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Journey Of A Butterfly	By : Mel99Moe Category: -Fourth Age to Modern times and beyond > Het - Male/Female Views: 5714 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or places of Lord of the Rings/Tolkien. No money is being made. This is for personal enjoyment only.

Chapter List
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Chapter 51 - Reconciliation

Feredir’s dreams were dark and uneasy. Giant black horse shadows ran wildly back and forth, their large hooves making the ground quake. Every now and then, he would catch a glimpse of red hair through a break between the bodies of the passing herd. The smell of roses filled his head. “Terrwyn,” he whispered desperately. Try as he might, he could not get past the never ending heard of horses. They would not let him get to her. She was crying and weak. Her eyes were sunken and grey. Death was close, so close now that he could hear its eternal sleepy whisper.

But he had the slave. He was sure of it, had seen him before he fell unconscious. He looked into the back of the wagon and saw a shape. His hand reached out and removed the cover only to find a skeleton. The slave was long dead along with his secrets that would save Terrwyn’s life. Feredir yelled and nothing came out but desert sand and he felt his throat start to close. Suddenly he could not breathe. The elf began to panic and grabbed at his dry gritty throat when suddenly he felt a cool breeze. He looked up to see a large colorful butterfly flapping its delicate wings in slow motion, cooling him and giving him the air he needed. Feredir gasped for the wind created by the butterfly and heard Terrwyn’s sweet voice on the breeze.

“Finish the butterfly’s journey for me now, Feredir. It is yours to carry out,” she called to him in a ghostly voice.

The butterfly started to lift higher into the sky and Feredir reached up to capture it before it escaped. It was just out of his reach and he stretched, feeling its soft velvety wing on the tips of his fingers. Suddenly, holes appeared in the wings and the butterfly faltered. Scared of what was happening Feredir pulled his hands back, but it was too late. The edges of the holes blackened and he realized they were on fire. He heard screaming noises come from the butterfly as it disintegrated before his helpless eyes. Soon it was raining black and grey ashes and the sound of the pounding horse hooves became unbearably loud. He held his hands over his ears and yelled for them to stop, to go away.

“Feredir,” someone yelled above the noise. Over and over his name was called until finally, he found himself lying on a blanket next to a campfire. His eyes darted around wildly until they came upon Orthorien, leaning over him and holding a bloodied cloth. Feredir tried to sit up but Orthorien put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“It’s alright, Feredir. Do not sit up. I am still cleaning your wounds.”

“Where are we?” the injured elf asked insistently.

“We are far enough out of Rhûn that I think we are safe,” Orthorien answered. He dipped the cloth into a pan of warm water heating near the fire. Then he dabbed it to the long deep wounds on Feredir’s chest. The elf cringed with every touch. He could feel the sting of the medicine that Orthorien must have added to the water. He twisted and complained.

“Serves you right you know, you stubborn son of an orc,” Orthorien grinned. He seemed to enjoy making Feredir flinch and recoil from his touch.

“I tried to help you back there. I wanted to do more but--.”

Orthorien interrupted. “You did more than enough for someone in your shape.” He examined the deep cuts. “What did this?”

“Willow branch. Abdan did not like some of my answers,” Feredir replied remembering his time in the storeroom.

“Looks like he asked a lot of questions,” Orthorien said as he mentally counted all of the cuts and welts. There were bruises on Feredir’s side as well. “And this would be for . . .?”

“I don’t know. I woke up with those. Now this one,” Feredir pointed to his other side where there was another dark bruise. “This one would be for telling him his mother fucks goblins. I think I regret this one most of all,” he said.

Orthorien shook his head. “That is the one that earned you a couple cracked ribs. But I must say . . .” He dipped the cloth into the water again, turning it to an unused corner. Then he brought it to Feredir’s eye. “It goes quite well with this bruise. Same color,” he jested.

After more cleaning, poking and prodding, Orthorien spoke again. “Why didn’t you wait for us, Feredir? You should never have tried this on your own. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

Feredir struggled to sit up on his elbows, every move registering in his aching body. “But I didn’t now did I.”

“Only because I arrived when I did,” Orthorien continued. He cleaned a few more wounds before he spoke again. “I saw what was about to happen to you. Do you have any idea of the agony a deplorable act like that would do to an elvish soul?”

Feredir remembered the helplessness of that moment. He had all but given up, something he had never done before and it hurt his pride. “All I could think of when we came to Rohan was getting to Rhûn and finding the slave. I just could not wait another moment. Seeing Terrwyn in that cell, the smell and--.” He stopped, sat up the rest of the way and looked Orthorien in his golden eyes. “Nothing else mattered to me except her and I did the only think I knew to do at the time. I went on my own.”

Orthorien wrung out the soiled cloth in the water before pouring the pot out onto the ground. He reached into his pack and took out a jar of salve and began applying it to Feredir’s wounds. Again, his young brother flinched from the pain, but it seemed to lessen with every touch. After a long silence, he spoke. “You say nothing else mattered but the girl. Nothing else? Not your friends or your troops, not the people who depend upon your skills back in Ithilien, not Mother who awaits your decision, not . . . not . . . me?”

Feredir looked curiously at his brother. “You? Since when did you care what--?”

“I have always cared, Feredir,” Orthorien shot back angrily. He held his young brother’s gaze a moment, and then dropped his eyes down to the ground. “It may not have seemed like it, but I have always cared.”

“You have an odd way of showing it,” Feredir mumbled.

“Why do you think I took responsibility for your training? Why do you think I put aside my own dreams to help Mother raise you? My father left my life and you came into it almost simultaneously. There was no time to adjust, no time to grieve my loss, no time to understand what our mother did to put us in that situation. And then I looked into the silver eyes of a helpless babe in arms and saw my brother, not a stranger or an enemy. I knew there would be questions and ridicule. I knew some would try to break you, discourage you, but you were my brother. We share the same blood, if only half, the stronger half. And I took you under my wing, taught you the ways of the Mirkwood warrior, pushed you beyond your limits. You rose to the occasion every time and I was so proud. Still, as hard as I tried, I could not get you to abandon the human side of your personality. It was that part of you that I gave the hardest time and I became the one to deliver the questions and the ridicule. I was the one that tried to break and discourage the Gondorian, but he turned out to be just as strong as the wood elf . . . and I despised you for that. It was the Gondorian that made you stronger than some of the best Mirkwood soldiers. It was the Gondorian that pushed you on and shaped you. It reminded me that our mother, though she loved my father, did not love him enough. That day my father and I marched off to battle, it was the Gondorian that--.” Orthorien stopped himself from saying anymore.

Feredir watched Orthorien as he finally admitted why he never fully accepted him. “You feel it was my father’s fault that your father died, that is what you want to say isn’t it?” He waited for an answer but received none right away.

Orthorien turned to face the small fire. “Had she loved him enough, maybe my father would not have died. Maybe he would have had more to fight for knowing she was at home waiting for him. But she was in Gondor . . . with your father.” Orthorien shook his head. “I thought if I could only turn you into someone like my father, like me . . . but you would never be that. You would always carry the blood of a Gondorian man who loved our mother enough to give her the one thing that my father would not, another child.”

Feredir got up painfully slow and took a seat on a fallen log close to the fire. “You make it sound as though I should already be one or the other, man or elf. I have fought with this all my life. No one has tried better than me to bury the human, but now I realize there was never anything to be ashamed of. Yes, our mother had an affair and I was the result. The blood of Gondor courses through my veins. I can never change that, and damn you Orthorien for ever wanting me to be anything other than what I am.”

Silence fell over the camp again. Orthorien stood up from his spot. There was a moment when Feredir felt that Orthorien would retaliate and defend himself as he had often done when they argued, but the golden haired elf remained silent. He turned and went off towards the wagon. Feredir watched his brother from the corner of his eye. Orthorien checked in on the slave and then picked up the Haradrim weapon he had taken from the guard, a spear. His own weapons had to be left behind and now this was all he had. He took a few steps towards the patch of trees next to their camp, then stopped and called over his shoulder. “I’m going off to find us something to eat. Keep watch over the slave should he awaken.” He disappeared into the darkness, his golden hair the last thing Feredir saw before the light of the fire no longer illuminated him.

The night air was chilled with the last sign of a waning winter. Feredir struggled to get up and made his way to his pack, taking out a shirt and slipping it over his recently bandaged chest. The smooth lightness of the material was much more welcoming than the heavy scratchy feel of the Haradrim clothes. He thought about Orthorien’s admission, his brother’s words sitting heavily upon his conscience. He never imagined the older elf having any doubts or reservations. He had always been so sure of himself to the point of making Feredir feel obsolete. It seemed the dark haired elf was not the only one that felt out of place back in the days of Mirkwood. Orthorien had just as much to deal with. Feredir instantly regretted his words.

He went to the back of the wagon, lifting the flap and seeing the slave still lying there, asleep. It was just as well. He hadn’t had time to give much thought of what to say when he woke up. He was anxious to find out who he was, but more importantly, what he knew. The elf’s thoughts turned to Terrwyn and he wondered how she was or what was happening. Only a few more days now and they would arrive in Rohan. The day he could look upon her face again would be a joyous one. He would feel whole again. He felt complete only when she was near. Feredir reminded himself that Horphen was there with her, watching over her and it eased his troubled mind.

Eventually, Orthorien came back with a pair of rabbits. He prepared them and set them on the makeshift spit. Feredir sat by the fire, turning them every once in a while, making sure they cooked properly. Neither elf spoke. Neither one knew what to say.

Orthorien walked back to the fire after checking on the slave. He sat down and took over the spit, relieving Feredir for a while. “So, the girl, Terrwyn, she is special to you?” he asked abruptly.

Feredir stared into the fire. “She means everything to me.”

Orthorien nodded as if in defeat. “You mean not to sail then.”

Feredir took a deep breath. If he said this aloud, would it mean he could never go back? Was he about to admit his final decision? Was there any other choice for him now? He smiled subtly, for he knew the answer as well as he knew his own name. “If the world was to end and there was only one ship left to Valinor to save me from being swallowed up by certain death, I would not go. I would stay and hold her until darkness took us both.”

Orthorien’s heart broke to hear this. He had always imagined Feredir choosing immortality and sailing with him to the Undying Lands where they could finally know what it was like to be complete brothers, whole and eternal. It seemed to him that the Gondorian won again, this time for good.

“So be it, little brother,” Orthorien answered. Silence took over once more.

The rabbit cooked to a perfect doneness and the brothers ate. When they were almost through, they heard a moan come from the wagon. Both elves turned and looked. When no more sound came, they turned back to the fire.

“Has he been unconscious since leaving the city?” Feredir asked.

“Yes, I believe the guards gave him enough sedative to transport him, or enough to keep him groggy anyways. I expect they would have given him another dose by now. He might be waking soon,” answered Orthorien.

When Feredir was sure the slave was not waking yet he continued the conversation. “How do you think Mother will take the news of my decision to stay?”

Orthorien picked up as long stick and used it to move the red glowing embers of the fire. “She will be saddened by the news, of that there is no doubt, but she will accept it. You know, you always did have a closer relationship with her than I did. That worried me often, especially after you joined the troops. If something happened to you, I truly believe she would have faded. This is why I had to find you now. I could not bear the thought of her fading from loss and pain when she is so close to sailing.”

Feredir was becoming tired and sat on the ground, leaning back against the fallen log he had been using as a seat. He picked up the stick Orthorien had just used to stir the fire and started poking thoughtlessly at the logs as he searched for the right words. “I . . . I think I finally understand why you were so protective of me at times. I thought you did not trust my judgment or did not think I was good enough. Now, I realize you were only trying to protect me for Mother’s sake.” He paused, turned to Orthorien who sat next to him by the fire and laid the stick down. “I am sorry for this. I never meant to worry you or be a burden.”

Orthorien gave Feredir a hard glance. “You were never a burden,” he insisted. The older elf was almost angry that Feredir would say such a thing. He looked back to the fire and thought hard about why his young brother felt that way. Then he remembered the conversation with their mother, the one Feredir admitted to eavesdropping. His face softened as his ire diminished and he realized Feredir had every right to feel this way. He had heard Orthorien tell her that Feredir would never be like them, that his half heritage kept him from being an equal, that he would never fit in. Orthorien shook his head as he considered his words and what it must have felt like for Feredir to hear such an awful thing coming from his own brother. “It is not you who should apologize. I made the mistake of not giving you the chance to prove yourself. I accused you of failure before you even started on your journey, but I was worried for you. I worried that you would be held back because of whom you were and what you were.”

“I can accept that,” Feredir whispered in answer. “And I have come to realize that it was wrong of me to defy you every step of the way, most recently my effort to go to Rhûn alone. I did what I thought was right and did not take into account the danger it posed, especially to our mother, to you . . . to Terrwyn. Sometimes I do not think things through and make rash decisions.”

Orthorien laughed. “Sometimes?”

Feredir smiled and pulled his long hair to one side. “Alright, most of the time, but I do it for good reason.”

“Love is a good enough reason,” Orthorien answered, accepting and understanding Feredir better. It had been such a long time since he saw his young brother that he hadn’t realized just how much he had grown over the years. Orthorien was older and older elves did not change much. Feredir was younger, not much past his majority in elf terms. He was still changing, becoming a better ellon, a better man. For the first time he could see how the two needed each other. Feredir himself was much like the changes happening in the world between the race of elves and Men. They were still learning about each other, becoming better neighbors and working harmoniously for one cause, for peace. Feredir’s internal struggle was very similar, but he seemed to have found a way to connect the two personalities and Terrwyn was key in this factor.

Orthorien reached out and patted Feredir on his shoulder, being careful not to be too rough. “You make me proud, Feredir. No matter what you have done or what you will do in the future, I am and will always be proud of you.” He released Feredir’s shoulder and stood up quickly. It was not easy for him to say these things. The awareness of his admission hung heavy in the air and he needed to move away, to let it all sink in.

Orthorien went to their supplies and fetched a bottle of wine, occupying himself for the moment and allowing Feredir the same amount of time to himself. Finally, he sat back down on the log, pulled the cork out by his teeth and raised the bottle into the air. “For love,” he toasted and took a good long swig before passing the bottle to Feredir.

Feredir watched the flames jump and snap, thinking of his dark dream. Death would not be her fate. He would save Terrwyn. She would be in his arms again soon. He held the bottle up and claimed to the dark night. “For love.” He drank his fill, then sat the bottle down on the ground between them. “For you, Naru,” he whispered quietly.

* * *

Late into the night, while the elves were resting and taking turns watching their surroundings, they heard more moans and grunts coming from the wagon. They went immediately and hopped inside. The slave was waking and they were unsure what to expect when he did. The man would be confused, scared, but they would do their best to calm him.

The man’s eyes fluttered and he mumbled something they could not understand. He finally opened his eyes and looked around, seeing the white canvas of the wagon above him. His head lolled back and forth and his breathing turned rapid. Panic set in quickly as the drug wore off. Suddenly, he sat up and yelled in the language of Harad.

“It’s alright. We are here to help you,” Feredir said smoothly trying not to frighten him any more than he already was.

The man looked from one elf to the other, then around the wagon until he saw his only escape. Quick as a deer, he jumped up and leapt towards the flap at the back entrance to the wagon. Orthorien and Feredir knew he would do this and grabbed him by the arms, pulling him back until he was sitting on his bottom.

“We mean you no harm,” Orthorien said calmly.

“He probably doesn’t speak the common tongue, brother,” Feredir warned.

The slave could not understand for they spoke Sindarin, but he knew they were talking in elvish and fear washed over his face. He backed away from the brothers and cowered in the corner of the wagon bed, mumbling to himself.

“What is he saying,” Orthorien asked.

“He is frightened of us because we are elves. It seems the Southrons have instilled their beliefs on him. He thinks we are here to steal his soul,” Feredir answered. He switched into the Harad language and spoke to the slave. “I am sorry you do not trust us, Mazzin, but we promise you no harm.”

The slave looked back and forth between the two elves, eyes wide and unnerved. “He said this would happen. He said you would come for me if I disobeyed him again.”

Feredir furrowed his brow. “Of whom do you speak?”

“My master told me this. He told me what the elves would do to me. We are not to trust them . . . you,” Mazzin answered.

“Your master has told you lies. We hold no magic. We make peace with men and live alongside them. Whatever you have been told, you were misled.”

Mazzin seemed hesitant to believe anything Feredir said. He remained cowering in the corner, his head lolling as the drugs called him back to his slumber. The man fought it desperately.

Feredir reached out and covered the slaves arm with his hand. He could feel him shaking. The poor man was terrified. When the dark elf spoke next, it was with soothing tones much like the ones he used on the small child back in the healing house. “Take rest, Mazzin. You are not well. They have sedated you. We will talk more when you are better. Sleep now and know you are safe from your master. You are free, Mazzin.”

The slaves eyes slowly closed and his rapid breathing calmed. Feredir covered him with a quilt then turned to Orthorien, nodding his head and gesturing for them to leave the wagon. The elves stood outside and considered their next action.

Orthorien looked about the campsite. “We should be on our way before sunrise. I will clean up the camp and put the fire out. You keep an eye on Mazzin in case he wakes again.”

Feredir nodded and Orthorien went to take care of things. The dark elf entered the wagon again and looked down at the man’s young face. He hadn’t had a chance to study his features yet. Blond hair, strong jaw . . . he was definitely not Haradrim. He looked to be Rohirric or at least he used to be before the Southrons assimilated him into their culture and prejudices. Still, there was something unusual about him, something almost familiar, as if he had met him before. Oh, it was probably nothing, Feredir thought as he settled down in the back of the wagon.

Soon Orthorien was done and packed. The horses were once again hitched to their reins and their hooves cleared of any mud or stones. Feredir tried to help numerous times, but was always met by Orthorien’s insistence to rest. The young elf was grateful, though he did not display it. He was still quite sore from his ordeal. Instead of arguing with his brother, Feredir made his bed of blankets in the wagon and sat down carefully. He glanced over to where the slave slept, knowing he might very well sleep through most of the remaining journey. They would need to talk just as soon as Mazzin was able. Terrwyn’s life depended upon the information he held.

Feredir reached into his pack and carefully took out the butterfly. It was definitely scarred, burnt and charred around the delicate edges, changed from its original form. Feredir reached up and touched the burn in front of his shoulder. Maybe none of them would be the same after this, he thought. The elf tucked the butterfly into his pocket and vowed to never lose it again. “And when I have you once again, Naru, I promise never to leave your side,” he whispered before allowing his healing reverie to take him.
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Journey Of A Butterfly