Princes Three: Darkness Unforeseen

*Title: Princes Three: Darkness Unforeseen (1/?)

*Author: Minuial Nuwing

*Contact: minuial_nuwing@yahoo.com

*Update list: First Light Reflected - http://groups.yahoo.com/group/first_light_reflected/

*Rating: NC-17 overall

*Type: FPS

*Pairing: Elladan/Elrohir, Elladan/Elrohir/Legolas, implied Glorfindel/Erestor, others to be named

*Warnings: Violence, Angst, Explicit twincest

Please note that this story opens during a tumultuous time for Imladris, and the fact is reflected in the dark tone that pervades the opening chapters. Some very unpleasant things are seen and implied. Consider yourself warned.

I am, however, still me, which should reassure you that no matter what happens, 1) the suffering will not last too long, and 2) they will all live happily ever after.

Well, most of them, anyway.

*Feedback: Makes me smile, and write faster…

*Summary: Sequel to ‘P3: Any Shelter’ -- After tragedy shatters the peace of Imladris, lives are reformed and rebuilt.

*Notes: Italics indicate mindspeak or thoughts, when not used for simple emphasis. In plain text, stars (**) indicate italics. One star (*blah*) for emphasis, two stars (**blah**) for mindspeak or thoughts.

*Beta: The incredible Fimbrethiel (hugs) Any remaining mistakes are all mine.

*Disclaimer: Only the quirks and perversions are mine. Everything else belongs to the creator-god of Middle-earth, J.R.R. Tolkien. I am awed by his gifts and humbled by his vision. I promise to clean them all up and return them with smiles on their faces when I am done playing.

*A/N: As noted by the dates, about 360 years have passed since the events of ‘Any Shelter.'

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



Princes Three: Darkness Unforeseen

~Mirkwood 2509 III~

The howl of agony cut through Legolas like the echo of every

pain he had ever endured, rousing him from a deep reverie to stand

panting and disoriented in his silent bedchamber, one hand pressed

to his heaving chest, his heart pounding painfully under his damp

palm. Shaking off his stupor, he hurried to the door, throwing it

open to find naught but an empty courtyard, the bubbling fountains

touched by the first glow of dawn. ‘A dream,’ he thought

uneasily, but even as he turned back to his bed a second anguished

cry rang out, touching not his ears but his soul, and he knew with

a terrible certainty who, if not why.

Elladan. Elrohir.

Fighting a rising sense of dread, Legolas jerked on his leggings

and tunic, hastily braiding his hair into a single golden rope

before stuffing his pack with the clothes nearest to hand.

Imladris. I must get to Imladris.

Unsure whether the thought was his own or an echo of his lovers’

distress, he pulled on his boots and grabbed his quiver and bow,

pausing only long enough to make sure that the white knives were

securely sheathed on his back. Hurrying out the door and down the

curving staircase, he headed at once for his father’s chambers.

“Legolas, wait!”

The call caused him to slow for a moment, and Anteruon hurried

to his side, worried and confused by the air of agitation that

surrounded his brother. “What is amiss?” the crown prince asked,

laying a calming hand on Legolas' arm. “What has happened?”

“I do not know,” Legolas ground out, forcing Anteruon to either

walk with him or be left behind. “Something has happened to ‘Dan

and ‘Roh. Their pain woke me.” Meeting his brother’s eyes bleakly

he added, ”I have never felt the like, tôren. I must get to

Imladris.”

“But are they even there?” Anteruon probed gently. “How

can you be sure it was not a dream?”

“It was not a dream,” Legolas retorted savagely, and for the

first time Anteruon noted the odd remoteness of his brother’s eyes,

a shiver of foreboding streaking down his own spine. ‘Fey,'

he thought with a sudden stab of unease, ‘as though touched by

spirits.’

“I will go with you,” Anteruon said abruptly, gesturing toward

the stables. “ I will have the horses and provisions readied, then

join you in Ada’s chambers.”

Legolas' eyes widened in surprise, then he nodded briskly. “You

may well be needed. Rouse Tiri, also, if you would. He will

gather the guard.” Without waiting for an answer, Legolas turned

and bounded up the steps to the king’s quarters.

Thranduil was awake long before booted footsteps heralded his

son’s arrival. Opening the door, he was struck in turn by the

vague focus of Legolas’ gaze and the palpable air of anxiety that

surrounded him. “Legolas? What...”

“I must leave for Imladris at once, Ada. Some evil has befallen

Elladan and Elrohir, though I know not its form. Might you reach

Lord Elrond?”

Accepting his son’s statement as the truth it undoubtedly was,

Thranduil drew a deep breath. “I will try,” he agreed. “Come in.”

He urged Legolas to sit at the small table, which held a heavy

stoneware pot and a tray of muffins, then moved to the cabinet and

retrieved two mugs.

“Anteruon will be joining us,” Legolas said quickly. “He is

seeing to the horses and provisions.”

Thranduil’s eyebrows arched in surprise, but he made no comment,

simply retrieving a third cup before pouring each full of steaming

tea. Settling himself at the table, he felt his son’s impatience

and fear as surely as though they had physical form. “Tell me what

has happened, young one.”

Tamping down a surge of irritation at the seemingly pointless

question, Legolas spoke briefly. “I was awakened from a sound

sleep by a wail such as I have never heard. I thought it at first

to be a real, physical sound, and thus hurried to the door, seeking

the source. There was naught amiss in the courtyard, and I nearly

dismissed it as a dream.” A flash of pain crossed his face. “And

then it came again, and I knew. It was not my ears that heard the

cry, but my spirit. I know nothing else, save that Elladan and

Elrohir need me. I must get to Imladris.”

Legolas had begun to stand as he spoke, and Thranduil laid a

restraining hand on his shoulder. “Let me attempt to reach Elrond.

Perhaps the crisis has passed.” His eyes closing, Thranduil’s

thoughts reached out toward the hidden valley, seeking to touch the

Peredhel lord’s mind. Instead of the usual calm focus that

allowed him to connect so easily with Elrond, the king found

himself assaulted by a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions.

Pain, guilt, anger, hatred – the onslaught left him reeling, and

it was with growing horror that he recognized the heavy thread that

underlay all others.  Grief.

Mind-numbing, spirit-shrouding grief.

Legolas looked on with anxious intensity, sparing only a glance

for Anteruon as the crown prince came quietly into the chamber and

sat down, reaching for his tea with a reassuring nod. Preparations

for the journey were underway.

Thranduil reluctantly admitted defeat, withdrawing his mind from

the swirl of misery with a shuddering sigh. “I cannot make a

connection,” he said gently. “I fear there is something terribly

wrong in Imladris. I sensed a great sadness, and bitter rage.”

“All will be ready soon, tôren,” Anteruon said stoutly, gripping

his brother’s arm. “We can make the valley in a fortnight, if the

weather holds.” He his father’s questioning gaze squarely. “I will

accompany him. My healing gifts may be of some use.”

“Elrond has healers aplenty,” Thranduil began, only to be

interrupted by an impatient gesture.

“Not of Anteruon’s talent, Ada,” Legolas pointed out, “save

Elladan. And if he is...is injured, or stricken, Lord Elrond may

indeed have need of my brother’s skill.” Rising to his feet, he

turned toward the crown prince. “I will send for you when the

guard is ready to move, then?”

“Aye,” Anteruon agreed, standing as he drained the last drops of

tea from his mug. “I will ready my pack and await you in the

courtyard.”

Thranduil waited until the sound of Legolas’ footsteps faded

before facing his eldest son, his expression grave. “I do not know

that this is for the best,” he said frankly. “The valley is in the

grip of some dreadful grief, and I fear to learn its cause.”

“That is why we must go, Ada,” Anteruon replied earnestly.

“Legolas will not be dissuaded, and he must not face this alone.”

Sighing heavily, he added, “And Lord Elrond has become a dear

mentor to me these last centuries. I would aid him if it is in my

power to do so.”

Pride in the elf his willful firstborn had become through the

trials and travels of the last half-millennium rose in Thranduil’s

heart, tightening his throat unexpectedly. “You will make a fine

king one day, my son,” he whispered, pulling Anteruon into a quick

embrace. “Go prepare for your journey. I will join you at the

Gates.”

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

~Imladris 2509 III~

“You must rest, gwador. Your collapse will serve no purpose,

save to rob us of our greatest hope.”

Elrond met Erestor’s worried gaze dully, even the need to

reassure his friend somehow far away and withered. “I cannot

rest,” he rasped. “Not yet.”

“There are other healers,” Erestor interrupted gently. “Surely

they could help share the load.”

“They can do nothing,” Elrond snapped fiercely. "I

can do nothing.” The voice became cold, self-mocking.

“Behold, the greatest healer of two Ages, useless and broken in his

own...”

“Silence!” Erestor roared, the outburst leaving both

elves stunned. Catching Elrond’s shoulder in an iron grip, he

shook his liege-lord sharply. “You will not do this to yourself,

Elrond. You will not do this to Imladris. I will not allow it.”

Rage flared in Elrond’s eyes, causing Erestor to step back

warily before his friend’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion once

more. “I will rest,” Elrond promised. “When ‘Adan returns, I will

rest.”

“You should have forbade his going. He is needed here.”

“Nay,” Elrond replied tiredly. “Leave him to his vengeance,

Erestor. I have little enough hope for myself. I have none to

offer my son.”

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

~Misty Mountains 2509 III~

Gildor laid a hand on Glorfindel’s arm, his unease palpable.

“You must stop them, cousin,” he hissed. “The battle is over. It

is madness, this violence.”

Glorfindel took in the scene before him emotionlessly. The

enemy was vanquished, the bonfire lit, and yet the twins still

moved among the carnage, their eyes wild in hard faces as they

hacked at the dead orcs, dismembering the bodies before tossing the

pieces into the raging fire.

Black blood sprayed up to coat hair and skin as identical blades

rose and fell carelessly, at times striking each other with a muted

clang, the mis-stroke acknowledged with only a snarl. Glorfindel

saw their brutality and knew that, as their captain, he should stop

them, should restore some semblance of sanity to this dark day.

But as their friend, he wanted nothing more than to join them.

For three days they had hunted this band of fell vermin, the

last fleeing remnants of the horde that had attacked Celebrían and

her escort on the way to Lórien, and at last they had driven the orcs back to the very site of the tragedy. These were the beasts that had

slaughtered both elves and horses, carrying the Lady to the

dank den where Elladan and Elrohir had finally found her, poisoned

and broken, cowering and sobbing even under the hands of her own

beloved sons. The twins had carried their mother’s fragile shell

back to Imladris, sparing scarcely a word for father or sister

before riding in pursuit of the monsters that had destroyed their

family.

And perhaps their soul.

They rarely touched or spoke past necessity, as though sharing

the grief might make it too real to bear, shattering their

carefully constructed masks. No tears had fallen since their

return to the valley, no cursing or keening had been heard. Only

in the aftermath of battle had the facade of cold efficiency

slipped to reveal the rage within.

“Aye, ‘tis madness,” Glorfindel allowed finally, turning to

Gildor. “A madness best outed here, rather than turned on us. Or

each other.”

Gildor’s stomach churned as he watched the mutilation, unable to

tear his eyes away. The stench of burning flesh rose from the

charnel-fire and still the blackened blades flew, until no intact

bodies remained, save one.

He saw the mishap coming, but was powerless to stop it.

As both twins converged on the single remaining orc, Elrohir

raised his sword high, his arm swinging wide as he prepared to deal

a cleaving stroke to the lifeless creature’s neck. In his haste,

Elladan stepped into the path of the blade. It struck with violent

force, driving deep into the heavy leather padding that protected

his shoulders. Only Gildor’s warning shout saved him from certain

mortal injury.

Elrohir turned, his eyes blazing, and for a brief moment it

seemed he would curse his brother, as though he suspected Elladan

of coveting the final body for his own. Standing motionless, the

elder twin looked down at his own mangled armor without expression.

Elrohir jerked the weapon free, then swallowed hard, touching

the torn leather with shaking fingers before brushing the lightest

of caresses across his twin’s cheek.

Glorfindel hurried to the pair, placing a restraining hand on

Elrohir’s sword arm. “Enough, ‘Rohir,” he said calmly, the other

hand reaching for Elladan’s bruised shoulder. “That is enough.”

Glittering grey gazes met and held before turning on their

friend and mentor. When he answered at last, Elrohir’s voice was

hoarse with suppressed emotion.

“It will never be enough.”