And Your Bird Can Sing

Title: And Your Bird Can Sing 1/?
Rating: Nc-17
Author: Iamme
Beta: Belle
Desc: LOTR/Crow Wrongs are set right.
Warnings: Violence and death
Not mine. Belongs to Tolkien, J.Obarr, Dante and others noted with in. Thanks To Paul McCartney and John Lennon for the title.
Authors Note: Erestor's Torment is being worked on though it is going slowly. Eglan should be up sometime in the near future I hope.

Book One: Ages of Life and One Moment of Death

Seems three years
Though maybe four
Someone drops dead
Whom I adore
You love someone
There will be grief
The kiss of death
Lips of a thief
“Type O Negative: Everyone I Love Is Dead”

It was cold, dark as he climbed out of that unmarked tomb. That he felt the numbing chill seemed wrong, for Elves did not suffer from cold. All around, snow fell as he pulled himself from the abandoned mineshaft, past the rotted boards. He stood in torn clothing stained by his own blood now brown from time. He had been robbed of everything.

The world slept in that death known as winter yet something stronger than death forced him into life once more. Into a life, which after ages, they had extinguished in a grain of time. His scream echoed in his mind and then an identical one followed. Covering his ears only made it louder as he heard voices… Their voices.

He could not help the cry that rent winter’s silent shroud nor his sobbing as the precious name tore from his lips. The pain struck mercilessly, real and twice as sharp a year later than it at its creation
“Elrohir!” he wailed. He fell to his knees, weeping amongst the heavens’ frozen tears.

Those humans had taken his brother and he remained. Why did he must he always suffer? Why had he inherited his Father’s curse after his sire left?
“You do not have time to feel sorry for yourself, Elf. Get up. It is time for vengeance. Take your sorrow and use it as a weapon one last time against those who have hurt the one you love,” a harsh, dry voice scolded him.
Elladan looked up and found large, glossy black bird sitting on a bare branch not ten feet away. He shook his head in disbelief. “I have gone mad. Birds do not speak!” he murmured.

The crow shook its head as if reprimanding him for his foolishness. “I judge it best you should choose to follow me and I will be your guide away from here and through an eternal place—“

“To hear the cries of despair and to behold ancient tormented spirits as they lament in chorus the second death they must abide,” Elladan finished the well-known quote.

Ruffling its feathers, the crow glared at him. “Get up, Elf! You have a job to do and death to deal out. Your hand becomes as death to those who caused you pain. A cure for the corrupted virus the world has become.

Elladan could only stare at the bird for long moments. “They killed him.”
The bird merely watched, waiting a long moment before responding. “Yes, and the time for them to die approaches.” Beady eyes bored into him, as if seeing into his soul. The ancient bird had seen many scenes of tragedy, each unique in their own nature, with their own script. So similar and yet so different.

The harsh voice continued. “Many have suffered as you have, though not all of them get such a chance as yours, Elf!”

“Why?” Elladan yelled. Not in response to the crow’s words, but a cry of anguish for his losses and the task set before him. “Why?”

“Because they are evil.”

“I have fought evil for ages! What good does it do?”

With a shake of its feathered head, the crow hunched down. “It leaves less evil to feed upon the innocent. It gives hope, brings peace, and redemption.”
Elladan met the bird’s unwavering gaze. Within those shiny black eyes, he sensed knowledge as ancient as his father’s. The memory of those shadowed pewter eyes compelled him to follow this strange creature. He pushed himself up and stood before the crow. Tears froze upon his cheeks as he nodded, then strode purposefully after the bird’s path. Only one thing could bring him peace now. Vengeance.

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allen Poe: “A Dream Within a Dream”

Elladan made his way through the trees to his former home. He headed inside through the broken door, hanging open and flapping in the wind. Yellow tape with black print tied to the building’s walls, fluttering with each gust. The interior, coated with dust nearly as thick as the snow outside, remained in the shambles the evil ones had made of their possessions.
Ancient books and scrolls had disappeared as had newspaper articles and paintings that had been the memories of their long lives. Little remained in this desolate place that any would find valuable. Once again, he asked himself who would protect a person when the law protected the ones who destroyed so many lives. Elrohir and he had fled so many times to avoid humans who wished them harm. When they had settled here, they believed themselves safe. They had been wrong.
Instinctively, he sought Elrohir’s room and the memories slammed into him. Images whirled about him painfully, every article within the place evoking an agony of remembrances.

*Flash*

Long ago, together Elrohir and he stood upon the cliffs, watching the white ship carrying their father away forever. In the sunset, Elladan turned to his twin.
“You could have gone with him,” he said softly.
Elrohir laughed. “And done what? I am not one for sitting and listening to pretty music all the time. This place remains home, this is where we belong,” he repeated, embracing his brother.

*Flash*

Elladan sat at the window, watching the lightning flash outside. Elrohir, tucked into his arms, sighed. They had argued over something simple. So simple, he could not even remember the cause. Now, they sat in silence, mulling over the disagreement.
Elrohir knew him far too well. That he would always be the last to apologize. Shifting, Elrohir tightened his hold. “I am sorry. This argument means nothing. Why do we fight over such petty things?”
“You are right, brother,” he agreed with a rueful smile. “I am sorry as well.”
Elrohir nodded. “Forever, brother. We have forever. Let us do something with it.”

*Flash*

He and Elladan sailed on the Hindenburg, bound for American, fleeing their latest home in Germany. They looked out as the clouds passed by, both wondering what they would find.
“Are you certain we can live safely there, Dan?” Elrohir asked softly.
“Of course! Americans do not hold with the superstitions of Europe. No one will even consider it.”

*Flash*

“Ahhhh, you killed it! Stupid fool!” the leader of the pack growled.
A shrug of the shoulders and a grimace accompanied the reply. “We have another one.”

Elladan watched as they approached Elrohir, a needle in the leader’s hand. Unable to move, the elder twin laid wide-eyed, mute, and bleeding. A hole in his stomach burned like fire and every time he gasped, the one in his neck bled. Pain stabbed at his chest as his lifeblood flowed onto the Oriental rug that graced Elrohir’s room.

“Hey, Bruno! That one’s dying. Help me with this one.”
The big burly human turned away, stepping on Elladan as he went, crushing his fingers beneath the metal plates on the soles of his boots. “It’s not dead yet boss.” The leader shrugged. “It will be soon.” He turned to Elrohir speaking in a calm tone. “Be a good freak and you won’t have to end up like that one.”

Elrohir looked over at Elladan, his eyes full of shock. It had all happened so suddenly. They had been fools to believe no one could hurt them. They had grown too confident in their abilities to remain hidden. Elladan tried to stand, but he could not move. He had to get to his brother before they inflicted any more pain on him.

One of the men, the thin one who wore an expensive suit, screamed and fell back.

“Damn, Hawthorn! Don’t you know not to get that close?” the one standing watch at the door shouted.
“Shut the fuck up, Rigsby!” Hawthorn said as he limped out of the way, a knife in his knee.

Elladan watched as Bruno kicked Elrohir, eliciting the sound of breaking bone and a soft grunt.

A flash of black before his eyes heralded the arrival of a large bird. A crow had appeared and regarded him through shiny eyes. “Don’t look,” it warned.
Elladan ignored him for he could not turn away.
“I said don’t look!” the bird squawked, but still Elladan could not tear his horrified gaze away.

Hawthorn grabbed a shotgun and turning back to Elrohir, fired at the struggling Elf on the floor. The lithe body went rigid, then stilled.
“Damn it Hawthorn, you just ruined our money!” Bruno protested.
Hawthorn shoved him. “Shut the fuck up, oaf! I pay you. I ruined my money. Clean the place out and let’s get out of here.”

Rigsby nodded toward Elladan. “What about that one? It’s not dead.”
“It should be. Shoot it in the fucking head,” Hawthorn replied with a sneer.
Rigsby walked over and aimed at Elladan’s temple. Elladan gave a final prayer to the Valar. Somehow, justice must be done. A flash and then darkness washed over him. He did not hear the shot that ended his life nor see the crow shake its head before flying off. “Stupid Elf. I told you not to look.”

*End Flashes*

He had to kill them, just like the Orcs that they had hunted down together so many ages before. These men had become a waste of flesh, rotted from the inside out and they infected the world around them. Once he had ended their reign of terror, he could find peace. Then he would join his brother, wherever their souls might escape, and together once more, they would be whole.
In one swift motion, he stood and moved to the mirror. The face that looked back at him appeared frighteningly pale. Scars from the gunshot and the other wounds stood out in sharp contrast, pink and angry. The one to his neck wrapped around and fell almost like water would over his flesh. He laughed maniacally as he pulled out Elrohir’s jacket, the collarless affair he had insisted on them buying. It hung down to the back of his knees and had pockets inside for concealment of a wallet or other things humans found useful to carry. Made for dress or casual wear, he had believed it would suit their purposes for many occasions. He had been right.

He shed his torn, bloody clothing, donning a pair of his own black jeans and sliding into the jacket. Elrohir’s faint scent, mingled with his own, wafted up from the black leather. Resolutely, he shoved the pain away and turned to pull on his heavy black boots.

Death should smile at acceptance into its embrace of such rot as those who had taken Elrohir. Though he knew he should smile as well, he could not. Instead, he turned to his brother’s ransacked dresser and closet. Elrohir had loved theater and had spent a great deal of time there in the 1800’s. An old leather make-up case yielded powders and jars of cakes and creams.
Elladan stumbled to the bathroom, carrying his find and began searching through the things. After opening and discarding a number of them, he finally came upon what he needed. A plain jar held white pancake makeup, the sort used for highlights, while another revealed black used for eyebrows and to line the eyes.

Amidst the jars, brushes and sponges lay, still in good shape. For despite all the years between Elrohir’s dabbling with theater and his unnatural demise, the *peredhel* had periodically used it to celebrate the humans’ “Halloween.” At those times, he would don clothes in the ancient style, paint his face, and go out “pretending” to be an Elf among others who costumed themselves as everything from super heroes to creatures of the Dark.
With a certain amount of numb detachment, Elladan moistened the sponge and dabbed it into the white make-up. He pulled back his hair with a strip of black ribbon, and then began the transformation. His already pale face grew even more ghostly as the white paint covered it. An image formed in his mind of the masks he had seen some of the celebrants of Halloween wearing and he turned to a thin brush and the black.

Much like the symbols of comedy and tragedy of those heydays of live theater, he lined his eyes and lips. Perversely, he chose comedy, as ironic as that might seem. The white would stand for the purity of his mission, while the black, though in the shape of laughter, meant the direct opposite. Beneath his darkened eyes, he drew a short line, as if the tears he had shed for Elrohir had been burned into his flesh. The upturned lines that continued from the corners of his mouth seemed more a rictus of pain than anything to do with humor.

Indeed, he and Elrohir should have never died as they did. Even if they had met their ends millennia before, dead Elves did not walk among the living. Yet here he stood, staring into the mirror at what he had become. No longer the son of Elrond, brother to long dead Arwen and newly dead Elrohir, he had become Vengeance Embodied.

Carefully, he washed out the sponge and brush, laying them in the case once again. Then he capped the jars of make-up and replaced them as well. Resolute, he regarded his image, well aware that he would now fight once again, alone this time, for those who no longer had a voice in this world.

Hope is your survival
A captive path I lead

No matter where you go
I will find you
If it takes a long long time
No matter where you go
I will find you
If it takes a thousand years

(mohican)
Nachgochema
Anetaha
Anachemowagan

No matter where you go
I will find you
In the place with no frontiers
No matter where you go
I will find you
If it takes a thousand years

(cherokee)
Hale wú yu ga I sv
Do na dio sv i
Wi ja lo sv
Ha le wú yu
Do na dlo sv

No matter where you go
I will find you
If it takes a long long time
No matter where you go
I will find you
If it takes a thousand years

No matter where you go
I will find you
In the place with no frontiers
No matter where you go
I will find you
If it takes a thousand years

No matter where you go
I will find you

Ciaran Brennan (Clannad): “I will find you.”
“The Last of The Mohicans” 1992