Princes Three: Darkness Unforeseen

Chapter 5

Anteruon hesitated but a moment before slipping into the private

chamber where Celebrían lay, silent and unmoving. Hardened as he

was to the sight of wounds and the ravages of poison, his heart

clenched as he stood by the Lady’s narrow bed.

Her fabled silver hair, once luxuriously thick and so long that

the unbraided length fell below her knees, was cropped close -

sacrificed in an attempt to temper the fever, as well as to remove

the taint of blood and filth. Hollowed cheeks and fragile wrists

stood as mute testament to her failure to take in nourishment.

Fading bruises and scratches that should have been long healed

spoke of both her ill treatment at the hands of her tormentors and

the waning of her spirit. What damage lurked under the prim cotton

gown, Anteruon was afraid to imagine.

Elrond raised his head, sensing the presence of another, but

neither looked toward the intruder nor spoke until Anteruon laid a

gentle hand on his shoulder.

“How may I aid you, my lord?”

Elrond started, coming instinctively to his feet as he

swung around in surprise. “Anteruon?” he said in disbelief,

clasping the extended arm. “How...when...”

“Legolas and I have come to offer whatever help we may,” the

crown prince explained simply. “He is with the twins, where he

will do the most good. I will serve here, if it pleases you.”

Like Elladan before him, Anteruon was shocked by the signs of

exhaustion and despair that were visible in Elrond’s face. The

usually ageless Peredhel seemed to have withered like one of his

mortal kin, his glowing skin and unlined face replaced by a greyish

pallor and deep creases.

With an authority that even Erestor seemed incapable of

mustering in the aftermath of the tragedy, Anteruon took charge.

Linens were changed, candles were lit and the fire was fed with

fresh evergreen branches, driving away the musty odor of the

sickroom with the fresh, crisp scent of the valley itself.

Shutters that had been closed tight against the cool air of early

spring were thrown open, welcoming the light of moon and stars, the

increased chill warded off by soft blue and grey blankets. Through

it all, Elrond stood bemused, allowing the Mirkwood prince to have

his way. Only when another narrow bed appeared did he raise an

inquiring eyebrow. At Anteruon’s direction, the cot was placed

snug against Celebrían’s, the fresh bedding turned down invitingly.

As though dealing with a recalcitrant elfling, Anteruon calmly

proceeded to give instructions to his host. “You must go bathe

now, my lord. I will call for a tray of light refreshments, so that

you may eat before retiring.”

“But...”

Anteruon raised a hand, silencing Elrond’s protests. “I will

remain here. You have my word.” Settling into the chair that

Elrond had haunted for so many nights, the crown prince made a

dismissive gesture. “If you tarry, your bath will be cooled ere

you reach it.”

“The very shade of your grandfather you are, young one,” Elrond

snorted, though without malice. Turning toward the bathing chamber

he added, “Oropher remade.”

“I have heard that rumor before,” Anteruon agreed with a slight

smile, “and I thank you.”

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

Elrohir stood at the bedchamber door, the desire to be close to

his newly arrived lover warring with his reluctance to face

Legolas’ questions and censure. To his surprise, Anteruon had made

no inquiries, offered no opinions. The crown prince had simply

cleansed his bloodied face, provided a pain draught, and sent him

off to bed. That Legolas might likewise let the episode pass was

too much to expect. And more than he deserved.

“Why are you lurking out here like a beggar?” Legolas teased

gently, catching Elrohir in a snug embrace before drawing him back

into the front chamber. “Come have some miruvor with me, ‘Roh. Or

some fruit? Have you eaten?”

“I am not hungry,” Elrohir said quickly, the very thought of

food causing his stomach to lurch. After a moment’s pause, he

asked, “Has ‘Dan eaten?”

“He is bathing,” Legolas answered, obviously struggling against

the urge to demand an explanation of the scene that had greeted his

arrival. Pouring two small glasses of miruvor, he led the way to

the oversized chair that dominated the area before the fireplace.

“Will you sit with me?”

The words were more command than question, and Elrohir followed

reluctantly, sinking into the soft cushions before accepting the

offered cordial. The silence threatened to become unwieldy as

Legolas stared into the fire, sipping slowly at his drink.

Shifting restlessly, the elf-knight took an unthinking gulp of his

own miruvor. “Elbereth!” Elrohir yelped in surprise, the

fiery cordial assaulting his swollen and lacerated lip like a

thousand dwarven forges. Sucking gently at the abused skin, he met

the prince’s compassionate gaze.

Legolas reached out to cup Elrohir’s battered face, his thumb

gently tracing the deep blue and purple bruises that marred the

translucent skin. Even marked as he was, even pale and drawn with

grief, Elrohir was glorious in the flickering light of the fire and

Legolas strove to keep his attention on the grave matter at hand,

rather than on the starkly etched planes of his lover’s chest and

stomach. “I would never have believed it, rohir nín, had I not

witnessed the aftermath myself. What cause did he have to strike

you?”

“Cause enough,” Elrohir replied evasively. “Just cause.”

“I would judge that for myself,” Legolas retorted, an edge to

his voice that would have made Thranduil proud. “What cause,

'Roh?”

Elrohir stared unseeingly into the flames, his thoughts gone

back to another fire, another conversation, promises made and

broken. Drawing a deep breath, he met Legolas’ eyes and offered

the simplest answer. “I accused him of bedding Gildor.”

To the prince’s credit, he absorbed the bald statement with only

the smallest arch of a golden eyebrow. “And did he?”

“Of course not!”

Silence met the appalled response as Legolas resisted the urge

to shake his lover. ‘Easy,’ he reminded himself, repeating

Anteruon’s advice. “Then why did you accuse him of such an unlikely

offense?”

Elrohir’s eyes flashed in irritation, then his expression grew

dismal. “I do not know.”

Legolas seemed ill content with the vague answer, but the creak

of a door and muffled footsteps forestalled further questioning.

“Let me see to ‘Dan, then I will leave the two of you for a bit,”

he said, brushing a soft kiss over Elrohir’s tender lips before

moving toward the bedchamber.

Elladan turned as the prince entered the room, but his usually

sparkling grey eyes remained clouded and distant. He wore both

sleeping pants and loose shirt, his robe belted carelessly over

all, and Legolas frowned slightly. It was rare for the elder twin

– for either of the twins – to wear more than the light

woven pants.

“Let me braid your hair,” Legolas suggested, surprised and a bit

alarmed when Elladan complied without speaking. Running his

fingers through the damp ebony strands, he quickly wove a loose

plait. “There,” he said, tying off the end with a piece of lacing

before pulling his lover into a tentative embrace, “that is done.

Have you eaten?”

“Earlier,” Elladan replied briefly, and Legolas thought better

of further questioning, instead holding the unyielding body close,

stroking the silken braid rhythmically until Elladan began to relax

in his arms. “I have hurt ‘Roh,” the elder twin whispered finally,

raising his head to meet concerned blue-green eyes.

“I know,” Legolas answered, the soothing movement of his hand

never faltering. “He is waiting for you in front of the fire.”

Elladan stiffened, a flash of indefinable emotion crossing his

face. “I cannot...”

“You must,” Legolas insisted, a hint of his own

exhaustion creeping into his tone. “I do not know what has gone

before, ‘Dan. I do not know why you are suddenly as modest as any

maid, nor do I know what that scene earlier was truly in aid of. “

Legolas raised his hand, cutting off any protest. “But I do

know that regret and guilt make poor bedfellows. I must bathe and

look in on Anteruon in the healing hall, then I will return.”

Pressing a chaste kiss to his lover’s mouth, he pulled away. “You

must talk to him.”

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

Elladan entered the front chamber reluctantly, stopping to pour

himself a generous goblet of miruvor before glancing toward the

chair where Elrohir sat motionless, eyes fixed on the dancing

flames, his fingers stroking an empty glass. The elder twin opened

his mouth to speak, then closed it abruptly, assailed by a

realization that shattered his wall of pretense, leaving him with a

hollow ache in his chest.

How long had it been since he touched Elrohir’s mind? Sensed

his brother’s moods? Ten days? Longer?

They shared a soul, yet his twin seemed as remote as the most

casual of lovers, the comfortable intimacy that they had always

enjoyed strained to breaking by the guilt-wrought madness that had

invaded both their hearts and their bed.

Will you have another?

The words brushed Elrohir’s thoughts uncertainly, as though his

brother expected to be brought to task for what was as natural

between them as speech. Looking up in surprise, he met Elladan’s

raised glass with a shake of his head.

Nay, ‘tis like dragon’s fire on my lip.

He immediately regretted the reference to his injury.

Elladan’s shoulders slumped, his face hardening with self-reproach, and he would have fled to the lonely safety of the

bedchamber had Elrohir not spoken.

“It was not my intent to chastise,” Elrohir said, the very

quietness of his tone drawing his brother nearer. “The blow was

deserved. I cannot fault you for defending your honor against my

base accusations.”

“Gildor’s honor,” Elladan corrected, a bitter smile

curling his lips as he lowered himself to the chair beside his

twin. “He would not dally with one befuddled by grief.”

Elrohir closed his eyes against a flash of anger. “I cannot

fault you for seeking comfort, either. I have been less than

generous with my affection these last days.” Opening his eyes, he

looked at Elladan searchingly. “And had he not refused? Would you

have made good on your offer?”

“I do not know,” the elder twin admitted, shrugging his

shoulders tiredly, blinking back the tears that threatened. “It is

easy now to say that, nay, I would not have betrayed you so, would

not have betrayed ‘Las so. But I do not know.” Reaching

out to touch Elrohir’s swollen lip, he sighed. “What has happened

to us, ‘Roh?”

“We have taken the wrong path at every turn,” Elrohir answered

sadly, pushing aside Elladan’s robe to lift the loose sleep shirt.

Tears welled in his eyes as he surveyed the still-vibrant bruises

and bite marks that marred his brother’s chest. “Valar, ‘Dan!” he

swore, running gentle fingers over the worst of his handiwork.

“You look as though you have been mauled.”

“I feel as though I have been mauled, as well,” Elladan replied

with a flash of dark humor, “though not by your hands, nor mouth.

My very spirit aches.”

“As does mine,” Elrohir agreed, the ghost of a grin touching his

battered face. “Even moreso than my nose.” His expression

sobering, the elf-knight traced the most vivid of the bites. “It

was two nights past that the last of these were laid,” he said

worriedly. “They should be little more than shadows by now, were

you hale.”

Letting the silken fabric fall, Elrohir reached out to press his

palm to his twin’s. “Can you forgive me, ‘Dan?” he asked

uncertainly. “I would have my brother back.”

“Aye,” Elladan returned, interweaving their fingers. “If you

can forgive me my madness.” Meeting Elrohir’s intent gaze, he

added, “I would have my brother back, as well.”

In answer, Elrohir leaned forward brushing his brother’s damp

cheek with his own, the age-old caress both comfort and a reminder

of how far they had strayed. There was a moment of uncomfortable

silence before he gave voice to the question that loomed between

them. “Now what, tôren? Where does this leave us?”

“It leaves us where we are, ‘Roh,” Elladan said after a moment,

“and I am not sure of the path home. But I am glad that you are

here with me.”

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

Legolas opened the door slowly, the eerie quiet giving rise to

all manner of ridiculous imaginings, and a breath he had been

holding unaware escaped with a soft whoosh of relief as he

stepped into the twins’ chambers.

The dying fire revealed a somewhat awkward tangle of pale limbs

and dark hair, though more important to Legolas’ mind were the

closed eyes and rhythmic breathing that spoke of deep sleep.

To one who knew the twins intimately, certainly, there was still

much to give pause. Elladan remained draped in fabric enough to

soothe the most virginal of maids. Tear tracks were plainly

visible on Elrohir’s face, his brow drawn slightly, even in rest.

And there was something distinctly fraternal about their

position, no matter how intertwined. But Elrohir’s head was

tucked firmly under his brother’s chin and Elladan’s arms were

wrapped snugly around the elf-knight’s limp form.

It was at least a beginning.

Legolas paused a moment, considering, then slipped into the

bedchamber, returning with a soft blanket that he tucked carefully

around the twins before readying himself for the night. Curling up

on the soft pillows and furs before the fireplace, he quickly fell

into an exhausted slumber.

*~*~*~*~*

rohir nín – my knight


tôren – my brother