Princes Three: Darkness Unforeseen

Chapter 3

~Imladris 2509 III~

Erestor watched in silence as the cloaked figures disappeared

into the mist. The whole valley seemed to be grieving, the

waterfalls throwing off dense clouds of haze that did not burn

away, but hung over the eerily silent trees and paths like a

widow’s mourning shroud.

A door slammed behind him, and the counselor braced himself for

the coming confrontation. Even Elladan’s footsteps sounded angry.

“Where is he?” the elder twin demanded as he stepped onto the

balcony, his eyes burning with barely controlled fury. “Where is

my brother?”

“Good morning to you as well, ‘Adan,” Erestor returned,

apparently unperturbed. “I believe Elrohir was asked to accompany

Glorfindel on an errand to the border.”

“You believe? You do not know? ” Elladan spat out,

thrusting a scrap of parchment at the counselor. “Then why was I

abandoned with naught but this?”

“This” proved to be a hastily scrawled note: Must go -

Erestor will explain.

I think ‘abandoned’ is a bit melodramatic,” Erestor

rebuked gently. “It is not as though Elrohir has left the realm.

They will return by dusk tomorrow.” Laying a hand on one

trembling arm, he added, “You have ridden out separately before,

Elladan. Rarely, ‘tis true, but you have done so.”

“Not at such a time,” Elladan snapped, shaking off the

offending touch. “I suppose this was Ada’s idea?” At the shake of

his companion’s head, his face paled. “’Roh, then? He

wished to go?”

Erestor drew a deep breath. “It was my idea, and

Glorfindel agreed. You will both be better for a separation...”

Elladan heard nothing beyond the admission of responsibility.

Anger rose, blinding and hot, to wipe away reason. “How

dare you?” he hissed, catching the counselor’s robe in a

threatening grip, nearly lifting him from the floor. “How

dare you send him from me?”

Then all control fled.

Erestor half expected the punch, and was thus well prepared to

deal with it. Throwing up one hand, he caught Elladan’s wrist in a

grip of surprising strength, his other hand contacting firmly with

the elder twin's cheek.

The open-handed blow took Elladan by complete surprise, the

sharp sting bringing him back to his senses. His eyes wide, he met

Erestor’s sympathetic gaze. “Elbereth! What am I doing?

” he gasped, sinking to his knees. “Forgive me, my lord.”

Kneeling beside his distraught companion, Erestor gathered him

into a loose embrace. "Never mind, young one," he murmured, stroking

Elladan's hair as though he were but an elfling. Then he drew back

to meet the glistening grey eyes. "This cannot go on, ‘Adan. You

are feeding on one another’s grief and guilt and hatred, and it is

destroying the both of you." He reached out and pushed aside the neck of Elladan’s

light tunic to reveal a chain of fiery red bite marks, the

surrounding skin mottled blue and green with bruises both fresh and

fading.

“They are naught but lover’s marks,” Elladan insisted

weakly, his cheeks flushing. “He meant no harm...”

“...and you made no complaint,” Erestor finished, catching the

younger elf’s chin in a gentle grip, “because you feel as though

you deserve such treatment. But that does not make it right,

'Adan. You cannot ask him to assuage your guilt in this way. He

cannot expect you, your couplings, to be the sole outlet for his

rage.”

“Then what are we to do?” Elladan asked, his voice uncertain,

rough with the threat of unshed tears. “I do not know the way back

to what was.”

Before the counselor could answer, the faint squeak of leather

and a whiff of exotic spice announced another’s presence.

“The way leads not back, but through, ‘Adan.”

Gildor spoke softly, and if he was surprised to find Erestor

kneeling on the balcony, Elrond’s heir in his arms, the gypsy elf

made no sign. “Forgive me, counselor, but you are needed in the

study. ‘Tis a matter of some importance, I suppose, else I would

not have been dispatched as a messenger while still wearing my

cloak.”

The crooked grin that lit Gildor’s face at the last statement

eased the tension that had fallen with his arrival. Erestor rose

gracefully, a look of perfect understanding passing between the two

ancient elves. “Thank you, my friend,” he replied. “I will attend

to it immediately.”

Gildor offered a hand to the elder twin. “Come, young one,” he said

quietly, pulling Elladan to his feet. “You have spent long

enough on your knees.”

Their eyes met for a brief instant before Elladan looked away,

attempting to withdraw his hand. “I do not know what you mean.” A

faint tremor running over his body, he added, “I nearly struck

Erestor. Would have struck him, had he nor foreseen my

intent.”

His hand tightening around his companion’s, Gildor kept his tone

light and conversational. “But you have not struck Elrohir, have

you? Though I daresay he deserves a good pummeling.”

“You know nothing...” Elladan began fiercely, his anger flaring

again as he struggled to free his hand from Gildor’s solid grip.

“I know all there is to be known of guilt and shame and

anguish,” Gildor broke in, his voice harsh with remembered pain.

“I know what it is to keep secrets, also, though yours are poorly

kept, betrayed by stilted gait and careful sitting." With complete disregard for both fabric and fastenings, he

tugged open Elladan’s tunic, his face hardening as the extent of

the twins’ folly was revealed. “Look,” he demanded, his

tone sharper, perhaps, than intended. “At least face what you are

doing here, in the light of day, ‘Adan.”

As though against his will, Elladan’s gaze fell to his own

battered chest, taking in the many-hued bruises, the scratches and

scrapes, the cruelly bitten nipples.

When Elladan did not speak, Gildor went on, his voice kinder.

“You will find no absolution on this path, young one. Do you think it

would please ‘Rohir to see what he has wrought?”

“Nay,” Elladan whispered, his face hidden behind a fall of ebony

strands. “It would break his heart.”

“As it should,” Gildor replied briskly, wrapping the trembling

form in a snug embrace. After a long moment’s silence, he began to

stroke Elladan's hair. “I will listen,” he said tentatively,

“if you care to speak.”

The quiet offer seemed to touch something in Elladan’s heart,

drawing forth a jumble of words dark and bitter, hatred and grief

mingling equally with guilt and self-disgust.

Gildor remained silent, knowing from long experience the

benefits of such soul purging. Tears soaked his tunic as the

vicious tirade began to falter, and still he did not speak, his

hand moving to draw soothing circles on Elladan’s back. Only after

the strained voice had ground to a halt did Gildor respond,

tightening his arms around Elladan's drooping form. “I believe a rest is

in order, yes? Now, perhaps, begins the healing.”

The first drowsy brush of lips against his neck was easily

ignored, but the following nuzzles and nips were more determined,

the intent unmistakable. Gildor drew a deep breath, then pulled

away slightly, lifting Elladan’s head with a firm hand. “No,

‘Adan,” he said gently. “Not like this. Not with grief for an

excuse.”

Tears welled again in exhausted grey eyes. “Will you hold

me, then?” Elladan asked, his voice breaking. “I cannot sleep

alone. The dreams...”

“I will,” Gildor promised, slipping off his own cloak to drape

around Elladan's shoulders, covering the damaged tunic. “Come along,

young one.”

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

Elrohir had ridden in resentful silence all day, spurning

Glorfindel’s attempts at conversation with only the most necessary

replies, so it was with relief-tinged surprise that the captain acknowledged the abrupt question. “I thought a

companion wise, even though the route is within the bounds of

Imladris," Glorfindel said. "You were chosen because it was felt that a day away

would serve you well.”

“Whose wise decision was this, then?” Elrohir snarled, pulling

his mount up sharply as they entered the sheltered clearing where

they would make camp for the night.

“It was Erestor’s decision,” Glorfindel replied calmly, “and I

support it fully.”

“A day away from what?” Elrohir demanded, his eyes blazing.

“Nana, who looks through me with her empty eyes? Ada, who seems

to hold no hope?” His voice cracking, he went on, ”A day away from

Arwen’s tears? Or the whispers and stares of every elf in the

valley?”

“Aye, all those things,” Glorfindel agreed, meeting Elrohir’s

eyes levelly. “And a day away from your brother.”

“I spend my days away from ‘Dan as it is,” the elf-knight said

with a snort. “He has no time for me among his duties in the

healing hall.”

“Your days, perhaps,” Glorfindel conceded, watching his companion

closely, “but not your nights.”

Elrohir’s lip curled unpleasantly. “Nay,” he drawled, ”but not

my nights. He still finds use for me then.”

Later Glorfindel would berate himself for handling the situation

badly, for being unsympathetic, for forgetting all of Erestor’s

well-meant advice. Later he would feel guilty.

Now he wanted only to wipe the ugly smirk from his charge’s

face.

“Get down,” he ordered tersely, sliding from his own horse and

tossing his sword aside. “And loose your weapons.”

“Why? I...”

"Dismount,” Glorfindel repeated, laying down his bow and

quiver before adding ominously, “or I will assist you.”

Elrohir scrambled from his mount and dropped his weapons, one

hand raised as though to ward off a blow. “I do not understand.”

“I believe that you do,” Glorfindel retorted. “I am sick of

this, Elrohir. I can no longer stand by and watch you ill-treat

your brother and destroy yourself. I will not allow such a remark

to go unchallenged...”

The elf-knight cut in, his own temper rising rapidly. “You do

not know of what you speak, híren,” he ground out, eyes flashing

dangerously.

“Indeed, princeling?” Glorfindel challenged. “Do you think me

deaf and blind? The corridor outside your chambers has rung with

keening and cursing for nigh a week now. I have seen ‘Adan’s

hurts, though he tries to hide them.” His voice hard, he demanded,

“Where are your bruises?”

“I have taken nothing he did not give willingly,” Elrohir

snapped, though a shadow of unease passed over his face.

“Did he give it willingly?” Glorfindel hissed, stepping closer.

“Or did you demand blood as the price of comfort?”

Though the attack did not find Glorfindel unprepared, its

ferocity took him by surprise. He tumbled to the blessedly soft

ground, struggling to find a solid hold on the writhing mass of

fury that seemed bent on doing him serious injury.

Elrohir fought like one possessed, his already impressive

strength magnified by his grief and anger. He lost himself in the

darkly satisfying thud of fist against unyielding flesh, the sharp

rip of rending fabric, the involuntary grunt and whoosh of his

opponent’s breath.

For a single heart-pounding moment, Glorfindel feared he had

made a serious error in allowing this confrontation here, far from

aid. But Elrohir’s daunting power waned as his rage was exhausted,

and the tussle eventually came to the expected conclusion.

Glorfindel sat astride the elf-knight’s hips, pinning both

tensed arms to the ground. Though his face was dirty and bruised,

his tunic torn to rags, the captain’s voice was kind as he

addressed his subdued opponent. “Are you ready to talk now, young one? Or shall we go another round?”

“What would you have me say?” Elrohir asked tiredly.

“I would have you speak the truth,” Glorfindel replied quietly.

“I would have you see what you are becoming and turn from that

path.” Releasing the now unresisting arms, Glorfindel dropped to

the grass beside his companion. “What has ‘Adan done to earn such

contempt from the one who loves him most?”

“He has done nothing,” Elrohir protested.

Glorfindel shook his head, holding the clouded grey gaze. “I

cannot accept that, ‘Rohir,” he said firmly. “You would not treat

him so, even at his own behest, without some reason. It is not

your nature. It is not his nature. I will ask again.

What has he done to deserve your scorn?”

“I said he has done nothing,” Elrohir repeated hoarsely, looking

away as tears began to well in his eyes.

Suddenly, Glorfindel did understand.

“And what would you have him do, ‘Rohir?” he asked,

raising one hand to stroke tangled ebony braids.

“I would have him bring my Nana back to me,” the elf-knight

whispered, his eyes glistening with all the pain of a child whose

hero has proven himself fallible. “I would have him rant and rage

and strike back.” Tears rolled freely down pale cheeks as Elrohir’s facade shattered at last. “I would have him hold me and make everything right.”

Glorfindel gathered Elrohir in a snug embrace, murmuring

nonsensically as waves of long-suppressed grief and anger wracked

the shivering form. When at last the disjointed ramblings and sobs

faded, Elrohir raised his head to meet his mentor’s caring gaze.

“What shall I do?” he asked uncertainly.

“I think,” Glorfindel replied gently, “that it is time you learned to

hold one another.”