No Longer

NO LONGER

= = = = =

Part 3: No Longer Friends

The player’s board in the center garden was again occupied, but only the little songbirds interrupted the elves, who did not mind at all. Yes, the birdsong was sweet as ever it had been, and the sun could be no brighter, shining down full upon them, illuminating the brown highlights in otherwise straight black hair. There were no other disturbances and the light wind was warm. Tumbling gold leaves collected about their feet, and the brothers did not mind.

One by one, the stone pieces fell, giving way to the strongest, and granite’s remorseless knights nearly cornered marble’s king.

“Why do you no longer speak with me, brother?”

Elladan sighed long-sufferingly. “I speak to you daily, brother.”

“Yes you do,” Elrohir readily admitted. “You speak to me. You talk at me. But we do not converse.” Getting right down to it, Elrohir spoke boldly, “You have pushed away your love for this unnamed one, and with it goes all other love.”

“That is not true,” came the ready defiance.

“It is,” Elrohir gently protested, confident in his words. “You do not spend time with anyone but me, and then it is in the far wilderness hunting orcs and speaking hardly at all. Otherwise you are always out on your own with your horse or holed up in your room—and do not deny it,” Elrohir added the last bit when Elladan looked up to protest.

“Fine. I do not deny it. But I do wish you would not make it sound so melodramatic.”

“No histrionics here,” Elroprotprotested. “I speak only truth.”

“Mmm. Just like you told father you hadn’t the slightest idea what had happened to Erestor’s entire wardrobe?”

“It could very well have been pixies,” Elrohir defended himself.

“Pixies knot your hair and spill your soup,” Elladan argued, moving his granite wizard closer to the marble king. “They have not the strength to move Erestor’s complete and, may I add, ludicrously huge collection of clothes out to hang on the front gate. Especially not in one night. They’d make do with a whole sock and lose interest. Besides, last night, you said, ‘brownies.’”

“It could very well have been brownies,” Elrohir agreed, watching Elladan topple the marble king in victory.

///***///

Elrohir sat across the desk from Elrond, receiving a glare he had not seen in many a century, not since childhood pranks had terroriEresErestor and the cooks, and the twin sons of Elrond had been sent to their father for punishment. But now, the Lord of Imladris spoke not.

Elrohir finally addressed his father, no longer able to sit under that penetrating gaze. “If the squirrels have got in the kitchen again, ‘tis none of my doing,” he said, recalling a fond incident long past.

Elrond barely smiled. “This has nothing to do with squirrels, nor Erestor’s wardrobe, I might add.”

Having the decency to look abashed, Elrohir lowered his head.

“I wish it were the case, but I’ve called you here to answer to a matter of the heart.”

Elrohir, surprised and unsure, looked up.

“For my heart is troubled,” Elrond continued, his great age suddenly perceptible in the clear, sad tones of his voice. “I see a… despair in Elladan, and to be truthful, his quiet anguish frightens me.”

Nodding, Elrohir sat back with a troubled sigh. “I know of what you speak,” he said softly, barely audible in the great room.

“And have you an answer to this melancholy?”

Elrohir sighed again, the tight pain in his chest threading up to encircle his head. His own despair was etched in the haunted depths of his dark eyes. His usually mellifluous voice faltered and choked as he quietly and slowly replied, “I would not willingly reveal what was admitted in confidence, but where else but to a father can one turn when in fear for a brother’s life?”

“His life?!” Elrond nearly yelped his horrified shock.

Elrohir pushed away the pain, placing his hope in his father. “A secret terror has been growing in my heart these last decades as I witness Elladan pulling every day further away from me.” Sorrow carved Elrohir’s fair face in a frown as he looked to the white hands clenched tightly in his lap. “The last years have been the worst; I’ve seen him in states I onecalecall from childhood.” Elrond leaned forward in frozen expectation as Elrohir’s carefully controlled voice broke with his emotion. “You remember how he cried and cried when Mother went away, and never shed a tear after? He has now; I’ve found him in the deepest darkest plain oin our lands, sobbing like a human child, lost to this unnamed grief. He only ever stops when he frightens me to tears myself, and I beg him, beg him like I’ve never pleaded for anything in life, to tell me, to explain, What is this weighted shadow of despair that claws at his soul?”

When Elrohir stopped, Elrond could not bear the tension. “And has he told you?”

“At long last, he has.”

Elrond waited for his son to continue, scarcely daring to draw breath.

“He claims that his heart is so full of love, it is near to bursting with the misery of knowing he cannot ever obtain it.”

Elrond’s heart fluttered wildly as his eyes shut in pain, feeling for his sons, both of them. Elrohir had suffered much in silence thus far, witnessing his twi twin, rock-hard and steadfast Elladan, fall to the agony of hopelessness. And equally did his soul weep for Elladan, for few wounds can kill an elf, but despair is the most lethal of all.

Finally, he sighed out, “But for whom does his heart break?”

Elrohir’s dark eyes looked mournfully up to his father’s. “He will not say.”

///***///

Again did Elladan seek sanctuary in the stables. He’d taken up residence in his white stallion’s stall once more, and the grooms had left him to his sort of peace. He brushed the white coat over and over, though the hide had gleamed for many hours, as he pet the horse’s neck, whispering his name, which in the common tongue was Starwell. The steed suffered through his rider’s depression with only small annoyance, soothed by Elladan’s smooth, low tone. “Gil-eithel, I am here with you, my own Gil-eithel…”

Light, uneven footfalls sounded in the stable, and the elf listened carefully.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Elladan turned toward his visitor, almost smiling. “Ah, Aragorn, how does my sister?”

The rugged outdoorsman grinned. “She does well,” he respectfully responded. “But I did not come here to discuss Arwen.”

Elladan looked back to Gil-eithel, pulling a fine comb through the long loose mane. “Oh?”

“I wonder if you would speak to me of what ails you?”

“What have you heard?” Elladan asked curiously.

“Nothing. No one speaks of it, but we all see you withdrawing. Is it Elrohir?”

Elladan’s hand stilled of its own accord at the mention of his brother.

“What else could it be?” Aragorn offered the rhetorical question when Elladan remained silent and still. “He is ever by your side; he is your constant. You draw strength from each other, but now your bond breaks and strength seeps away. It is clear to me that you are both… withering. And I wondered if it appeared so to you.”

“I see no difference in my brother, but for his over-grown concern for me.”

“Then, perhaps you ought to look deeper,” Aragorn suggested, leaving the way he had
come.

Elladan shook his head, moving the comb again and speaking to his stallion in whispered breaths. “And if I do, what shall I see?”

///***///

The occasion of summer solstice demanded a celebration from all creatures on Middle Earth, and Elrond’s household was no different. Preparations had begun months before, and on the fine summer’s morning of the event, the cooks had risen early. Rivendell’s residents and guests awoke to the scents of fresh meat and sweet bread, of baked fruit pies and candied yams filling the air to be carried throughout the whole of Imladris on the breast of a midsummer breeze.

Out in the main courtyard between the gate and the doors, a small congregation had assembled, setting up woodpiles for the bonfires and climbing the many trees to hang brightly colored banners that rolled and furled in the light wind. Their free laughter, ringing voices, and joyful songs carried up to the high balcony occupied by two still figures overseeing the early-morning spectacle.

For a long while they watched over Rivendell in silence as guests rose from bed and roamed the grounds and the halls, the gardens and the courts. Dwarves, elves, and men, of all shapes and sizes and colors, gathered together on this day. Fears and quarrels were set aside, voices both heavy and light mingled on the air, and a spirit of freedom entangled them an ann anticipation of the evening to come.

But when Elladan finally opened his mouth to address his father, Elrond was the one to first speak. “No.”

“But… I haven’t even asked you yet,” was Elladan’s grumbling, almost disbelieving answer.

Elrond glared sideways at his son. “I said no.e foe focused again on the activities below. “Besides, you are whining.”

“But—”

“Are you ill?”

To this, he could not speak truly, for it would demand more than he was willing to give. “No.”

“Are you engaged?”

To this, he could not speak falsely, for it would demand an excuse he did not have. “No.”

“Then, you will be at the ceremony. You have no reason to be moping about in your room and even less reason to spend the holiday in the stable, Elladan.” Elrond eyed him critically. “You and your brother both will attend. As will Arwen, Estel, Glorfindel… even Haldir of Lorien will be here to revisit your brother. You have always enjoyed the festivities in the past…” Elrond trailed off, realizing he spoke not the truth.

Elladan humphed, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Leaning dolefully forward on the intricate curving banister, Elrond sighed. “I cannot force you, and I will not order you, but I should like my own sons to be there.”

Elladan turned away, ashamed of his selfish attitude. “As you like it. I will come.”

------

The feast was, as always, excellent: the mountains of food delicious, the gay music divine, and the grcompcompany exceptional. Elrohir watched with detached amusement as lively conversation fell to bawdy jokes, the guests taking full advantage of the open taps, especially on this of all nights.

When the majority of the food had been devoured, the party moved outdoors where three giant bonfires illuminated the night. Elrohir passed among the guests as a fish through water; only slightly affected by his drink. The atmosphere around him became a whirlwind of flashing colors, sparkling lights, rolling music, and overall, a cheerful, heated din.

Within the triad of high conflagrations, a court for dancing had sprung up, the flat walkway now covered by the multitudes who danced, tramped, pranced, and twirled about on it.

When Haldir laid a friendly grip on his shoulder, Elrohir allowed himself to be dragged into the jig as the women and elf-maidens cleared the floor to watch the circle of men and elf-lords dance wildly about.

High were their steps and loud was their drunken laughter as unsteady dancers collided together, leaving off the routine to dance wildly to the music of their souls. Those more sober found themselves pushed to a smaller circle within the outer one, and Elrohir moved forward with them, hands clasped one to another and held high as the intricate footwork of the difficult circular jig became a contest of accuracy and speed. To the dark-haired elf’s right was his old mentor Haldir, concentrating through his more than slight inebriation and looking straight down at his slow feet as if to better control them. Further on was Glorfindel, missing the steps not because of his drink but because he was so amused by the less clear-headed dancers. To Elrohir’s left was Aragorn, smiling with the others at his own folly, for all the rest of the inner circle were elves, and he could not keep up with them. Swiftly grew the pace, feet flying faster, the circle moving counter-clockwise at ever growing speed.

Soon the women and other spectators were clapping their hands to the steadily increasing beat, shouting out the old challenge:
“Kick it low! Kick it high! Boots to the floor, fists to the sky!
Too much wine, too much mead—keep you from your dancing deed!
Loosing pace, loosing face, get you gone for skill disgraced!
Slower feet lose the beat, take them out; take a seat!”

And the dancers followed the rules, leaving the circle when the pace was too hard. Haldir was the first forced back, his drunken giggles drowned by the loud cheer still repeating. The competition had begun in earnest, and Elrohir fell easily into the fast cadence, as did Glorfindel, who concentrated on the music now rather than his fellow dancers.

Soon Aragorn was left out for his sluggishness, and others swiftly followed suit, stepping or falling back from the circle, sometimes dragged away by their friends. They joined the outer circle, stamping their feet and clapping their hands and belting out the old rhyme.

Gradually the tempo gained and the dancers waned. Twelve. Eight. Six. Four. Three.

Until only two were left. Elrohir and Glorfindel faced off. Their hands were flat; palm-to-palm they met, staring one another down intently as if daring the other to misstep. Expertly they struck out the kicks, stamps, jumps, spinning together wildly in a near frightening display of elvish speed and agility, almost floating when both feet were in the air and twisting madly to the beat. Expertly did they make the transition to the partner’s dance, now moving not only their feet, but also the way in which they gripped each other’s hands, shifting to more complicated and ever-changing holds, spinning about ever faster.

Finally it was Glorfindel who lost the rhythm, landing a moment too late. The crowd cheered fiercely and he readily backed off, grinning at his defeat.

Elrohir howled his triumph, his arms still held high as he flung back his head, turning the sideways jig into a spinning tornado, black hair flaring loose around him, garments whipping about at his speed.

He did not topple to the ground as did less experienced victors, but struck out to prance along the outer circle in a circuit of triumph.

Glorfindel, taking second place in the unofficial but highly respected—if rarely remembered—competition, had already been bestowed a wreath of freshly woven flowers about his neck, mostly weeds, dandelions, poppies, and brown grasses as was tradition for the ‘loser.’ He carried in his hands the victor’s garland. Elrohir danced round to meet him at the center where he knelt on one knee and bowed his dark head, allowing Glorfindel to crown him with the time-honored headdress of hollyhock, oak leaves, yellow jasmine, daffodils, thyme, coreopsis, lantana, daisies, grape leaves, and hyacinths.

Glorfindel stepped back and Elrohir arose to the frantic cheers of the spectators. He flung his arms high and grinned widely, turning in a slow circle, a final moment of rejoicing.

Only then did he catch the shining black eyes that mirrored his own. Elladan stood far away at the main doors, open to the crowd, beside Elrond. Erestor was a silent shadow behind them. And still the crowd cheered, but Elrohir was blind to them all, seeing only the vibrant light in Elladan’s eyes and his open countenance. Never had he seen such a loving, mournful, unguarded expression on that face, which in all rights was his own as well.

Elrohir faltered momentarily, then took up his glory once again, but never did he look away from his brother. The opening chords to the next dance seemed forever in coming, but finally they did, and the younger twin hastily excused himself, moving for the doors of the Last Homely House.

But the crowd was thick and where he had weaved through them easily before, he was now buttressed in and had to force his way through. At one point he glanced downward to avoid running down a young human girl. When he looked up again, Elrond and Erestor stood unmoved, but Elladan was gone.

Then the crowd eased, as if knowing their duty to fate was completed and Elrohir wound his way through them unmolested. He nearly collided with his father in his haste, halting just before the door. “Elladan! Where did he go!?”

Elrond looked about in shock. “Why, he was here but a m—”

“Yes!” Elrohir cried, his frustration mounting, “But where is he now!!!”

Elrond scanned the crowd with the advantage of his height. “I do not see him.” Thef-Elf-Elven Lord then closed his eyes, a hand to his temple as his face lined in concentration. After an eternal moment of waiting, he looked up. “The stables. GO!”

Elrohir did not need to be told. He was already shooting away, calling, “Nimlos! Nimlos!”

Within the stable beside the main gate, Nimlos was frantic to heed her rider and leapt the stall door, meeting him at the livery entrance.

Elrohir did not halt, flying swiftly onto her back with ease. “To Gil-eithel! Like the wind!” was his desperate order, and Nimlos obeyed, streaking after Elladan and his stallion.

------

They struck out along the southern road, following Elladan, but like the twins themselves, their horses were matched for speed and endurance, so Nimlos neither lost nor gained distance on Gil-eithel.

But when the leaders turned eastward, Elrohir took a chance, cutting southeast through an older trail to run parallel with the Bruinen, anticipating his brother’s destination.

------

Elladan pushed his horse remorselessly. *I cannot stand him any longer… I must get away!* He followed the south road to the trail he and Elrohir had worn down over the centuries, no longer conscious of his direction and letting Gil-eithel have his lead to go where he will. The stallion, originally facing south, followed the road he knew best, and Elladan only realized where he was when the horse came to a halting stop on the rocky bank of the Bruinen. Elladan slipped off the creature’s back, and ran his hands over the sweating flanks reflecting silver in the full moon’s light. “Oh my Gil-eithel, I am sorry, so sorry…”

The white stallion snorted in what might have been a forgiving manner, shaking his head before bending down to drink. Elladan swiftly turned, ignoring the tears that threatened, to step lightly onto soft green grass and approach the old, gnarled tree closest to the bank. He climbed within the familiar seat of its twisting arms and closed his eyes to the world, clinging closely to the centuries-old apple-tree.

How often had he and Elrohir come here to this very spot? More than half an age surely it had been since they discovered the wild apple orchard on the western bank of the Bruinen, barely a two-hours easy roundabout ride from home. The trees withered and died over the years, but saplings soon sprung up from the fallen fruit, and over the decades they had tended the untamed, natural garden together, Elladan coaxing the wild irises and ivy vines from tired soil while Elrohir sang to the birds, oh how he always sang so sweetly to the feathered beasts. Now their private garden was a sanctuary of birds and never was it without their high watching eyes and variegated songs. Even now he could make out the call of a nearby owl, and for many years had a particular family of robins found a home in this the eldest of the apple trees, making their high twiggy nest out of reeds and grasses and brightly colored ribbon yearly supplied by Elr.
.

Ah, Elrohir, fairest and kindest and gentlest of elves. Elladan had never known a moment’s peace when Elrohir was not beside him, and yet it had been countless years since he could find peace with him. The constant ache in his repressed heart again swelled, and Elladan covered his distraught face with pale hands, the now common tears streaming from dark eyes, not in another bout of hysteria but in haunted silence, a well-known and eternal despair. *How I love him, dearest of brothers, fastest of friends.*

“Ai, Elrohir…” was his whispering plea.

“I am here, brother.”

Startled to the core, shocked to the extreme, Elladan jumped and took to trembling violently, clutching at the close branches for fear of falling when his eyes opened, meeting those of his brother’s so close and seemingly intimate as he, too, rested among the branches and limbs, his own limbs carelessly thrown about him as he relaxed there. “Ai, Elrohir!” he repeated frantically, “Mean you to frighten me to my very death?!”

Still crowned by summer foliage with black hair falling loose, Elrohir offered a small smile. “No indeed, brother. I was waiting when you came, but in your self-absorbed gloom, you saw me not and paid no heed to the signs of Nimlos’ passing.”

Elladan closed his eyes to calm himself while trying to steady his breathing. Was he so far gone? “I am s—”

A serious tone interrupted him. “Do not think of contrition, Elladan. I sought you out not for excuses or apologies. But I will not let either of us leave here until we sort this out.”

“What?”

“This… whatever-it-is between us.”

“There is nothi—”

A warm hand pressed against his mouth. “Neither did I come here for lies.”

Elladan dropped his gaze and Elrohir dropped his hand. “Aye, brother,” he promised. The elder remained frozen, staring down into the black shadows cast by the bright moon, but Elrohir, kind and patient Elrohir did not push and waited calmly by his side, expecting, at the least, justification for the shadow on both their hearts, some reasoning, however small or unclear, to explain how they had come to such a sad state.

But Elladan found that he knew not what to say. So, he looked up. Elrohir’s pale face shown white in the night, raven hair falling straightr hir his shoulders to untamed curls at the very ends. Set about his head was the victor’s wreath, the greenery adorning him like some vagrant wood sprite. His pale-rose lips were parted in a small frown, but those dark eyes, huge and luminous in the night, caught all Elladan’s attention and breath stopped in his throat.

And it seemed not possible that those eyes could widen further, but they did, as Elrohir again saw that free and open expression, as though a weight had been lifted from his brother’s conscience. In reality, it was the lack of the mask Elladan had worn for near as long as he could remember, now so caught off his guard that the facade of brotherly love, of steady virtue, was irretrievable.

Elrohir did not know he had moved until the glimmer of his own white hand was before him, and he halted his reach before touching that wondering face. Startling himself, he withdrew the hand again, though he still leant toward Elladan, staring at him closely. “It is as I always said. Whatever you tell me, stays between us. You know that. Whatever plagues you, it is killing me as well. You know that. Friends fall out, yes. Allies are lost. Lovers divide. But we are brothers forever, Elladan.”

“Those words should give me comfort,” came the rough murmur, “But you cannot know how they increase my pain.”

Elrohir’s face crumpled in flustered self-recrimination. “How can I harm you so? …And not even know it!—This is madness!”

“Yes,” Elladan agreed. “Love is a mss.”ss.”

“Nay, say not love,” Elrohir protested. “Love is good and pure. Passion, hatred; these are madness. But you say love and neither of these others. You are not mad.”

“Then you know not my passion nor my hatred.”

Taken aback, Elrohir actually shifted away from his brother, recalling the few incidents of unrestrained violence in him. “From what deep well spring these harsh emotions, Elladan? I knew not you had such…”

“Evil in me?”

“Darkness in you,” Elrohir corrected.

“My well of passion has sprung from the well of hope that dried, and hatred also is there, when love is denied.”

“Again comes this love denied,” Elrohir marveled. “Who is she?” he pleaded, desperation in his voice, misery in his eyes.

“I cannot say; I will not say.”

“But you must!” Elrohir suddenly demanded. “If that is the source of this aggression in you, this darkness, you must confront it!”

“Nay, I cannot; do not ask this of me!”

Elrohir suddenly stood upon the tree’s branches, looming over his elder twin. “But I must! When you are blind to the world, I will be your eyes! And now I’m telling you, look out!” Elrohir sank down again, closer still, his gentle heat rolling toward Elladan. “For I can see your folly. Please, tell the one person in all the world you could ever trust.” A new fear dawned in Elrohir’s eyes. “Unless… unless you trust me no longer…”

Elladan heard the alarm in Elrohir’s voice and immediately gripped his shoulders. “Never think that! You ARE the only one I trust!”

“Then…?”

“I do not trust myself, can you not see that, you who are my eyes?” he confessed.

Elrohir managed a small smile. “We all have blind spots, Elladan. And never could I see a fault in you. But now I realize you see your own faults too clearly. Elladan, remember, you are the elder, the stronger, the harder. Without you I am nothing, and I will be without you unless you answer my questions.”

Elladan kept hold of Elrohir’s shoulders as the other grasped his arms. Within the circle they created, they blocked out all else. Gone was the garden and the river and moon. Only each other did they see. Resigned to his fate, Elladan agreed, “Then ask your questions. I will answer.”

Slowly, Elrohir sat back and Elladan did the same, so that they gripped each other’s hands before them. “Your love, the one you cannot have, what is she that you cannot reach her?”

“Brilliant and strong as I am not and could never be.”

“That is nothing if you love her; I still do not understand… There is something you are not telling me…” Elrohir leaned forward again, reading the truth reflected in the elder’s eyes. “You cannot attain this love…” he mused to himself. “Then, is she pledged to another?”

“No.”

“Is she still in her minority?”

“No.”

Elrohir racked his brain. “Is she human? Or some other race?” he asked doubtfully.

“No.”

Thinking that perhaps Elladan could not choose between a brother and a lover, he then asked, “Does she dwell in some distant land, far from home?”

But, “No,” came the easy answer.

“Is she…” Elrohir could not piece together a game without all the parts, and this game was no child’s play. “Is she…” but then another thought occurred to him, “… a she?”

Elladan still held the steady gaze, but remained silent. Elrohir raised an eyebrow. He would wait.

Elladan chose not to. His reluctance gave way to inevitability: “No.”

“Ah,” Elrohir simply answered. “Does he know of your affections?”

The younger twin suddenly felt nearly crushed by the unexpected intensity of Elladan’s gaze. “No,” was Elladan’s deep rumble.

Elrohir hardened his heart. He would not stop now. “Has he sworn off men?”

“No.”

“And he is not wed.”

“No.”

“Do you love him?!”

“Yes!”

“Then why do you not court him!!” Elrohir asked fiercely, not allowing Elladan’s flowing glittering tears to break him.

“I cannot!”

“But why?!”

“Because he is my brother!”


TBC