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Twilight Tales - Hallowed Fate	By : MPB Category: -Multi-Age > Slash - Male/Male Views: 4697 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Meeting
- 2-Learning
- 3-Restraint
- 4-Coping
- 5-Guile
- 6-Awakening
- 7-Undoing
- 8-Musings
- 9-Sojourn
- 10-Reckoning
- 11-Illumination
- 12-Avowal
- 13-Beloved
- 14-Visitations
- 15-Tryst
- 16-Choice
- 17-Torn
- 18-Resolve
- 19-Voyage
- 20-Fate
- 1
- 2
Title: Hallowed Fate

Author: Eressë (eresse21@yahoo.com)

Pairings: Elladan/Imrahil (main), Legolas/Elrohir

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: I write for the sheer fun of it. Everything else belongs to the esteemed Prof. JRR Tolkien and his estate.

Summary: When the paths of an Elvenlord and a Prince of Men cross, not only their lives are changed but their destinies as well.

Author’s note: The genealogy of the Princes of Dol Amroth in “The Peoples of Middle-earth” indicates that Imrahil was born in TA 2955 and passed away in FA 34 when he was 99-years-old. This is not considered canon in the strictest sense, as it isn’t included in LOTR. But it was this entry that gave me the inspiration for this story and its resolution. The ending is slightly AU but I prefer to think of it as “undocumented”.

Hallowed Fate

Chapter I: Meeting

Minas Tirith, Gwaeron TA 3019

The first time Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, laid eyes on Elladan of Imladris was on the plains of the Pelennor as the fighting raged before the walls of Minas Tirith.

The Steward had immolated himself and his son lay as if dead in the Houses of Healing. The old king of the Riddermark was no more and his sister-son now led the Rohirrim. If not for the White Rider, despair would have taken them all. And it nearly did when the black ships of the enemy corsairs came down Anduin, promising reinforcements for their already numerous foes.

It was then that he saw the Elvenlord leaping down lightly from the first ship, two other Elves by his side; one so alike to him that Imrahil had wondered if his eyes deceived him, the other with hair as bright as the sun itself. He had watched in awe as the warrior that was Elrond’s older son decimated all who dared to assail him, standing his ground by his mortal war-brothers, protecting the valiant Ranger who was heir to the winged crown of Gondor and staving off assault after assault with peerless skill, valor and strength.

The first time the late Steward’s kinsman exchanged greetings with the elder of the Peredhil twins was in the Houses of Healing after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. The Elf-warrior and his brother Elrohir had accompanied Aragorn while the king moved amongst the wounded and dying, giving aid to the former and succor to the latter. The hands of the king were indeed the hands of a healer. But there was no doubt as to who had helped train those hands.

Pain and fear receded under the Elves’ soothing fingers, as gentle in caring as they were fearsome in killing. And grey eyes and tender smiles conveyed more comfort than all the words of the healers of the city.

The first time the Belfalas prince spoke long and tellingly with the Elf-lord was the following evening in the encampment before the Guarded City. Earlier in the day, the decision had been made to march to Mordor itself. To use the Men of the West as a diversion and draw Sauron’s eye away from his realm and the Ring-bearer. In later years, Imrahil would ponder the serendipity of that moment.

“May I be of service, my prince?”

Imrahil turned sharply and found himself gazing into the comeliest face he had ever had the good fortune to come across. For a moment, he was unable to speak, taken as he was by the pair of pewter eyes that gazed back at him. When he did find his tongue it was only because the Elf took his hand and bent to examine the deep gash that ran across the back of it.

He had not meant to reveal his injury to any by leaving his tent with his hand unbound. But he had heard a commotion and come out to see what was afoot. It turned out to be no more than the beginnings of a brawl between two drunken soldiers. Their captain had swiftly put an end to the encounter and disciplined both malefactors before the fight escalated. Relieved, Imrahil had stayed just outside the entrance of his tent awhile taking in the night air.

Before he could go back in, Elladan had come upon him.

“‘Tis but a scratch,” he protested then winced as stabbing pain lanced through his hand when the Elf-lord probed the wound.

Elladan glanced up at him, his fine mouth curling into an amused grin. The very sight made Imrahil’s mouth go dry much to the man’s befuddlement.

“If this is but a scratch, then Sauron is naught but a gadfly sent from up on high to plague us,” the Elf remarked chidingly. “You should have had a healer look at this. ‘Tis a wonder it has not festered as yet.”

Imrahil shook his head. “There are others far more in need of their attention,” he said. “And there are not enough healers as it is.”

“Then let me see to this,” Elladan offered. “It is fortunate ‘tis not your sword hand that was wounded.”

Imrahil acceded. In mere moments it seemed, Elladan had gone to his own tent, which he shared with his brother, and come back with a small wooden box filled with an assortment of medicaments and suturing material. He led Imrahil back into his tent and gestured to him to sit down.

“It will need to be sewn,” Elladan explained. “Else it will not heal properly.”

Imrahil nodded. He waited while Elladan cleansed a needle, soaking it in strong ale for some minutes before threading it. In the ensuing quiet, the older twin took the time to study his patient.

The prince was dark haired as were all his men. However, Imrahil’s tresses were not black but a rich chestnut hue. And his eyes were an unusual grey-tinged aquamarine akin to the color of the ocean where it ran deepest. Fitting for a ruler of a seaward realm, the Elvenlord thought.

Needle in hand, he sank down before Imrahil, the simple movement imbued with such steely grace that the prince could not help staring.

He had expected some pain when the needle pierced his flesh and the thread was drawn through it. But to his surprise, he felt naught but the mildest sting. More like a slight pinch than a sharp prick. He looked in wonder at the Elvenlord. Elladan only glanced at him once as he deftly closed the wound and that once his eyes gleamed reassuringly.

He worked quickly and before Imrahil realized it, he was done and the wound neatly sutured. A thin but thorough application of a paste of healing herbs followed. And then Elladan was binding his hand with a fresh bandage. Imrahil flexed his hand experimentally and found he could freely move it without discomfort.

“The stitches can come out in a week’s time,” Elladan told him. “Any healer can see to it.”

Imrahil looked at him gratefully. “My thanks,” he said. “How may I repay you?”

Elladan regarded him thoughtfully. “Would you take a walk with me?” he suggested.

Imrahil looked at him in surprise but quickly agreed. He rose and followed Elladan out. He waited but seconds for the Elf-lord to return his healing supplies to his tent. As Elladan emerged from it, he glimpsed the warrior’s twin within, seated on his pallet.

Elladan came back to him and with a slight tilt of his head, indicated which direction he wished to take. To Imrahil’s puzzlement, the Elf led them through the center of the camp instead of heading directly for the outskirts. A few tents away, he espied the one shared by the Elven prince Legolas and his Dwarf comrade Gimli. No candle burned within; he could not see the silhouette of the slumbering Dwarf.

Legolas of Mirkwood sat before it, looking just the least bit restless. But as they neared, he seemed to sense a fellow Elf’s presence and he looked up. Something must have passed between him and Elladan for the archer’s blue eyes suddenly lighted up. He rose to his feet in an instant and swiftly strode back the way his friend and the Dol Amroth prince had come.

Curious, Imrahil watched his progress and was startled when the archer quickly slipped into the brethren’s tent. A moment later, the glow of the candle within was extinguished. He stared at the now darkened tent. And wondered.

Turning, he saw that Elladan was smiling faintly. The Elf led the way out of the camp and soon they were treading the open plain. The ground beneath their feet was scarred by battle and every now and then, they came upon the remains of armor or weaponry left upon the field. They walked in affable silence for a while.

At length, Imrahil’s curiosity got the better of him and he looked at his companion. Really looked at him. That proved unwise for, in the argent moonlight, the Elf’s beauty had become even more apparent and so overcame him that it precluded speech for a while longer.

Elladan had bound his raven locks into a single thick plait in the manner of the Horse-lords. The style emphasized the fine lines and features of his countenance – the high sculpted cheekbones, the patrician mold of his nose, the proud chin and sinuous lips, the elegant curve of his eyebrows and the impossibly thick lashes that framed the dark eyes that had so fascinated Imrahil at first sight.

The prince’s reaction was all too predictable. At least, had he been an Elf, it would have been predictable. He felt his heart beat faster and his breath turn shallower. Imrahil strove to calm his suddenly inflamed senses.

What was the matter with him for Eru’s sake? This was no lush maiden beside him and he was no virginal youth to be so easily overcome by mere loveliness. He shook his head inwardly, trying to clear it of his unruly thoughts. Valar, the Elf was no maiden at all! Why was he reacting so strangely?

Firmly getting a hold of himself, he forced his thoughts back to the Elf-lord’s twin and the Mirkwood prince.

“Your brother and the Wood-elf?” he ventured hesitantly. “Are they—?” He trailed off awkwardly. The question was as inappropriate as his thoughts had been a moment ago. Where had his manners gone? Not to mention his common sense.

But Elladan only said: “Lovers, aye. But binding-mates, not yet. Though I doubt that will be long in coming now that we are willfully marching into darkness.”

Imrahil stared at him in shock. “Binding-mates?” he repeated.

Elladan regarded him musingly. They had come to a stop upon a clean, grassy patch of land. The Elf seemed to relish the faint scent of the untainted growth as evinced by the deep breaths he took of it.

“You are sprung from an Elven foremother,” Elladan pointed out. “Surely you are aware of our traditions.”

Imrahil shook his head ruefully. “I have read of them,” he admitted. “But book-learning is different from actual evidence. I was not prepared.”

“And it has been discouraged in your family for many generations now,” Elladan commented knowingly.

Imrahil nodded. “Men do not accept such practices,” he said. “Our own people might very well turn against us for indulging in something they consider unnatural.”

“Not to mention that it would not produce future princes to rule Dol Amroth,” Elladan said wryly. “Yet it is in your blood,” he reminded Imrahil. “I warrant you at least must have felt something of it though you were not free to act on it.”

“I at least?”

Elladan smiled and, before Imrahil could react, reached up and tucked the prince’s hair behind his ear. The slightest trace of a peak marked the upper tip of it.

“Elven blood runs true in your veins, my prince, and far more strongly than in your brethren or sons,” Elladan said. “I sense our kinship in you as I do not in them.”

Imrahil fell silent for a spell. “So it is said,” he murmured. “There are chronicles in the libraries in Dol Amroth pertaining to that. Of certain of my ancestors who were extraordinarily long-lived and aged only slowly.”

“As you do,” Elladan said. “You could pass for one of your younger kinsmen. Indeed, some years from now, you may well pass for one of your own sons.”

Imrahil sighed. “I am not certain if that is a boon or bane,” he said. “I do not desire to be left alone while all whom I love go before me one by one. ‘Twould be unbearably lonely.”

He was startled by the feel of the Elf’s hand on his arm. Elladan was looking compassionately at him.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I did not mean to upset you.”

Imrahil compelled himself to meet the Elf’s gaze. “I know you did not,” he replied. “And I must confess I enjoy your company even if it is just this once.”

The Elvenlord’s eyes glittered. “It need not be only this once,” he softly amended. “If we defeat the enemy, there will be time enough to spend in each other’s company. I would like to know you better, Prince Imrahil.”

The prince felt a pleasant thrill snake up his spine. “And I you, Lord Elladan,” he murmured.

Elladan smiled warmly at him. “Come, we must rest,” he said. “Our toils are far from done and tomorrow will demand much from us anew.”

They returned to the camp still chatting companionably. When Elladan stopped in front of Legolas’ tent, however, Imrahil looked at him quizzically. “Your tent is still yonder,” he said.

Elladan grinned. “My brother will not care for other company this night save Legolas’,” he chuckled. “I will stay here.” A moment later, he frowned as an improbably loud noise issued from within. Elladan grimaced. “Though how Legolas can sleep through the Dwarf’s snores is beyond me!”

Imrahil smiled sympathetically. On impulse, he said: “I share my tent with no one and I have an extra pallet. You are very welcome to join me. I promise you, I am a quiet sleeper.”

Elladan laughed softly, the sound of which made Imrahil’s skin simmer unexpectedly. “I will hold you to that promise, my prince,” the Elf said.

As he led the way back, Imrahil wondered if he would get any sleep at all that night.

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

Glossary:

Gwaeron - Sindarin for March

To be continued…
- 1
- 2
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Twilight Tales - Hallowed Fate