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An Honourable Assassin	By : narcolinde Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3998 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: 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
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History Lesson

Elrond overtook his assistant and reached the infirmary with due speed and a heart filled with foreboding, having instantly grasped that at least some of his sons' outlandish claims were accurate. His spirit quailed at the thought of Legolas plotting against Erestor at the behest of Thranduil. Knowing the power of his kinsman, there could be only one outcome to such a confrontation and Elrond had to absorb a pang of guilt. He did not doubt he would find Thranduil's son brutally slain and, having failed to act on his son's suspicions, Legolas' death thus lay fully upon his soul. Knowing the Code of the Assassins, he also expected to find Erestor expiring from self-inflicted wounds, having been forced to murder the son of the one elf in all Arda whom he loved.

It was the kind of story that became legend; the kind of story that spawned wars.

Glorfindel was waiting and led him to the surgery and there Elrond froze in the doorway. Motionless on the examination tables the two elves lay, naked and bloody from a myriad of ghastly injuries, deathly still, no sign of breath or life. Two arms stretched poignantly across the small space between the cots, their hands loosely clasped, a small puddle of vermilion pooled beneath the entwined digits. It was a horrible and heart-rending sight. Focusing on Legolas, Elrond felt his spirit begin to rip apart as tears collected in his eyes. At once he was inundated with deja vú, the House of Healing's antiseptic environment dissolving into the grubby, blood-stained canvas walls of a field hospital.

The shelter was overcrowded with injured and maimed elves in all states of languishing agony, their moans and cries filled the air, the combined stink of gaping wounds and rancid terror enough to make one swoon. Everywhere little knots of healers tried desperately to maintain the tenuous connection between hroä and feä; everywhere the Spirit Hunters were gathered in little clusters intoning the Rites of the Dead. Everywhere kin and loved ones tried to force a way through and were rebuffed by aides trying to maintain order. Those who pushed past wandered in shock amid the rows upon rows of expiring elves, stepping over them and inching between them, eyes searching for familiar faces while dreading to find them. When they did, their wails of sorrow and rage pierced the air far more often than gasps of relief and tears of joy.

Fully two thirds of Oropher's people died that day, most cut down in the scorched and barren plains before Oroduin, the rest dragged off here, this befouled and tattered shelter the last comfort they would know on the journey to Mandos. Few, so few of these would survive. Elrond darted under the flapping tent and upset a swarm of flies. They buzzed in furious annoyance but quickly settled again, these smallest of vultures keeping hungry vigil over the dying. He moved awkwardly among the ranks of dismembered bodies, evaded reaching arms and pleading voices, senses dulled by the horrific impact of so many casualties, unable to encompass it, unwilling to acknowledge it. He was looking for one face, one body, praying silently not to find him, promising Manwë insanely impossible feats of courage and sacrifice if he would only not have to see this one face, this one elf in here. Then he saw it, that swath of vibrant golden hair, that glorious mane so unlike any he'd ever beheld, and his heart turned over in exultant joy.

Thranduil lay not among the wounded but knelt beside one of the cots, whole and unharmed, begrimed and covered in vile black gore from the innumerable orcs he'd slain, the putrid fluids crossed here and there with a vivid streak of garish crimson, clutching the hand of the Elven King, Oropher, his father. Head lowered to catch the last failing words arising form the expiring ellon's mouth, Thranduil's fair face was turned toward Elrond but his eyes were closed, vibrant blue obscured behind lashes pale and golden, comely features pinched with strain and fatigue. Tears coursed down the young prince's cheeks as he nodded, gave an answer Elrond could not hear, pressed his father's hand to his lips and then tight against his heart. His head drooped and his shoulders heaved as grief whelmed over his defences; Oropher had died.

Elrond at once hastened to reach him, desperate to be at Thranduil's side in this time of sorrow and need, filled with urgent compassion and burning hunger to envelope his beloved in protective arms and healing love. A quiet voice reached his hearing as he neared, the words sufficient to halt him and turn his heart to ashes.

"Thranduil, beloved, come away and let the Spirit Hunters prepare him now."

It was Erestor, clad in dark leather from head to toe, a tall inky shadow in black armour painted everywhere with slick wet smears, his pale face grimy with sweat and flecked with the filth of killing. Yet his midnight eyes gleamed, the light of his soul nearly as bright as the shining blade of his mighty sword. Its point dragged upon the ground, lax in the loose grip of a bleeding arm, the other hand firmly seated on the shoulder of the grieving Sindarin prince. His raven hair fell over the kneeling ellon, mixing with Thranduil's sunlit strands, the contrast of black and gold beautiful, the tableau infused with the potency of the lovers' emotions. Elrond suddenly found the scene inappropriately erotic.

"Erestor!" Thranduil lifted his pained and bewildered visage equally marred with dirt, a thin ribbon of darker brown denoting a healing scratch across his cheek. "He wouldn't listen to me, why? He's…my Ada is…dead?" A gasp followed the word and he leaned toward Erestor as the Assassin took the step necessary to pull the prince against him.

"I know. Be at peace, no more could you do. Oropher chose his fate with open eyes. He would have us honour his courage rather than mourn his passing." The Assassin smiled as gently as he could, pulled just faintly at the prince's sagging shoulder. "Come away, beloved."

Elrond inhaled a sharp breath and his kinsman turned slightly, dark eye flashing warning as it fell upon him, his battered frame exuding a subtle sense of menace as the grip on the hilt of the sword tightened. Slowly, painfully, heavily Thranduil lumbered to his feet and leaned hard upon Erestor, though it was the Assassin who was injured, pressed his face into the midnight tresses, and loosed a feral howl of anguish. Erestor held him and murmured some unheard words of courage and consolation against his lover's ear.

Thranduil straightened, raised his head, met the onyx eyes and nodded once. They began moving through the litter of dead and dying elves, Thranduil unable to watch as the Spirit Hunters came, chanting their charms and prayers, and collected his father's remains. Out into the sunlight they walked, still close but no longer linked arm in arm; the glory of the day defied the grim and bitter legacy of the Wood Elves' lot. What remained of Oropher's warriors stood in listless clumps, eyes dull, spirits stunned. Never had they seen war like this; never had they experienced death on this scale. They looked to Thranduil expectantly for news of their King, none suspecting he could really be dead.

Before he could begin to assemble the words to speak such a horrific announcement, Galion galloped into the milling crowd leading the last of the woodland soldiers. A mere handful, twelve in number and four of them draped senseless over their horses' necks. Aides came and caught them ere they fell to the ground. The seneschal dismounted and came to Oropher's son; what he did next sealed the fate of the Assassin of Sirion and the Herald of the High King, both. Galion knelt before his Lord, head bowed in respect and sorrow.

"Hail, Thranduil Oropherion, King of Greenwood the Great. May his reign see the remaking of Arda and endure beyond the changing of the world." This proclamation snatched a collective gasp from the surrounding elves and made Thranduil utter an incoherent cry. He staggered forward and grabbed at Galion's shoulder, shocked, comprehension of his terrible doom gathering in blue eyes still wet with tears.

"Nay! All?" he choked out, voice stricken, heart broken. He reached behind him and clutched Erestor's wrist. "My brothers, too? I am the last?"

"Aye." Galion rose and clasped his King's shoulders, unable to hide his own grief but equally unable to ignore the reality facing his people now. "Come, there is much to discuss, Aranen." His amber eyes flickered to Erestor briefly, an entire lecture contained in the short connection. As he led Thranduil away, the Wood Elves knelt in their passing, hearts troubled and spirits darkened, murmuring sad, quiet words of bewildered fealty to their new King.

Erestor stood still and watched them go. Thranduil was immediately ringed by guards and followed by the entirety of the remaining able-bodied troops. He never looked back. The Assassin of Sirion sheathed his sword and turned, finding Elrond there. His mouth curled in an ugly, snarling caricature of a grin.

"Well, we have both lost him, then. I suppose there is vindication for you in that. Bind my arm, mellon; there is killing to do."

"Hîren?"

Glorfindel's voice invaded the memory and recalled Elrond to the present. Only a few seconds had elapsed in silence as he remained rooted on the threshold and Elrond met the warrior's eyes warily, gathering what he could of courage for he must face this tragedy. With a heavy heart he entered only to be suddenly and rudely shoved aside by his assistant, who raced to the prince's bedside and fell to his knees, frantically calling the Wood Elf's name. Elrond felt sick; what could he say to Thranduil?

Elladan and Elrohir arrived next, halting in the doorway where Glorfindel's menacing bulk effectively checked their progress. They gasped in concert at the ghoulish display on the examination tables, sharing wide-eyed looks of dread and wonder before addressing the Balrog-slayer in faint and frightened tones.

"Are they…gone?"

"What? Nay!" Glorfindel glared at the brothers in exasperation. Sometimes he felt the Lord's sons were a tad slow.

"Then," Elrohir steeled himself, "is Erestor dead?"

"Of course not," Glorfindel scoffed. "He's an Assassin; can't be killed by anything less than Vala or Evil Maia."

"By the Stars! Then he's assassinated the Mirkwood prince!" Elladan's voice teemed with awed horror. "What will happen, Glorfindel?"

"Are we at war yet?" demanded Elrohir.

"Erestor hasn't assassinated anyone, you idiots!" Glorfindel reached out to land cuffing blows simultaneously upside identical heads, eliciting identical shouts of pained annoyance. "They battled themselves to exhaustion. The Rules state that if neither contender can return to the ring at the gong, then the match is a draw. You see before you a draw." He shrugged. "It's never happened before. I wasn't sure what to do and they'd both lost so much blood I deemed it best to bring them back here and let Elrond see to them."

Elrond turned sharply and eyed him with confusion. "Rules? What are you talking about?" He still had Elladan's accusation and the grim past on the mind. "Are you trying to tell me this is the result of some kind of sparring competition?"

"No, not a sparring match, Hîren," said the assistant. "Ernilen? Can you hear me?" He bent low and put his ear close to the Wood El's lips and presently a huge smile transformed his worried features. "Praise Tawar!" he exclaimed and then stood straight, pride and affection emanating from his glowing aura, and bowed low to his prince. "Hail, Legolas, Assassin of Imladris." A weary groan answered and the hand not clasped to Erestor's lifted briefly.
Glorfindel, knowing something more about what was happening, decided the Twins had no business being there and ushered them out, but ere they were beyond ear-shot their father's query reached them:

"Assassin of Imladris? He's an Assassin? But if so then surely you mean Greenwood."

"Nay, Assassins retain in the title the place in which the title was earned," explained the assistant.

"Stop pushing, Glorfindel, and let us go back to the infirmary," insisted Elladan. "We know Legolas is up to something and that assistant is his lackey! We must not leave them alone with Adar."

"Valar! You two smell like the tap room floor of an ale house!" Glorfindel accused, shoving them further from him as he herded them down the hall. "Perhaps that explains the stupidity of your accusations. Legolas has no intention of harming anyone in Imladris, especially your father."

"How can you say so?" demanded Elrohir. "And what were you doing at the hidden compound?"

Glorfindel stopped and laid a heavy hand on each Twin's shoulder, his features dark with outrage. "How do you know of that? What have you seen?"

"Nothing!" said Elladan, but "Everything!" said Elrohir, together of course, and so they were suddenly at odds and turned on one another.

"You dolt! We weren't to reveal what we saw," shouted Elladan.

"Why not? How are we to get to the bottom of it if we don't take some kind of action?" hissed Elrohir.

"Enough!" bellowed Glorfindel and again rapped their heads with the heels of his hands. "I should take you two to the arena and let you sort it out there, but you'd kill each other by accident and Elrond would have my hide." He sighed dramatically. "I suppose I'll have to tell you the whole story."

Back in the House of Healing, Elrond's assistant had taken over tending Erestor's wounds and brightly suggested that Lord Elrond might wish to carry Legolas to a more private room to treat his hurts, the prince being of such exalted rank and a guest of the realm. Erestor, regaining consciousness at this point, agreed with the suggestion and smiled fondly at Legolas as he finally let go the archer's fingers. Confused but gladdened to find neither his kinsman nor the lovely young Wood Elf dead, Elrond did exactly that. Legolas, too exhausted to manage more than a soft, dewy-eyed expression, focused it upon Elrond and suppressed the moans being lifted and carried might otherwise elicit.

Now the great healer was painstakingly sewing up the many lacerations covering nearly every inch of skin on Legolas' body, using teeny tiny stitches and his own hair to ensure there would be no scars. Yet if he'd doubted his assistant's exultant announcement before, the learned lore-master could no longer. Even as he worked the injuries were closing up and healing on their own, far faster than possible for an ordinary elf, the legendary vitality of the Assassin's breed no legend after all. Elrond met the bright and smiling blue eyes, though Legolas' face was still pale and drawn in weary fatigue, and lifted enquiring brows.

"Assassin, eh? When did all this come about?"

"Suilad, Elrond," Legolas said and yawned hugely. He stretched very cautiously, reaching down with one hand to make sure there was no damage to any facet of his genitalia. Not that Erestor would ever target those vital parts on purpose, but they'd both become rather woozy toward the end. "Today at dawn we commenced the final trials. I passed!" he grinned and slowly pushed himself up on his elbows, a bit self-conscious to find himself naked before the mighty elven Lord he so admired and respected. "Very high marks, too. Valar! I'm so tired I could sleep for a month. What are you doing?" He reached for the dark strand of hair linking him to the needle in the healer's hands.

"Oh, well, I was healing you," Elrond shrugged and removed the neat sutures. "Seems you don't need my help."

"I wouldn't say that," Legolas replied, a bare hint of a rosy glow gathering in the tips of his ears and the pinnacle of his penis, though he was as yet too depleted for more than that. "I would love a soak in the spa and a long nap in the sauna. Do you think you could accompany me? I feel terribly weak."

"Of course," Elrond's brows rose even higher. Surely he was not imagining that winsome note of desire in the Wood Elf's voice or those initial stirrings of arousal. Indeed, given the amount of blood lost, Legolas' state of excitement must be very high to promote any bodily response at all. Well, well! He could not repress a smile.

Yet as he stood to aid the young Assassin from the bed, Elladan's words returned to him. If Legolas was really in love with Erestor, he would not be entertaining randy thoughts about Elrond. At once the lore-master's heart fell, fearing a convoluted repetition of ancient history. He would have to learn the truth, no matter how devastating it would be to his kinsman, and he knew only one sure way to do it.

TBC
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An Honourable Assassin

History Lesson