Princes Three: Darkness Unforeseen

Chapter 4

~Imladris 2509~

Legolas sighed with heartfelt relief as they began the long and

treacherous descent into the valley. No matter what horrors lay

before him, what losses must be faced, he had arrived. The rest

must come as it may.

“Shall I send a rider ahead to announce our arrival?” Tiriadon

asked, suddenly aware that a party of ten sat ready to drop without

warning on a realm in the grip of some dreadful sorrow. “We are

not expected.”

“Aye, that would likely be best,” Legolas replied, turning his

attention to the young warrior who rode forward expectantly. “Tell

whomever receives you that we need no cosseting.”

As the messenger rode away, braids swinging in the breeze of his

mount’s gentle trot, the rest of the party halted for a moment,

watching as the nimble-footed Mirkwood mare easily overcame

Imladris’ formidable natural defenses.

“The light will soon be gone, tôren,” Anteruon said, looking out

over the rapidly deepening shadows that filled the valley. “We

should be getting on.”

The party rode forward slowly, at first soothed by the din of

the falls, then unsettled by the pall of silence that seemed to

have fallen over Imladris. There was no sound of singing, no

twittering of nightbirds, no shouts of welcome from lounging

warriors or good-natured grumbling from returning patrols.

Legolas felt his heart begin to grow heavy again, the valley’s

grief a palpable weight in his chest. His mind reached out

uncertainly, seeking reassurance, but his thoughts were quickly

lost in the swirling confusion that surrounded his lovers.

‘They are alive,’ he reminded himself fiercely, fighting back a

stab of alarm. ‘All else can be remedied.’

Lifting his chin in defiance of all that fate might have in

store, Legolas led the way down the winding trail.

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

“Legolas!’ Erestor exclaimed, drawing the prince into a warm

embrace. “Praise the Valar you have come.” Bestowing a more

formal, though no less welcoming, greeting on Anteruon, the

counselor led the way to his own private study, leaving his mate to

see to Tiriadon and the warriors.

“Glorfindel will join us in a moment,” he began, offering

goblets of clear golden wine to the weary visitors. “I have called

for your meal, as well. But first...”

“What has happened, Erestor?” Legolas broke in impatiently,

shaking off Anteruon’s restraining hand. “Just tell me what has

happened. Are ‘Dan and ‘Roh well?”

“They are uninjured,” Erestor said, his face bleak, ”but not

well, I fear.” With a sigh, he met the anxious blue-green gaze.

“The Lady’s party was ambushed by orcs while on the way to Lórien.

She was taken captive and held for several days before the twins

found her.”

“Elbereth,” Legolas breathed, his face ashen. “Lady

Celebrían, she is...”

“She lives, but little else,” Erestor answered, his voice

strained. “I deeply regret not contacting Thranduil, but...”

Anteruon waved off the apology. “There were more immediate

needs, no doubt.”

“She took a poisoned arrow to the shoulder and her fever has

only recently broken,” Glorfindel said soberly, his quiet entrance

taking all three elves by surprise. Dropping to the chair beside

Erestor, he offered an arm clasp to each of the guests, then

reached for a glass of wine.

“The Lady neither speaks nor acknowledges anyone, not even

Elrond or her children,” Erestor sighed. “It is possible that her

body may mend, the healers say.”

“But they hold little hope for her spirit?” Anteruon asked

bluntly, earning a respectful glance from the counselor.

“That is my feeling, aye, though the words are not spoken. Not

yet.”

Legolas did not respond immediately, his attention caught by a

fading bruise that was exposed by the shift of Glorfindel’s bath-damp hair. “What has happened to you, my friend?” he asked

curiously. “That looks to be the mark of a fist.”

“It is naught to notice, Legolas,” Glorfindel answered. “A

tussle near the border, nothing more. I returned little more than

an hour ago.”

A slight frown crossed the prince’s face, but he turned back to

Erestor, meeting the indigo eyes searchingly. “Tell me of ‘Dan and

‘Roh. Where are they?”

“Elladan was still in the healing hall when you arrived,” the

counselor replied, his gaze flickering to Glorfindel briefly before

he continued. “Elrohir is likely bathing.”

Anteruon caught the wary glance, his eyes narrowing, and for a

moment it seemed he would speak, but he thought better of it,

instead giving his brother’s arm a quick squeeze.

Drawing a deep breath, Erestor focused again on the Mirkwood

princes. “There is something you should know, Legolas...something

you should both know, though the details are not mine to share.”

Here he paused, as though seeking the right words. “The twins have...have not been themselves. The tragedy has

taken a terrible toll on both of them, though in very different

ways.” Focusing on Legolas, he added, “I hope that your presence

may bring some comfort, but I fear you will need all your resolve

to see this through.”

Legolas was on his feet in an instant, would have left the room

were it not for Glorfindel’s quiet command. “Wait.”

Legolas turned, meeting the steady sapphire gaze with growing

unease. “Aye, my lord?”

“Grief makes the best of us do and say foolish things, young

one,” Glorfindel offered. “Do not be too quick to judge, I beg

you.”

“I will follow in a moment, tôren,” Anteruon said, rising as

Legolas left the room in search of the twins. Bowing slightly, he

addressed the two elder elves. “I will take myself to the healing

hall as soon as I have bathed and eaten, in the hope that my

skills may be of some small use.”

“Your help will be much appreciated, Anteruon,” Erestor replied

gratefully. “Elrond and ‘Adan are both often near collapse.”

Anteruon inclined his head, then fixed an appraising gaze on

Glorfindel. “Elrohir was your companion on the trek. He struck

you, did he not?”

“Aye,” the captain admitted. “He did.”

“Is my brother in danger?”

The question was matter-of-fact, and Glorfindel answered it in

like manner. “I do not believe that he is in physical danger,

no.”

There was a heavy silence, then Erestor spoke. “I have had your packs placed in a

three-room suite, in case Legolas has need of his privacy.”

“It is that bad, then?” Anteruon asked grimly.

“Aye,” the counselor agreed. “It is that bad.”

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

Elladan stared in amazement, his exhausted mind struggling to

untangle his brother’s accusations. “Just make yourself plain,

‘Roh, or let it be,” he broke in finally, raising one hand in an

attempt to stem the flow of angry words. “I am tired and sore and

I want to...”

“I do not doubt that,” Elrohir hissed, stepping so close

that Elladan could feel the heat of his bath-warm skin. A distant

part of the elf-knight’s mind still saw reason, begged him to wait,

to remember his promises to Glorfindel, to think, but he

raged on. “I can smell him, melethron. I can smell that

Valar-forsaken gypsy-elf on my bed, on my pillow...”

“Do not be daft,” Elladan retorted, his own temper rising. “He

only...”

“...had what he has coveted for two millennia?” Elrohir snarled.

The words had scarce left his mouth when the blow fell,

splitting his lip, bloodying his nose, knocking him to his knees

with its unexpected force.

“He did naught but hold me while I slept,” Elladan spat

furiously, his eyes glittering with both rage and deep hurt. “He

comforted me, Elrohir, without charge. Without blood or

bruises, without pain. He allowed me to forget, if only for an

hour, what I have become.” The scathing voice cracked, became

bitter and hopeless. “To forget that I am little more than my

brother’s whore.”

Legolas heard the angry voices and flung open the door, freezing

where he stood as he took in the surreal tableau before him.

Elrohir knelt near the hearth, his hands raised as if in

supplication. Elladan stood over him like a vengeful spirit.

Neither noticed Legolas, so lost were they in the fog of their

shared anguish.

Elrohir shook his head in denial. “Nay,” he whispered hoarsely,

tears mixing with the blood still trickling down his battered face.

“You are...”

“I am what?” the elder twin demanded, heedless of the wetness

that streaked his own cheeks. “Save useless?”

My Elladan. And that is enough.

The words he had spoken to Glorfindel rose again in Elrohir’s

mind, bringing with them a fresh onslaught of tears. “My Elladan,”

he breathed, willing his brother to understand. “You are my

Elladan. Forgive me, 'Dan. Please forgive me.”

Elladan reached out to tentatively touch his brother’s face,

jerking his hand back as though scalded when Elrohir winced.

Looking down at his fingers, which were wet with blood-tinged

tears, Elladan swayed suddenly, his face blanching. “I feel sick,”

he rasped, staggering toward the bathing chamber.

Legolas could bear no more. Though he had not heard the

preceding argument, he knew instinctively that some demon was being

faced, that the final movement of some ghastly dance was playing

out before his eyes. But he could remain silent no longer. “What in the name of Manwë is happening here?”

Bewildered grey eyes met his gaze, as though Elrohir could take

in no more, could make sense neither of his presence nor of his

question. Legolas bit his own lip as a surge of helpless

irritation threatened, was nearly given voice, then a calming hand

fell on his shoulder.

“Easy, tôren,” Anteruon murmured, taking in the scene with a

healer’s eye. “Easy.”

Consciously softening his voice, Legolas moved to his lover’s

side. “’Roh?” he entreated, dropping to his knees, not yet

touching the distressed elf. “I am here, rohir nín. Tell me what I

can do.”

“’Las?”

The name was spoken with such uncertainty, such fragile hope

that tears welled in the prince’s eyes. “Aye,” he affirmed, daring

to brush back a strand of ebony hair. “Let me help you, hmm?”

Elrohir shook his head. “’Dan...help ‘Dan. I am well.”

Legolas opened his mouth to protest, the words dying unspoken at

the pleading in the elf-knight’s gaze.

”Please,” Elrohir whispered, the entreaty ending in a

muffled sob. “I have...I have hurt him, ‘Las.”

“Go, Legolas,” Anteruon urged quietly, moving nearer. As his

brother stood reluctantly, the crown prince extended a hand toward

Elrohir. “Will you permit me to tend to your injuries?”

Elrohir accepted the offered aid, allowing Anteruon to lead him

to a chair near the fire. “My nose hurts,” he announced suddenly,

as if surprised by the fact.

Despite the gravity of the situation, a smile flickered across

the Anteruon’s face. “I daresay it does, Peredhel,” he said

lightly, feeling for serious damage with practiced fingers. “But

it is not broken, thankfully. Come with me and we will wash away

the blood, then find you something for the pain.”

Elrohir looked toward the bedchamber uncertainly.

“We will go no further than my suite, and I will be quick,”

Anteruon promised. Squeezing Elrohir’s arm reassuringly, he added,

”It will do Elladan no good to see you like this, my friend.”

Legolas registered the younger twin’s acquiescence and the thud

of the closing door instinctively, his attention focused on the

bathing chamber and its miserable occupant. “Oh, el nín,” he whispered helplessly, holding back Elladan’s

hair as the elder twin leaned over the basin and retched painfully,

his empty stomach
knotting again and again. “How did it come to this?”

The familiar voice finally penetrated the fog in Elladan’s mind

and he raised his head, disbelief and yearning evident in his ashen

face. “Am I mad?” he breathed, reaching out warily, as though

Legolas were a spectre
that might vanish at the slightest touch.

“Nay, you are not mad,” Legolas replied, weaving his fingers

with Elladan’s, struggling to hold back his own tears as he met the

clouded grey gaze. “You are exhausted and heartsick and confused,

perhaps, but not mad.”

“’Las, Nana was...”

“Shh,” Legolas broke in soothingly. “I know, ‘Dan, I know. We

will speak of it tomorrow. Anteruon has come to aid the healers,

and he will watch over Lady Celebrían this night. You need not

fear.”

“Where is ‘Roh?” Elladan asked suddenly, one hand going to his

own chest as though his heart pained him.

“He is with Anteruon, having his...having a wash,” Legolas

answered
reassuringly, “and you should have a bath as well. It will help

you sleep.” Ignoring his lover’s lack of response, he moved around the

bathing chamber, rinsing the basin, gathering towels and oils,

setting the tub to fill with warm water, before urging Elladan

toward the bath and reaching for the ragged braids. “Let me help

you, ‘Dan.”

The elder twin stood quietly as his hair was unbound, closing

his eyes briefly as gentle fingers smoothed the newly freed

strands, pushing them back from his face. Only when Legolas

reached for the ties of his tunic did he snap out of his stupor,

raising both hands in obvious rejection. “I can do it,” he said

abruptly.

“I do not mind,” Legolas replied, a slight frown creasing his

brow.

“Nay,” Elladan refused quickly, turning to make sure his

sleeping attire was at hand. “I will undress myself.”

Legolas nodded, pressing a kiss to one tear-stained cheek before

slipping from the room. No sooner had the door closed behind him

than he heard the latch fall, the sound bringing with it a thrill

of unease. He had been barred from the bathing chamber.

Elladan, who normally flaunted his body with all the skill and

wanton disregard for propriety of a trained courtesan, had refused

to so much as loosen his tunic before his lover of near 400 years.

Deep in his musings, each more disturbing than the last, Legolas

sat down to wait.