Princes Three: Darkness Unforeseen

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Chapter 2

~Imladris 2509 III~

Elrohir shifted restlessly in the wide bed, unable to find sleep

despite his exhaustion. Each flutter of his eyelids brought images

more horrific than the last, some memories, some but nightmarish

imaginings. He saw his mother’s bloody form, her robes torn to

rags, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from her shoulder.

Her silver hair was matted with filth, her face scratched and

bruised, her eyes empty as she cowered under Elladan’s careful

touch, never realizing that the hands she flinched from were those

of her firstborn son.

He saw again the savagely despoiled bodies of the elves, the

ruthlessly butchered horses, the rocks dark with blood both red and

black. He saw himself, eyes burning with unspeakable rage and

grief, hacking the fallen orcs to bits, his sword fouled and slick

with blood and gore. His sword. Slamming viciously into his

brother’s shoulder, the leather armor splitting, melting, peeling

away to reveal jagged bone and pouring blood, blood red as roses.

Blood coating his hands, covering his eyes, and all the time

Elladan was shuddering, silent tears sliding down pale cheeks as

his lifeblood soaked into the defiled ground...

Elrohir shook himself awake, his heart pounding as he struggled

to push away the grim vision. Candlelight flickered and vanished

inexplicably, bringing a frown to his face in the brief moment

before he understood that Elladan was here, that his brother sat

shivering at the edge of their shared bed, and he had not known.

Never since their majority had he been oblivious to Elladan’s

presence, or unaware of his twin’s emotions, and the sense of

isolation filled him with suffocating fear. Sitting up slowly, he

scooted closer, near enough to see the tracks of tears on the ashen

face, the dark rings around clouded eyes, and still Elladan did not

acknowledge him.

“’Dan?”

The uncertain whisper tore at Elladan’s heart, but he could not

muster the energy to speak, to reassure. So tired. So very tired.

‘And so very useless.’

The thought echoed as if spoken by another, though he knew it

was but his own mind giving form to the doubts that he had harbored

for days. Reaching blindly for Elrohir’s hand, he gripped it

tightly, his tears coming faster as he struggled to shield his

thoughts from his brother. He could not draw his beloved twin into

this fog of despair, where hope was less than a memory.

Elrohir tightened his own fingers around Elladan’s hand, his

thumb drawing soothing circles on the whitened knuckles. “Let me

in, tôren,” he begged. “Please. Please.”

The sound of Elrohir’s pleading was more than he could bear.

With a strangled sob Elladan burrowed into the offered embrace, his

thoughts washing over his brother like a vitriolic tide.

The elf-knight gasped under the rush of self-loathing and bitter

despair and held his twin closer, desperate to silence the word

that seemed a mantra in Elladan’s mind. Useless. Foresight

had failed, his healing gifts had failed.

Useless...useless...useless. Better to have died...

His own cheeks wet with tears, Elrohir drew back and shook his

brother savagely. “No, ‘Dan. Stop...Elladan! Stop!”

Torn between fury and anguish, Elrohir chose the only means he

knew to halt the damning refrain, offered the only comfort he had

to give. Shoving Elladan roughly against the headboard, he moved

to sit astride his brother’s thighs and caught the tear-salted lips

in a brutal kiss, his hands seeking a hold in carelessly woven

ebony braids as his tongue traced clenched teeth, searching for a

chink in the slowly crumbling wall of resistance.

Let me in.

The demand rang in Elladan’s mind again and again, drowning out

the ponderous chant of his own scathing thoughts. His teeth parted

and at once his mouth was filled with a voracious tongue, tasting

and teasing and thrusting in time to the slow burning roll of

Elrohir’s hips. A small part of him watched as though from a

distance, aghast as his body began to respond, to accept the

undeserved comfort. Elrohir’s fingers tore through his hair,

tangling in the freed strands, pulling his head back to expose his

throat to a mouth that nipped and sucked aggressively at the pale

skin before returning to pillage tender lips once more. Elladan

tasted blood, though he did not see it, and he was vaguely pleased.

It was somehow right that it be this way, that the hollow ache in

his chest be not soothed with tenderness, but burned away in the

fires of mindless lust.

Elrohir struggled to rein in his spiraling passion, to gentle

his touches. Too rough. He knew he was being too rough, because

he saw the bruises and tasted the blood, but he could not stop.

And in the darkest corner of his mind, he did not care.

He fumbled for a moment with the lacings of Elladan’s light

leggings, then, frustrated, opened the thin fabric with a single

rending pull in the instant before he swooped down to swallow his

brother whole.

Elladan howled as he was taken into the warmth of his twin’s

mouth, a hoarse, feral sound that dwindled to guttural groans as

his arousal was worked forcefully by tongue, lips and teeth. His

shredded leggings were jerked off unceremoniously, pulling him down

to sprawl across the rumpled bed, and slick fingers slid

insistently into his body. Pushed beyond endurance by the layers

of pain and pleasure, he arched sharply off the bed, spilling down

his lover’s throat with a shuddering sob.

Elrohir moved up to press a lingering kiss to his brother’s

lips, the tenderness of the caress belying the fierce need that

still burned in his loins. His darkened eyes asked silently for

permission, and Elladan responded by lifting his hips in

invitation, wrapping his legs loosely around the elf-knight’s

waist.

It was over nearly before it began. Three powerful thrusts and

Elrohir found release, muffling his shout against Elladan’s sweat-damp neck before collapsing bonelessly beside his brother.

Elladan went willingly into Elrohir’s opened arms, sated and

drowsy. It was only later that realization struck him. For the

first time in nearly two millennia of couplings, their soul had not

fused as their bodies joined.

And though Elrohir had silenced the accusing voices, he had not

disagreed.

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~Misty Mountains 2509 III~

Anteruon checked his mount and allowed Legolas to precede him

along the narrow shelf, waiting his turn with the remaining guard.

An attack at this point was unlikely, but the Mirkwood warriors

remained vigilant, dividing themselves evenly when the two princes

separated, however briefly. Legolas and the crown prince found

this amusing, but said little. The journey to Imladris was one

they had each made hundreds of times over the past centuries, but

rarely had they traveled together, or in this season.

Though the air was still brisk, the path was clear of ice and

snow. The trees below the rocky trail were dressed in the first

faint flush of spring, their branches seen softly, through a mist

of green, while the massive trunks higher up the mountain were

still caught in winter’s slumber.

It was a sight Anteruon usually saw on the homeward trek, as he

returned to the Wood in early spring, having wintered in Imladris

to study and practice the healing arts under Elrond’s exacting

tutelage. Though he had spent several moons there every other

year, he had never seen the hidden valley in her spring finery, and

would have looked forward to the sight with joyous anticipation,

were the forebodings that prompted the sojourn less dark.

Legolas waited impatiently for the rest of the party to cross

the awkward ledge one by one. Though they were making good time –

indeed, would reach Imladris in just under a fortnight, if their

journey continued unhampered – he felt restless, driven by an

urgent need to move. Were it not for the horses, he may well have

insisted they travel at night, as well. But even the sturdy

Mirkwood mounts could not go on without rest and feeding, and there

was little hope of having them learn to walk in reverie, so he

accepted that they must halt at dark each night. Accepted it

reluctantly, and with little grace.

Legolas had seen Imladris in all seasons over the past four

centuries, though he still most often returned to the valley in the

autumn, a time that held particularly fond memories for both he and

his Peredhil lovers. Elladan. Elrohir.

His heart clenching at the thought of what might have befallen

the twins, Legolas turned his musings firmly to happier times.

Days spent lazing by the falls, locked in training bouts (the pot

spiced by friendly wagers of the most intimate kind), or rambling

the hills and fields around Imladris.

And nights...nights spent entangled in the twins’ wide bed, or

by the fire, cradled in soft furs and snug embraces. Hours when

sleep seemed a waste of precious time, the morning’s aching a small

price to pay.

And the twins had returned to Mirkwood many times as well,

learning her hidden paths and deepest held secrets, gaining the

respect and affection of all but the most bitterly resentful of the

Silvan elves. The three had become a common sight in the Wood,

sparring on the grassy field, strolling in the courtyard, lounging

in the caverns before returning to Legolas’ chambers for another

night’s loving.

Anteruon’s touch drew him from his musings, his brother’s firm

hand a surprising comfort. Time and effort had rebuilt their often

hostile relationship into something Legolas valued greatly, and he

had never treasured the crown prince’s support more than he did

now, on this lonely path toward an uncertain end.

Legolas returned the grip, turning his attention to the trail

ahead. “I believe we can reach the high pass this eve,” he said

thoughtfully, “and just beyond is a fair place to halt for the

night.”

“Aye,” Anteruon agreed, “I know the spot you speak of. It is

easily defended by even a few. I will be glad enough to see the

pass behind us, though. And the downward trail at my feet.”

The party set off at a good pace on the widened track, the

guards’ eyes scanning the tumbled rocks constantly. It was here

that ruffians and renegade orcs most oft lingered, and it was with

some small sense of surprise that they found their way unimpeded,

though the path was trampled as if by many shod feet.

As they approached the pass, Legolas was struck with a sense of

foreboding so powerful he swayed on his horse, drawing concerned

glances from both his captain, Tiriadon, and Anteruon. Soon the

whole party seemed affected, the elves casting anxious glances at

the clear path, the horses sidestepping nervously, ready to bolt at

any provocation. Then the path crested the wide-hewn pass, and the

reason for their unease was made horrifically clear.

This was the site of a massacre.

The very ground seemed saturated with black blood, the remains

of an enormous bonfire revealing grisly glimpses of charred bone

and melted, twisted orcish blades.

Yet it was the other pyre that caused Legolas to stagger, for

though hastily constructed, it had clearly been built by elves for

their fallen comrades. A nearby fire had consumed the slain horses.

The burning pyre had been tended carefully, kept hot, so that

nothing remained save the scorched marking stones. Twelve stones.

Twelve blue-and-grey fletched arrows, each broken in honor of one

whom had passed into Námo’s care.

An entire troop of Imladris’ warriors had perished here.

Bile rising in his throat, Legolas, bowed his head, breathing a

prayer for the fallen.

tôren – my brother