, Elrohir spied the fading glow of embers from a dieing fire and all around the small campsite clung the scent of sweet smoke and the hum of strong magic. Though he was still a ways off, he had come too close to the barrier not to have alerted the Istar and wasn't sure whether to be glad or irritated. Sometimes, listening to Gandalf's counsel made a situation much more complicated than it need be and yet there was no denying the Maia had an uncanny knack for turning up when counsel was sorely needed. Before he could decide the wizard materialised seemingly out of the air itself.

"Ah, Elrohir. Good. It's high time, too. Where is your brother?"

"Suilad, Mithrandir. Elladan's about half a day behind and closing fast. What news?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Simultaneously, in the Hall of Fire, Glorfindel tells a story ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The dawn was no more than a glint of pale gold, a mere hint of the day peeking out through a bright slit of gleam beneath a sky walled over with dense, dull clouds, low and heavy like the ceiling of a cave. Dawns like this made the world seem a small, tight place, lean and joyless, lacking free space for moving, though all the vast plains betwixt Gwathlo and Mitheithel might fill one's gaze. It was cold, too, though winter was fast retreating, and a graceless frost clung to the rotted grass while the slow breeze had enough bite left to cause most living things to stay abed and wait for the sun to warm the land. Here and there upon the open verge crusty patches of old grey snow, mighty drifts in Narwain's prime, clung on tenaciously and dared Anor to show her face and contend against them. The compressed, red clay of the narrow road was frozen hard, as stiff and unyielding as stone to any foot that trod it.

Came three horses upon that road, necks arched proudly and tails flung high, fair beasts and noble, striking northwest out of the pass from the Dimrill Dale, heading for the lowlands of Bruinen across Eregion. Bold, broad, and mighty were these steeds, like the mounts of kings and legends from the Elder Days. In the stillness of the emergent day, the percussion of their hooves was jarring and loud and echoed from the retreating mountains as if a ghostly host followed. The trio did not travel abreast nor in file. One, wheaten and white like the colour of the dawn, cantered several lengths in the lead while the remaining pair, each dark as a moonless night save a white-starred brow, galloped side-by-side behind.

The riders borne by these uncommon chargers were no less majestic and regal to behold. Like Lords they rode, comely and stern of countenance, seated straight-backed and sure, cloaked and hooded against the climate. Gloved hands lightly gripped the reins and booted feet rested in the stirrups, yet it seemed these were but contrivances for show, so complete was their accord with the horses. The rich capes rippled in their wind-wake, rising and rolling with the steady gait, permitting intermittent glimpses of a hilt or scabbard, for the riders were armed with magnificent broadswords worthy to be wielded by such valiant and noble folk. Though their faces were shrouded in the shade of their down-drawn hoods, the very set of their shoulders and the proud carriage of their heads proclaimed them masters of all they passed along the way.

Anyone looking upon them then would be overcome with awe tending toward dread and quickly bow low, eyes cast down lest they draw the riders' piercing stares. Yet for all the aura of power restrained, there was no malice in their mien, only the natural grace and wisdom of their kind, for these were not Men upon the road but Elves. Lords indeed they were and are, legendary Elves of a calibre seldom seen in any Age, being none other than Elrond Half-elven and his twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir. Still, though much of the known history of the world included their names, the trio went abroad unrecognised, for only when they wished it would their true nature be evident to lesser folk. At this time they wished it not and so to any who chanced to look they seemed instead to be mighty shoguns of Men.

Now their errand had taken them across Hithaeglir through Dîn Caradhras, escorting Arwen Undomiel to the land of Lothlorien, there to visit a time with her grandparents. The duty completed, the Lords of Imladris were returning to the peace and serenity of their hidden haven, glad to have met no obstacles yet grim over recollection of another time when they had not attended Elrond's fair Lady-wife on the same journey. It will be long before Middle-earth recovers from the loss of such a gracious and kind being, it is said, and longer still before the son of Eärendil heals in heart and soul. So everyone who knew them believed, none more than Elrond himself. Therefore they travelled in silence, each lost in remembrance of unreconciled regrets and irrevocable deeds.

Across the lonely marches of Eregion they sped, through the once fair country of Hollin. There in times long past the Noldorin folk resided in prosperity and peace until the advent of Anatar and his treacherous gifts. By mid morn, the west wind had come up to greet the Elven Lords, breaking the iron-hued clouds and promising to scatter the fragments away to the east. The sun beamed down on tall stately holly trees, survivors of the rigours of battle, planted when Eregion was a thriving realm. Now Hollin was deserted, barren of even the lesser creatures of woods and meads. These few evergreens were the only living things dwelling there who remembered the place's history.

Beneath his cloak the face of Elrond was dour as he looked upon the land and recalled the terrible wars that had driven him in defeat to the hidden vale. He noted the trees but could not see them as they truly were: sturdy, stalwart, and filled with respectful joy to behold the hero of the war, one who had striven to the utmost to turn back the evil of Sauron. Elrond looked upon them and instead saw what they had been then: caught fast in the madness of battle and mayhem as Orcs and Elves fought and died at the roots of their unmoving bolls.

All around him he heard the discordant noise of war: screams of agony and rage, cries of wrath and fear, pleas for help and curses of ignominy. The clash and screech of blade against blade underscored a lighter higher, sound as arrows flew from Elven bows. The fresh clean sent of wintry air was occluded with the dark odours of blood and entrails, burning wood and seared flesh, and over all the stink of defeat. Everywhere he turned, Elrond's eye marked a spot where a comrade or kinsman had fallen; death in all its gruesome forms marred the beauty of the place. Though many thousands of years had passed, the scars had not faded.

The Lord grimaced, sealing his eyes against the vision for a moment but it did not help. He could still hear it, still smell it. Cruel laughter of foul Orcish soldiers rang out. The persistent zing of an Elvish bowstring sang. A harried cry of pain and rage punctuated the noise. The smell of blood and fear permeated his nostrils. It was all so clear and distinct he could almost believe it was happening now.

"Hark!" said Elladan and Elrohir together and reined back their steeds.

Elrond's eyes snapped open and he turned toward the undeniable sounds of a dire struggle.

"Some evil work is at hand, for surely that was the fair voice of an Elf." Elladan announced.

"Fair was the voice but foul was the curse," growled Elrohir.

"And fraught with pain. One of our kin is beset," added Elladan, "though I have heard of no Elven folk wandering here."

"Whatever may be their country, let us hasten or mayhap there will be no fair voice left to answer such musings," admonished Elrond. He threw back his cloak with a flourish and unsheathed his sword. With a quiet word he urged his charger for speed and they sprang away toward the conflict.

His sons followed. Racing across country the three Lords discovered a small dip in the land where a tight copse of hollies filled the bowl. There among the trees clustered seven Orcs, taunting and jeering as they attempted to bring down a lone Elf who had taken to the branches. Even as they drew closer, the last of the archer's arrows was expended, piercing the cheek of one of the vile monsters as it heaved its bulk into an adjoining tree.

It fell with a screech and the Elf used the moment to draw a long knife from his belt. Laughing in derision, the remaining six fiends swarmed into the branches, slashing out with their crude swords whenever they saw a chance. They inflicted numerous glancing slices and it was obvious they were toying with their prey. The Elf fought back, parrying and blocking with skill and agility, using the branches for cover, striking a blow when he could, but time and numbers were against him. Already badly wounded, his thigh pulsed blood from a deep gash. Desperate, he sought to climb higher where the limbs wouldn't bear the Orcs' weight, but was hindered by a new opponent from which he would not run, much to the Noldorin Lords' dismay.

"What madness is this?" cried Elladan. He didn't wait for a response, hurtling a soul-chilling war-cry into the air as he charged into the fray. Elrohir was right beside him, of course, and together they leaped into the branches, stabbing and hacking at anything that reeked of Mordor. Lord Elrond was silent and cunning, letting his sons draw the enemies' attention and attacking unawares.

The battle between the archer and the Orc commander was horrible for he cursed his opponent in his fey speech, the words fraught with horrific pain and grief, and he seemed not to care that his headlong attack was doomed to failure, for he had but a long knife between the Orc's sabre and his flesh. The other beasts drew back, suddenly discovering they had three more Elves to fight. Indeed, the Lords of Imladris proved more than their match. Even as Elladan sent the last one to its death, its ugly head falling while its putrid body sagged in the branches, the archer dispatched the leader.

With an enraged shout he buried his knife in its brain through the eye, kicked it from the heights, and watched in satisfaction as it plummeted down to land with a subdued thud. He grinned and spat down upon it, his manner suggesting that was an even worse insult than being killed. His strength was failing, though, and the next instant he crumbled down into a groaning heap, latching tight to a branch with one hand while the other covered his latest wound: a nasty slash across the chest that dipped into his side, the price he had paid for the victory.

Now until Elrond and his sons heard the primitive tongue spoken by their valiant comrade, they had assumed the archer would be from Lothlorien, for those folk ventured from the Golden Wood at times. They were nothing less than amazed to discover that the Elf huddled against the trunk was from Mirkwood across the mountains. It was a rare thing to see a Wood Elf at large in the lands of the west. In fact it was unprecedented. The twins had never set eyes on one while Elrond hadn't seen any since the end of the Second Age. It was a riddle to be solved later, however, for the sylvan was rapidly weakening.

"Elrohir, bring my supplies," Elrond called and hastily ascended to determine how serious the injuries were. Soon he reached an adjacent branch and reached for the Elf. To his shock he found a dagger at his throat and anguished blue eyes warning him off. Balancing as best he could, he lifted one hand in a sign of friendship. "Sîdh, archer, I will not harm you. I am a healer; let me aid you."

He smiled to add reassurance but it was quite unnecessary for the knife hand dropped, the Elf slumped over unconscious, and Elrond had to make a hasty grab to prevent him from falling. Then it was all he could do to keep from losing his own footing. He was about to shout for help when he felt Elladan's strong grip on his arm. Together they managed to get the injured sylvan from the branches and being first on solid ground Elladan reached out and took the insensible warrior in his arms. Seeing their struggle to get out of the tree, Elrohir had wisely refrained from adding more weight to the burdened limbs and quickly laid out a blanket some distance away from the Orc corpses. To this Elladan carried the Elf, Elrond close behind, and laid him gently down.

"See if you can find water," suggested Elrond, kneeling to begin the examination. He could see at once how grave it was, for not only had the Elf lost a great deal of blood but one of the wounds looked to be poisoned. He was busy removing the torn tunic and shirt, concerned to learn if the blade had pierced a lung, and it wasn't until he needed the water that he realised neither one of his sons had moved. He looked up sharply, first at one and then the other, and caught each one's mesmerised gaze locked upon the injured archer's face. Elrond frowned, for it was quite unlike their normal efficient manner and at the same time he found the situation not unfamiliar. He hadn't time for such puzzles, or rather his patient didn't, and the Lord of Imladris found himself very determined to save this Elf.

"Elladan, I need water. Now, son."

The elder twin blinked and looked at his father in mild confusion. "Aye. Forgive me, I thought Elrohir had gone to get it." With that he ran to the horses and brought back his water skin. It wasn't enough but it would do for the time being. The task done, he knelt beside his father, ready to assist if needed.

Elrohir knelt on the other side of the prone figure, one hand upon the Elf's shoulder in case he should wake and need to be restrained. The sylvan moaned weakly as Elrond probed and cleaned the jagged cut. On impulse, Elrohir bent over and pressed his forehead against the patient's. "Be at peace, we will help you heal, you are not alone now." He smiled, feeling the faint sigh emitted from the archer, convinced his comforting words had been heard. He exclaimed in protest when a hand shoved him roughly back and in surprise Elrohir found himself staring into his father's furious face.

"You are hindering me," Elrond snapped. "If you would help, then apply pressure here and do not let up until I say." He grabbed Elrohir's hand and slapped it atop a thick wad of gauze over the chest wound, pushing down to show how much pressure to apply. "The rib is cracked, so not too much."

"Aye, Adar," Elrohir's voice was cold. "I know how to do this; we have done it before many times."

"Then don't behave like a swooning maid who's never seen a sword wound, muindor," admonished Elladan. He had taken it upon himself to begin cutting away the cloth of the blood-soaked leggings to reveal the worst of the injuries. He shook his head in dismay. "I don't know how he climbed a tree with such an injury."

"Instinct," muttered Elrond. "The desire to live overrides the pain and Wood Elves will always take to the trees if any are near at hand." He sighed as he wiped away the thick blood attempting to clot around the gaping hole. There was a distinct odour, sickly sweet, arising from the fluid and the torn flesh looked as if it had been burned, blackened and puffy. "As I feared, he has been poisoned. Elladan, see if you can find an Orc blade and determine what toxin was used this time."

"Can't Elrohir do it? I went to fetch the water."

"What?"

"I'm rather busy, muindor," Elrohir reminded his brother. "Don't you want to help our friend recover?"

"Of course I do!" Elladan jumped up and stepped over the stricken warrior to loom above his twin, anger twisting his features, hands tightened into hard fists. "How dare you suggest such a thing? You don't want me to stay beside him. You want yours to be the voice he hears; your face he sees when he opens his eyes, that's what it is."

"Elladan!" Elrond stared in amazement at his eldest son. Rarely did this one raise his voice, even as an elfling he was not wont to shout in anger, preferring a level head to plot his schemes and revenge whenever the brothers were at odds. Which they have not been in many long centuries. "What has come over you?"

"I don't care which of us stays," countered Elrohir. "Come and take my place if you like and I will find the poisoned blade."

"Fine, I will." Elladan crouched down beside his brother and waited for him to rise. Elrohir didn't budge and the twins locked eyes, glaring in silent fury at one another. "Move," hissed the elder.

"You move," growled Elrohir, vaguely surprised at his stubborn refusal, for he had really meant his offer to swap places. When it came down to it, however, he found he really didn't want to leave the Wood Elf after all.

"Both of you go," ordered Elrond, concerned over this bizarre behaviour but unable to spare the time to sort it out. "I can stabilise him enough for the moment. Search the area and find out if there are any other victims. I doubt he was out here alone. I will finish this and move our patient to a safer and more inviting locale." He was busy binding the chest wound and didn't bother to meet their eyes. He would have been disturbed if he had, for his sons were gazing at him with open suspicion.

They did as he bade them, grudgingly arising and walking slowly away into the surrounding land, casting many a backward glance toward their father and the sylvan archer. Once they were amid the stinking carcasses of the dead Orcs, the strange mood left them and they set about their task with grim determination. In no time they discovered a bloody blade with the same sickening smell wafting from its gory surface. Searching the arrow-pierced body of the Orc in whose rigid grasp it was still clutched yielded a small leather pouch strongly saturated with the aroma. They cut the prize from the Orc's belt and moved on.

Following the trail of the battle was not difficult, for the ground was littered with many Orcs, each felled by Elven arrows drawn from their unknown comrade's quiver. At first there were only Orcs, but as they went along they found an Elf dead alongside the Orcs he had slain. The brothers halted and stared down in horror at the figure, for a gaping wound decorated his neck and this was the blow that had ended his life. That was not what had them so stupefied. It was the source of the fatal strike, for clutched in the warrior's hand was a mithril dagger, smeared with First-born blood. The warrior had slit his own throat. The twins shared their disbelief silently and moved on.

Five more Elves were found amid a large array of dead Orcs. The sylvan warriors had turned to make a stand, hoping to purchase the other two a chance for escape. They had all died gruesome deaths, one decapitated, one gutted, another bludgeoned about the head so severely his scull had broken, and one had killed himself, just as the other they'd found. Feeling ill with outrage the brothers continued the journey and saw ahead the place where it had all started. The Elves had camped amid a knot of trees on a small rise of land.

The hill was the only high point in the area and everyone knew to avoid the place, for it was rumoured a hidden enclave of Orcs was nearby. The brothers had been seeking it for many years, unsuccessfully. Usually when they heard of an Orc attack in the vicinity, their investigation revealed at most a few dead Orcs and the remnants of whatever human camp had been destroyed. Where the Orcs went remained a mystery, for their easily followed trail simply vanished at the bottom of the hill. The brothers suspected there was an underground fortress of sorts but had not located any entrance.

"Foul beasts!" spat Elladan as they reached the Elves' camp beneath the trees. "Obviously, they have never fought against Wood Elves or they would not have attempted such a raid. I doubt any of the Orcs in this band survived. Eriador owes a great debt to these sylvan fighters."

"Indeed," said Elrohir quietly. He was examining what was left of the Elves belongings in hopes of learning something of their reasons to be so far from home, but there was nothing conclusive. He caught his breath, however, as he came upon a fallen warrior who bore a significant resemblance to the one in their father's care. His eyes met Elladan's. "Brothers?"

"Aye, if not father and son. Adar has care of the younger, surely," answered Elladan.

"We must see to them before scavengers defile the bodies."

"True, but let us get this vile poison to Adar lest we lose the last survivor. Mayhap he can explain this puzzle if he survives."

That decided, the twins retraced their steps and after some time found their father and the injured Elf in a new location. It was easy to do so for the patient was screaming. Loud cries of excruciation were intermixed with pleas in a language they didn't comprehend, though they could tell it was derived from a primitive form of Quenya. One word only could they distinguish and that was because it was a name, one he called over and over, that and a heart-wrenching cry for his naneth.

Elrond had carried the Wood Elf a short distance to a shaded copse beside a small stream. There he had stripped off the patient's remaining clothes, bathed and sutured the wounds, and now was frantically trying to aid the suffering creature through the onslaught of the poison. Horrific convulsions seized his body and he shook in rigid agony, terror and madness shining in his fevered eyes. Just as the twins ran into the makeshift camp, the poor soul slipped into oblivion again.

"Thank Elbereth!" breathed Elrond as Elladan held out the noisome pouch. The healer had removed his cloak to use as a blanket to cover the naked Elf and had also cast off his sword, his boots, and his tunic. This was rolled up and stuffed under the patient's neck in an attempt to provide some support and comfort. Yet as soon as Elrond had the bag in his hand his praises turned to curses; a more insidious toxin he had never encountered, and indeed had only learned of it by studying the traces of its effects left in the humans brought to him by their kin to heal. He had never succeeded in saving a single one and their deaths had been terrible, filled with agony and loss of reason.

"Aye, we thought it was the same, too," mourned Elrohir. "Is there anything you can do to create a counter-poison?"

"There is, but I fear the process will take too long to be of aid to this victim," answered Elrond. "There were no other survivors?"

"Nay," Elladan shook his head. He fell to his knees beside the stricken warrior and took up his limp right hand, reverently cradling it between his own, caressing the calluses wrought by long years of handling a bow. Then he lifted the fingers up to his lips and kissed them gently, holding the hand against his cheek afterward, a faraway look suffusing his eyes where they rested on the now peaceful countenance of the archer. "He mustn't die," he whispered hoarsely.

"He will not," announced Elrond irritably and snatched the sylvan's hand from his son's clasp. "Don't paw at him so, Elladan, he needs rest and comfort."

"I was giving comfort, Adar," complained the elder twin. "Shouldn't you be working on the cure?"

"I shall. Shouldn't you two see to the dead?"

"Aye, we must. Come, muindor, let us lay those valiant fighters to rest with as much honour as we may in this befouled place." Elrohir leaned over and tugged at his brother's arm, drawing him up. He did not understand the strange contention over the wounded Elf and it disturbed him, for he felt it too: an overpowering urge to stay close and protect the failing sylvan. Somehow he knew, if this Elf were his bond-mate he would never let him perish, so strong was the effect of his presence. If need be, he would lend him his very soul to see him healthy and whole again. The next instant he was considering the possibility of making the Elf his to ensure that outcome.

"What is it, Elrohir?" asked Elladan sharply, seeing the intensity of his brother's stare as his eyes unmistakably tracked over the covered form from head to toe. His brother startled and looked back at him in bewilderment.

"I know not. I feel strange. Don't you?"

"Nay, I do not," he denied and blushed, for it was a blatant lie and both knew it. "Come and aid me in this task." Now Elladan was the one doing the tugging, eager to get Elrohir away from the unconscious Elf, though he couldn't say why he wanted this so much. They set forth, again casting their eyes behind them to mind what their father was doing with the Wood Elf. As before, once past a certain point the uncommon sensations retreated. Abruptly Elrohir halted and Elladan turned to him expectantly.

"The distance has put us beyond the range of scent!" he exclaimed in surprise, clutching at Elladan's arm.

"Aye, you're right. What does it mean?" asked his brother, but Elrohir only shrugged.

The pair continued and set about the chore of burning the fallen Elves, for it was impossible for just the two of them to dig graves quick enough and deep enough to prevent buzzards and carrion feeders from desecrating the remains. They decided to use the hilltop for the pyre and carried the deceased there. The dead Orcs they dragged away and cast into the barren field below the hill, there to rot, for no creature, no matter how starved, would consume the decaying flesh of an Orc, save another Orc. All the Elves' belongings that were salvageable they collected, hoping to be able to present those to any kinfolk that awaited the warriors' return to Mirkwood.

From the one who resembled their patient they kept a fine bow and quiver, a hunting knife, a gold ring, and a cunning broach of mithril in the shape of a stag with which his cloak had been fastened. They could not know that it was customary among the sylvans to let all a fallen warrior's effects go with him into death, for Noldorin beliefs were quite different from those of the woodland folk. This all took quite some time and it was dusk before they lit the fires. Deciding to make a spectacle that would be visible long leagues away, they let the entire hilltop burn, trees and all. Again this was something that would have sickened the Wood Elves had they seen it, but to the twins the place was too steeped in evil for the hollies there to escape ruin, and they could not hear the voices of green life.

Orange and red the flames reached high and dispelled darkness; thick and acrid the smoke billowed out, caught and spread by the wind to lie upon the land, a thin and eery fog filled with ash and sorrow. This blaze would be the starting point for the tale of the Wood Elves' heroic battle, their tragic victory over the Orcs. Gone was the plague of evil; no more would the hated monsters terrorise travellers and the mortals scattered in nearby farms and villages. The brothers would tell this story when folk asked them about the fire; they would share it with the Rangers. In this way the account would go into the lore of the humans and become part of their legends. It was fitting in the twins' thoughts for those who would benefit from the Wood Elves' sacrifice to know of it and so honour the memory of the fallen.

Long into the night the funeral pyres burned, and Elladan and Elrohir offered what songs and prayers they new to speed the departed to the safety of Námo's keeping. Every now and then the wind would shift and bring to their ears the dreadful cries of the suffering Elf in their father's care.

As dawn arrived the embers were reduced to black charcoal from which thin blue curls of ghostly smoke wended toward the west, for the wind had shifted, returning from the east and bringing back the ominous clouds. Carefully the brothers raked together all the smouldering ashes and remaining bits of bone, burying this as deeply as they could dig using the Orcish blades in place of spades. A few last prayers they spoke and then sought for clean water to cleanse away the soot, their mood sombre and depressed. Before the sky brightened, the faint noise of the wounded Elf's cries had ceased and they feared the worst. Paused beside the spring which fed the freshet where their father was camped with the patient, Elladan ventured to bring it up.

"Do you think he lives?"

"I doubt it. If he does then he has lapsed into coma and will not continue much longer. It sickens me."

"Aye, I feel a horrendous grief just imagining him dead. This is strange, for it is as strong as if I loved him, which I don't."

"I feel that, also."

They were silent for a time, each burdened with bewilderment and shame for experiencing such a reaction. Then Elrohir sighed.

"We must discuss it."

"I've no wish to confront such a fault in my character, yet I will with you. It's true, I desired the Elf for my own."

"'Twas the same for me. I know not how I could feel aroused by such a horrible catastrophe."

"Mayhap it is some kind of magic. It is rumoured these woodland fey can generate spells of enchantment."

"Then why wasn't Adar influenced by it?"

"He was. Didn't you see how angry he became when I tried to comfort the wounded creature?"

"Aye, and he was eager to send us off so he could be alone with the sylvan."

Now the brothers shared a look of dread between them and made haste to return to the camp. They knew as soon as they arrived that something was vastly different and their hearts sank. Elrond was seated by the injured Elf, holding him close in his arms and rocking him, stroking his hair and murmuring soft words in his ear. The Wood Elf was trembling but quiet, all his attention fixed on the Elven Lord, fingers knotted in the lore-master's long black tresses. Elrond planted a little kiss on his brow and smiled gently before looking up to face his sons. He smiled as they stood there staring in disbelief.

"Adar." Elladan swallowed and tried to continue. "You have…what have you done?"

"Saved his life of course. Did I not promise that he wouldn't die?"

"You bonded with him? How could you do this?" Elrohir stepped closer, angry and disgusted. "You have lain with a sick and fading Elf; there cannot have been consent!" His hostility affected the Wood Elf, who flinched and pressed his face against Elrond's chest.

"Be calm! Your wrath is misplaced, Elrohir. Sit and allow me to explain this."

"It is enchantment!" exclaimed Elladan, pointing at the wounded figure and taking a step back.

"Nay it is not so," Elrond shook his head vehemently. "It is purely an instinctive response for the preservation of life, unique among the sylvan Elves, I believe. Please, be seated and hear me." He waited a moment or two but they refused to join him by the fire, glaring in disappointed outrage. Finally he shrugged and began the tale.

"I beheld the phenomenon after Oropher led his warriors in battle against Sauron's army at Dagorlad. The sylvans were ill-equipped for such a fight, for they had not been to war like that before, not in all the long years of the time before time, nor during the First Age. The only fighting they knew was beneath their trees where they were more than adept in keeping Melkor's dark creatures at bay.

"You must recall that they wore no armour of any kind. Only the Sindar among them carried swords. They were not accustomed to firing their bows when horsed and many had never ridden before the war. It was a massacre. So many died; the horror of it nearly broke our resolve to hold the siege and only Gil-galad's strong will prevented mass desertion that day. We saved as many as we could, sending in reinforcements to draw away the enemy and grant the few remaining a chance to retreat.

"They left none still breathing behind, yet most of the injured were so badly damaged that they expired in the arms of family members or bond-mates. That is when I saw this thing, and felt it, for the first time. As a healer, I did what I could to aid them and came upon a warrior in as bad a state as our friend here. I felt a powerful urge to protect him, to give over to him my own soul so that he would not perish, for his own light was too depleted to redeem him. As I pondered this peculiar desire, feeling just as you two do now: disgusted with myself for an unclean lust, another sylvan came to me and pulled me away.

"'This is not your place,' he growled, a look within his eyes that promised my death if I got between him and the other Elf.

"I wisely stepped aside and watched as he gave in to the same intoxicating feelings coursing through my veins, mating with the Elf on the spot! Of course I was shocked but no more so when the injured one's condition improved. His natural healing gift was supplemented by the other Elf's life energy. The two were bonded, soul to soul. I left them to tend others in need of my care." Elrond paused, trying to gage his sons' reaction to this account. "There was no sylvan warrior to step in this time," he concluded quietly.

The brothers were silent for a time, trying to digest this news, and shared their apprehension and dawning fury in a wordless whorl of conflicting thoughts and emotions. At last Elrohir spoke.

"You have given this unknown Elf your soul. You have replaced our Naneth with this Wood Elf!" his voice shook with his outrage.

"Nay! No one could replace Celebrian! Her place in my heart is sacred," Elrond carefully laid the archer down and rose to confront this accusation.

"Sacred? How can you speak such a word when you have just bound your soul to another?" Elrohir demanded. It was Elladan who answered him.

"Peace, muindor. It was not something he chose. Were you not listening? The sylvan has enchanted him. You know we felt it, too."

"It is not magic," insisted Elrond, "but a natural defence particular to their race. Who knows, mayhap all Elves have this mechanism inherent in their nature, but only the Wood Elves have been close enough to extinction to bring it forth."

"Aye, we felt it, but Adar chose to act on it." Elrohir ignored his father's input. He turned away, unable to bear the sight of the afflicted Elf, abandoned on the blanket. "He chose that over our Nana." He flung out his hand to point at the figure huddled on the ground.

"Elrohir, please listen to me," his father pleaded, reaching out to clasp his son's shoulder. "Nothing could be further from the truth. I have done this only to spare his life. No love cements the bond and no doubt it will fade as his own strength returns. I beg you to try and understand. Celebrian would not hold this infidelity to heart and neither should you."

"Heed him, muindor. It could have easily been one of us. I am certain the link is temporary; have faith," implored Elladan.

Elrohir glared hard at his father and jerked free of his hold. He moved toward the fragile warrior but found Elrond barring his way, eyes blazing with warning. Elrohir's lips twisted into a bitter smile and he nodded grimly. "Have faith? Look at him! He would attack me, his own flesh and blood, to protect his new lover. Does that seem like a shallow bond to you? I tell you this is enchantment and we will not soon be rid of that creature. I am not content to have him in our mother's place. Can you not see the shame this will bring to our family? What are we to say to Arwen?"

"It is not your place to speak of it to Arwen," cautioned Elrond. "This is my concern as it is my soul that is encumbered. I am her father and I will tell her."

"An encumbrance he did not have any choice over, Elrohir," added Elladan. "We must make the best of it. Arwen will understand."

"How can you so quickly change your thoughts and support this?" demanded Elrohir, furious with his brother. Then his eyes narrowed and he backed away several steps. "It is that dissolute creature's doing! This is some kind of sylvan spell and now you are under its pall, too."

"That is nonsense and you know it!" shouted Elrond, but regretted it at once as the Wood Elf moaned in fright to hear the anger in his voice. He forgot Elrohir and hurried back to the blankets, gathering up the archer and cradling him carefully against his heart. He was soon rocking again, whispering consolation and encouragement as his fingers carded through the long golden hair.

"You see?" queried Elrohir sourly. "This is not meet. The Lord of Imladris should not be bound to a lowly woodland archer. He doesn't even know the Elf's name."

"Legolas," said Elrond softly, his voice limned in the first blush of a powerful emotion he was not yet prepared to acknowledge. "His name is Legolas."

Glorfindel paused and took a deep breath, gazing around at the faces surrounding him, meeting the eyes fixed upon his features, for his audience was rapt in the enthralling tale. The flames danced in the Hall of Fire, casting a soft warm glow of radiance over all, and the room was so quiet the sound of the breeze in the leaves seemed loud. Yet none paid it any notice for their attention was centred on the Balrog Slayer. Even Erestor and Arwen, who knew the story as well as he, listened with eager ears. The humans were completely caught up in the narration, leaning forward where they were seated so as not to miss a single word nor the most minute nuance of tone and inflection, and Glorfindel was pleased.

Now it must be remarked here that this is all the story that Glorfindel knew to tell, yet it was not the entire truth. That was known only between the four elves involved, though those close to Elrond's family could guess there was more to the contention than this, for after the passing of ten years, Elrond had yet to reconcile with Elladan and Elrohir. The mortals of Gondor and Dol Amroth would not suspect a darker chain of events, however, and were satisfied with what they heard, for it was fantastic enough to their ears.

By now the woebegone outbursts from Elrond's chambers had ceased and the Elves knew the sylvan had been drugged. The humans were merely grateful the poor creature was beyond suffering but Erestor, Glorfindel, and Arwen were concerned, realising how much Legolas hated to be helpless. They were not sure it was better to spare him one discomfort by inducing another.

"It was the poison, wasn't it?" asked Echthelion, grimly breaking the silence. "The other Elves cut their throats rather than face the torment of the poisoned wounds." To this Glorfindel only nodded.

"This hidden outpost of Sauron's minion, has that been found?" Aragorn wondered aloud, for he had heard of it many years ago and even searched for it before departing Eriador to begin his errantry in Gondor.

"Nay, though the raids have ceased. It is as the twins surmised; all the Orcs were destroyed by the sylvan warriors that day. No others have replaced the vile enemies and the way is safe from Imladris to the Pass because of it," replied the Balrog Slayer proudly.

"What happened next?" asked Prince Adrahil.

"They brought The Sylvan here and he has been in Imladris ever since," Erestor concluded the story, shrugging slightly for this should be plain enough even to mortals. Truly he wished to divert the topic to something else, for he wasn't comfortable with revealing anymore to these humans. They would perceive his Lord's affair with the sylvan as weakness and attribute the connection to an unwholesome influence. Of course, he was of that opinion himself but he still did not want his kinsman to be subjected to derision or scorn for being unable to overcome the spell.

"Nay, what of the conflict?" insisted Denethor, understanding the Chief Councillor's ploy. "Has the legendary Lord of Imladris really succumbed to the dubious charms of such illicit coupling?"

"Den, do not be crude," admonished Aragorn. "If it is an enchantment it must be a powerful one, yet I'm not so certain it is."

"It is an enchantment, but not of an evil sort," said Finduilas, and she smiled at her finacé. "It is just the magic generated between two hearts that beat as one. They are in love, Denethor, can't you see it?"

"Love?" the Steward's son scoffed. "It is unnatural for a male to have such cravings for another of his sex."

"Aye, it is a terrible moral weakness," nodded Echthelion, his features contorted with disgust. "I think the Lord's son was right; this should not have been permitted. Whatever primitive urges motivate the sylvans have never infected the High Elves. Elrond is of noble blood and ought not to be brought so low."

Arwen and Finduilas both stood up, angry and insulted, one for her Adar and the other for herself and her own forebears. Before they could utter their remonstrances, Elrond stormed into the room, his face a mask of absolute fury, his right fist clutching a small tin from which issued the sweetly spicy scent of cinnamon. His eyes passed among the gathered people until they found Glorfindel's.

"Where are the clothes Legolas was wearing today?" he demanded, much to the confusion of the room's occupants.

"His clothes? I'm not sure. They were left behind at the grotto, I suppose," said Glorfindel. Needing no further stimulus, his own wrath fired up, for he understood then how the Wood Elf had been harmed. Elrond had mentioned the sylvan's bizarre reaction to the spice at breakfast the day after discovering the peculiar alergy. Knowing the Last Homely House, the Balrog Slayer had no doubt the entire household was aware of it within minutes. He stood and motioned for two warriors nearby to accompany him; together they exited into the gardens to find the garments.

"What is amiss, Ada?" asked Arwen, moving to her father's side.

"I have found the cause of Legolas' suffering. It can only have been deliberate and the culprits will pay dearly for his pain." He turned then to Erestor. "Fetch Figwit, mellon, for I find that my valet has abruptly quit my service." Without waiting for confirmation that his order would be carried out, Elrond retreated from the Hall of Fire, Arwen following, and the humans were left to gossip over the unfolding events.
TBC

Úgerth uin Ionnath: Sins of the Sons

Nay, saes, avvedi: No, please, don't go.

Dîn Caradhras: Red Horn Pass

Carth Dalt: Slippery Deed

Saelben: Wise one

Alae!: Behold!

Pedethryn Dailt: Slippery Walkers - closest Sindarin translation Legolas could give for the Nandorin equivalent for 'slugs and/or snails'

Nîth Chall: Shadowed Youth

nârion: son of a rat

hecilo: outcast (Quenya)

Ened Ethuil: Mid-Spring

Aegas Mírdan: Mountain Peak the Jewel Smith, an Elf of Rivendell

Muindoradar: brother-father, Uncle

Minya'mmë: first mother, grandmother

Aearen: my ocean

Nín'ódhel: my Deep Elf

Thenin: True. (Yes.)

Man le presta, Aearen?: What troubles you, My Ocean?

Alnad, alnad, Nín'ódhel: Nothing, nothing, My Deep Elf.

Advae?: Better? (Well again?)

Pan vae: All right

Ringe: cold

NOTE: Now be calm, my friends, be calm! It was only a DREAM and Elrohir would NEVER do that to anyone, much less Legolas. Neither would Elladan. Like all nightmares, this one is a mixture of real and invented scenes, peopled with emotions and actions the dreamer's mind would never permit him to experience while awake. Elrohir is tormented and nearly mad, burdened with a desire he does not want or understand, heart-broken by what he perceives as his brother's betrayal. Be assured, what Elladan did is not as bad as he imagines and yes, the depth of Elrohir's pain means the brothers are lovers. That much of the dream is real. Because the twins are Galadriel's grandchildren, I am making them somewhat clairvoyant, though not so much as she. Thus, part of the dream is also a vision of the future, though Elrohir can't distinguish that, for he is too upset.

Like Lindir, Elrohir does not permit his troubles to undermine him and continues to protect the lands of Eriador, experiencing these horrors infrequently and only when he is so exhausted he falls into deep reverie. Glorfindel's summons has brought all his fears to the front of his subconscious, so to speak. Hopefully, the second half of the chapter gave a little information as to what has happened to bring about this most gruelling and unexpected quatern, a kind of forced, pheromone induced love-tetrad between Elrond, his sons, and our sylvan hero. How will they resolve it? And WHAT was Aragorn doing in Elrohir's dark wet-dream? When will Legolas tell Elrond about the baby? Not telling. Yet. :)

And now let me take a moment to thank those who have sent me encouragement and feedback and reviews:

Wreath of Roses: my very first reviewer! Thank you so much. I admit reviews make me happy and as the very first for Aearlinn, yours will always be special. Your reassurances about Lindir's characterisation and the lack of smut were very much taken to heart. Your second review was right on, PO'd at Elrond, and that's just what I hoped the chapter would invoke! The events playing out now will make the light bulbs start turning on. He will start appreciating Legolas more. And yes, you are correct about the robes. :)

wetheril: what can I say? You have left feedback for me everywhere and that is so generous. Thank you, thank you! I'm still amazed you've followed the stories from place to place and feel very honoured. I am especially gratified to anyone who takes the time to read all those chapters of feud, but I have to admit Meril Thafn is the one I most want to get back to.

memorietrail: short and to the point, who can argue with that? It means everything that you want more and are willing to tell me so. I will try to actually finish this one!

miscanthus: ah, a fan from far back, eh? I am trying to get back to the rest of the stories and if you read feud that will be updated with a two part chapter soon. My beta reader has it now, both parts. Thank you for giving this one a go, too. I will try to keep writing at a steady pace for once!

Nikklin: wow! It is always such a rush to get a review from another writer! It is a high compliment, in my opinion. Voices in the Dark is one of my very most favourite stories! Thank you so very much. Anybody reading who hasn't read your stuff, go and click the link and do it! You won't be disappointed, guaranteed.
© 06/10/2007 Ellen Robey

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Aearlinn

Aearlinn - Úgerth uin Ionnath

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ A Little Past Midnight ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Simultaneously, in the Hall of Fire, Glorfindel tells a story ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~