The last temptation is the greatest treason:  to do the right deed for the wrong reason.

T S Eliot

Chapter One - The Wrong Deed For The Right Reason

Elrohir wandered through the lonely woods high above the valley of Imladris, feeling oddly despondent and ill at ease.  Since his return to the valley, only days ago, he had felt a deep restlessness and disquiet.  Great events were afoot, events over which he had no control, and had no real part in.   The next few months would prove the culmination of everything he, his father and his brothers had striven for – or the end of everything.

He had spent precious little time in the valley in recent months, and for the first time ever had found that his home was not the solace and sanctuary it had always been in the past.   Even in the darkest times, in the blood-soaked years following his mother’s departure, Imladris had been an unfailing haven of peace and serenity.   Yet now, there was a discordance in the tranquil murmur of streams and waterfalls, a restlessness beneath the trees.  For him, Imladris was no longer the homely house of memory.  Something had disturbed the peaceful pattern of life here, and left him restive and ill at ease.

Now, on the eve of the Fellowship’s departure, his restlessness had driven him far from the house, along steep paths through woods of beech and oak,  up through pine trees and into the isolated hills.  Something troubled him, calling him to these remote places, but he did not know what.  He wandered in uneasy solitude, reluctant to return to the demands of duty and his family yet.

He reached a point where the path ran along the edge of a cliff.  The ground fell away steeply, and the whole of Imladris was revealed in front of him.  Far below, lights flickered beneath the trees, reflecting off the silver glint of streams and pools.  It seemed somehow remote, a world away from the wooded hillside where he stood in lonely contemplation.  Something had changed – he had changed.   Imladris was his home, and he loved it, but he no longer felt he belonged there.   Pausing, he settled onto a rock to gaze out over the valley despondently.   If, by some incredible chance, the Ring was finally destroyed, then all this would soon fade.  He knew only too well that much of his father’s power was strengthened by Vilya, and that Vilya was tied to the Ring.  Without the hidden power of the elven rings, Imladris – and Lothlorien as well – would not, could not, last.  One had only to look at distant Mirkwood to see that.  There, darkness and evil had encroached inexorably throughout the forest, welling unceasingly from the fastness of Dol Guldur.  Only Thranduil’s indomitable will and determination still held it at bay from the wood-elves’ final enclave, and the cavern fortress where they now dwelt might be a natural environment for dwarves, but never for the Eldar.   The thought of this beautiful valley blighted and decaying in the same way was unbearable.

He sighed, lost in contemplation.  If only there was some other way.  If only Sauron’s defeat could be brought about without such a terrible cost – for they had already paid such a high price.  He had lost his mother to this evil.  Now he would lose the foster brother he loved as one of his own, his beloved sister, and the home he had loved for nigh on three thousand years.   Victory – if it ever came – would have such a bitter taste.    If only his father would use Vilya to its full potential!   If all its latent power was unleashed, Imladris would surely be safe for ever, no matter what the future held.  But his father was afraid; afraid of revealing the existence of the elven rings; afraid of attracting Sauron’s attention; afraid … of what?

The evening mist rose, drawing a veil across the valley, accentuating all that he would lose.  Drawing a deep breath, Elrohir stirred, aware of the gathering darkness, but not yet ready to return to the light and mirth of Imladris, where elves sang and danced in desperate denial of what was to come.

Through the gloom beneath the trees he glimpsed another solitary figure – one of the hobbits.    The air of fragility and vulnerability identified him as the Ring-bearer, and Elrohir moved silently towards him.  Perhaps with this odd creature – a stranger – he could share the burdens he could not share with anyone else, not even with his twin.   He knew without doubt that Elladan would understand, would know how he felt – and that was part of the problem.    There were times when he felt that he and Elladan were too close, when Elladan’s empathy irritated him.   There were times when he needed to talk to an outsider, someone who did not understand, did not already know how he felt.

Stepping out of the shadows beneath the trees, he called softly.  “Frodo?” 

The hobbit looked up, his gaze wary.  “My lord … ”  He hesitated, clearly unsure who he was talking to.

“Elrohir.”

Frodo nodded.  “You are one of Elrond’s sons, aren’t you?” he questioned.

Elrohir nodded.  “I am.  Will you walk with me?  You should not wander alone, Frodo – even here.  There are dangers in all places now.”

A little reluctantly it seemed, Frodo nodded.  “Very well.”  Clearly continuing his own thoughts, he glanced at Elrohir curiously.  “You are the younger son?”

“Nay!” Elrohir exclaimed a little curtly.  “We are twins.  We are the same age.”

Frodo shot him a startled look.  “Forgive me,”  he stammered.  “I thought – I thought I heard Elladan call you ‘little brother’ this afternoon.  Then he is the younger?”

“No!”  At Frodo’s increasingly puzzled expression, Elrohir sighed.  Elladan’s constant ‘little brother’ jibes rankled at times, but it was not the hobbit’s fault.  “Life starts at the moment of conception, not birth,” he explained patiently.  “As twins, it was impossible to tell which of us was conceived first.  Therefore we are the same age, though my birth – so I am told – occurred shortly after Elladan’s.”

“Oh.”  Frodo was silent for a moment, pondering this.   “So why does he call you ‘little brother’?”  he persisted.

“Because it amuses him!”  Elrohir snapped shortly.

Frodo said nothing more, but cast Elrohir a rather uneasy look.  They walked together for a while; strangers drawn together by circumstance; and with an effort, Elrohir began to speak of other matters, and tales of Bilbo’s life in Imladris.  After a while, though, he fell into a morose silence.  Black depression grew in him again as whispers assailed his mind.  Even the hobbit sees it.  You are but the second-born – lesser, inferior.  Always Elladan is the leader, the one whom others look to for command.   Elladan is the one who will inherit this place – for how can you share the rule?

Elrohir shook his head angrily, alarmed by his thoughts.   It was not true.  He and Elladan both had their own roles to play within Imladris.   And if they decided to stay on Arda when their father finally sailed, they would perform those roles together, as they always did.  If you both decide to stay.  If you stay together.  But what makes you so sure that Elladan will make the same decision as you? Perhaps he yearns to be free.   Do you really think he wants to spend eternity with you?   Why should he?

“Because we swore we would make the same choice!”

Frodo’s voice, startled, broke in on his musings.  “I beg your pardon?”

Abruptly, Elrohir realised that he had spoken aloud.  “Forgive me, Frodo.  I – I fear my mind was elsewhere.

The hobbit stared at him warily.  “Of course. We are all a little preoccupied.”

“Yes.”  Even as he agreed, Elrohir felt the whispering, seductive voice again, calling to him.   What future is there for you here?  Imladris is doomed in any event … unless you take action.  You could protect the valley, preserve it for all time.  Unless you want  to rule over a dead and dying realm. 

Elrohir shook his head, trying to ignore the alluring murmur at the edge of his mind.  Yet the whispering grew louder, harder to ignore.  Think what you could achieve with Vilya.  Think what could have – should have –  been achieved before, if Vilya had been wielded by one with courage and vision.

An image of Celebrían in the last bleak days came into Elrohir’s mind.  His mother was frail, her eyes empty, and so thin it seemed that a gust of wind would fell her.  Nothing, it seemed, could help her now.  But it need not have been like that.   It should not have been.  Vilya could have been used to heal her mind; to restore her to health and vitality.  It would have been so easy – you could have done it. You know that, you know you have the skill.   But Elrond did nothing.  Because he was afraid.  Because he feared he lacked the strength and wisdom to do so.  He feared Vilya’s power.   He lacked the will to save her.

He tried to push the distressing images from his mind, but the enticing whisper continued.   Take me.  Take Vilya.   Together we would be unassailable – and your home, your family,  would be safe for ever. 

He stopped, and drew a deep breath, thrusting such thoughts away.   It was hard, though – the soft voice was so tempting, so persuasive.  All he had ever wanted was to protect his home, his family.  And yet he had failed utterly and disastrously with his mother; her torment a never-ending reminder of his inability to keep her safe.  He should have done something; he could have done something if he had used Vilya in the way he had begged his father to.    Yes.  Take me – you know you have the strength, the will, to wield me.  You can do this.  You know you want to.  It is time for you to act, before it is too late.  

Images flashed into his mind; of Aragorn crowned King without the need for bloody battles and possible defeat, Arwen radiant at his side, yet still Elven, not having to renounce her immortality.  He saw himself sitting on a chair – no, a throne –  in the centre of the great hall of Imladris; Elladan kneeling before him, his head bowed in supplication.   He saw his mother returned from Valinor, her health and happiness and joy in life restored.  Yes, you can do this.

Elrohir stopped, and slowly turned to face the hobbit.   The sheer cliff lay only yards away – it would be such a tragedy if Frodo were to slip and fall.   And yet the night was dark, the path icy and slippery.    The steep hillside was treacherous for the unwary, or those unfamiliar with the terrain.  Who was to say the unfortunate hobbit had not wandered off the path and tumbled to his death?  All knew of the burden he carried, how troubled and preoccupied he had been of late.   Sam himself had chided his master for being inattentive.  It could lead to carelessness, and carelessness often led to such tragic accidents.  

Take me.  Take me.  Take me.

Slowly, Elrohir stretched his hand out towards Frodo.

To Be Continued

Chapter Two – Love Grows Bitter

But love grows bitter with treason.

AC Swinburne

Take me.

A glorious sense of power surged through Elrohir at the thought of what he could achieve.  With the Ring he could do anything – he could eradicate every orc ever spawned from the face of Arda; could obliterate every trace of their evil taint – so that they could never harm another again.  He could vanquish Sauron for ever, and all his followers as well.   There were men whose hearts had been corrupted too:  Easterlings and Southrons, and men of Rhûn and Harad.   There were the Corsairs, and even remnants of the Black Númenoreans.  He could change them, convert them and bring them back to the light – and if they would not change, then it would be a simple matter to make them change.

And what then?  

There was a still, small voice of calm speaking clearly in his mind.   Will you kill all those who defy you?  Those who argue or disagree with you? What will you do next?  Where will it end?

With his hand still outstretched towards Frodo, Elrohir froze; the moment of clarity breaking through the haze in his mind.  What was he doing??   He hesitated, fighting against the desperate impulse to rip the Ring from the hobbit’s neck, and fling him over the cliff.  His hand clenching into a fist, he shuddered, sickened and horrified by his murderous thoughts.  

Slowly his arm fell, and he buried his head in his hands with a gasp.  “No,”  he moaned softly.

Frodo, apparently oblivious, had moved a little ahead, and Elrohir heard him turn and return swiftly to his side.  “Elrohir?  Are you well?”  he asked, his voice full of concern.  The spinning images danced through Elrohir’s mind again as he struggled for control:  Aragorn victorious, Arwen – beautiful, immortal – at his side.  As he resisted the deadly temptation,  the scenes slowly changed, and he saw the truth – Elladan, Elrond, Aragorn, even Arwen – all dead at his hands; Imladris in ruins; the wholesale slaughter of those who would not follow him.

Take me!  The voice came again, in one last desperate attempt to lure him into action.  Yet he knew now that it was action that would lead to murder and madness, and the destruction of everything he loved and believed in.  “No,”  he thought simply.  “I will not.” 

He lifted his head, and shook it slightly to clear the fog that the Ring’s evil whispering had left behind.  Frodo stood at his side, staring at him in worry, one hand resting on his arm.  “Elrohir?”  he asked again.  “You’re shaking.  What’s the matter?  Do you want me to find someone, and get help?”  The hobbit was clearly frightened; on the verge of bolting – whether to flee or seek help, Elrohir could not tell – but  his natural kindness won over his fear.

Elrohir felt another surge of guilt – he did not deserve this kindness – and took a deep breath, shaking his head.  “Forgive me, Frodo,”  he said softly.  “Thank you for your concern.  I felt – a little unwell for a moment.  It has passed, though.  Do not trouble yourself – it is nothing.”  The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but he knew he must hide the truth – for now, at least.

He found his hand reaching for Frodo again, and this time made no effort to stop it.  Touching the hobbit gently on the shoulder, he smiled.  “You should leave here – it is late, and it will be dark beneath the trees.  Hurry, and do not stop.”

Even as he spoke, he heard a faint voice calling from the path below them.  “Mr Frodo?  Master?   Are you still up here?”

Elrohir turned towards the voice thankfully.  “Do you hear that?  It is Sam, looking for you.  I expect he is coming to tell you that it is nearly time for the evening meal.”

Frodo blinked at him uncertainly, as if he was coming out of a trance.  “Sam?”  He cocked his head, listening, then smiled.  “Sam!  Up here!”  he called.  They could hear Sam coming – puffing and panting up the hill – long before they could see him, but soon he emerged from the shadows. 

“Well I never!”  he gasped.  “What are you doing all the way up here, Mr Frodo?  You didn’t ought to go wandering off like this!  Even if you are with company,”  he added, spotting Elrohir.

“It’s all right, Sam,”  Frodo reassured him.  “This is Elrohir, Elrond’s son.  He won’t let anything happen to me.”

Sam nodded at him.  “Thank you, sir, for looking after my master.”  He turned to Frodo again.  “Well, I came to tell you that it’s nearly suppertime.  And as we’re off tomorrow evening, and I reckon we won’t get no more proper supper for a long time,  you don’t want to miss it!”

“Supper?  An excellent idea!  Lead the way, Sam.”  Frodo glanced over his shoulder, still concerned.  “Elrohir?  Are you coming with us?”

Elrohir shook his head.  “I will stay here awhile.  I will see you later, perhaps.”  He watched in relief as the hobbits vanished beneath the trees.  Frodo’s voice drifted back to him.

“Do you know, Sam, I had the oddest feeling just now!  You’d laugh if I told you what I thought!  But poor Elrohir doesn’t seem very well –  perhaps we ought to tell Elrond.   Now then, what’s for supper?  Mushrooms?”

Slowly their voices faded away, and Elrohir was left blessedly alone.  He stood in stunned silence, then walked slowly back to the rock where he had sat before, staring out over the darkened valley unseeingly.  He was appalled at his earlier thoughts, and could scarcely believe the shocking images he had seen.  It was not the fact that the Ring would try its wiles on him that so revolted him, but that he would listen to it, even for a moment.

And he had done more than just listen to it.  He had come close – so very close – to committing murder and theft.  Had he really been about to take the Ring?  Could he really have thrown Frodo to his death?  And what then?   Would he have seized Vilya as well?  Where would it have ended? 

The images he had seen unnerved him.  Was the Ring truly luring him with what he most desired?  Did he really crave power, glory and dominion over others?  Did he really want Elladan to bow before him?  The things he had seen revealed a disturbing aspect to his nature that troubled him deeply.

The questions raced through his mind, followed by more sickening images – his father’s blood on his hands;  Elladan dead at the end of his sword;  Celebrían  recoiling from him in horror and terror; Arwen weeping over Aragorn’s body before slowly taking up his sword and facing her brother in hopeless defiance.  Shuddering, he dropped his face into his hands again, and drew a deep breath.

It had not happened.

For his own peace of mind, he had to cling to that thought.  It had not happened.   Some shred of sanity and sense had remained and pulled him back from the brink.  Another image rose in his mind, a picture of his mother – not as she had been in the last days, pale and listless, nor as she might have been had Vilya healed her.  It was an image from his earliest memories, when she had simply been ‘Nana’, when she had hugged and kissed him, drying his tears as she soothed the pain of a grazed knee.  “Forgive me,”  he whispered softly into the night.  “Forgive me.”

How long he sat there, reliving the scenes the Ring had shown him, the promises it had made, he could not tell.   Slowly he felt another call to his soul, but this was not tinged with darkness as the siren song of the Ring had been.  There was an inevitable familiarity about it.

Elladan appeared from beneath the trees and crossed to the cliff top.  “Elrohir?”  he called quietly.  “I sensed your tension earlier.  What is wrong?”

Elrohir made no reply at first, and Elladan dropped to one knee beside him.  “Elrohir?”  he repeated softly.  “What is wrong?   When you did not appear at supper I came to find you.  I know you are troubled – why?  What has happened?”

Without looking up, Elrohir finally answered.  “I … I think I tried to take the Ring from Frodo.”

Elladan made no reply, and Elrohir looked up to see his twin staring at him in shock.  “What?”  he repeated incredulously.

“I tried to take the Ring,”  Elrohir said in a low voice.  “At least, I nearly did – it was so close, Elladan!   I could have taken it so easily – and taken his life, too.  It was there, within my reach …”  He shuddered again.

Elladan opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then finally said flatly, “But you did not.”

Elrohir shook his head.  “No.  I came to my senses just in time; realised what I was doing.  But it would have been so easy…”  he finished bleakly.

“And Frodo?  What of him?  Is he all right – yes, for I saw him at supper,”  Elladan answered his own question.  “He seemed no different from usual.  They were eating mushrooms,” he added inconsequentially.   There was silence for a short time, while Elladan seemed to be trying to think of something to say.   He stood, and began to pace along the cliff edge.  Suddenly he turned back sharply.  “Elrohir, how could you allow it to sway you!”  he exploded.

Elrohir flinched, and dropped his head.   He said nothing; there was nothing he could say.

Elladan groped for words again.  “Why?”  he asked at last.

“Why?”  Elrohir repeated bitterly.  “It seemed so clear, so obvious at the time.”  Hesitatingly, he began to explain some of the images the Ring had shown him.  “It found all the petty rivalries and jealousies from when we were children; all the times in my life when I wished I could have – should have – done something different.”  He sighed, then looked up at Elladan.  “I have to tell Father about this.  The Ring is dangerous – far more dangerous than I ever imagined, El.  Of course he knows how powerful it is – but I wonder if even he realises just how deadly the Ring is.   I have to warn him.”

Elladan said nothing.  In silence, they walked down through the steep wood to the valley.  All the while Elrohir was conscious of his twin, a pace or two behind; eyes fixed on his back in burning accusation.  Elladan’s rejection of him hurt, far more than he had ever thought possible.   It was painfully obvious that this time Elladan did not understand – how could he? – and it brought a desperate sense of isolation.  He could feel his twin’s shock and disappointment, and his sense of shame grew.  How could he have been so easily swayed by the malice of the Ring?  How could he not have sensed the evil that pervaded the images he saw; the innate wrongness in them? 

As they reached the house he slowed his pace, wishing he could delay the moment when he would have to tell his father.  He dreaded the disappointment and disillusion he would see in Elrond’s eyes; the anger and condemnation that would be revealed at his treacherous thoughts.  In one moment of weakness he had lost everything, and had only gained the loathing and revulsion of his father and brother, the two in all of Arda whose good opinion mattered most to him.

Steeling himself, he raised his hand to knock at the study door.  Behind him, he heard Elladan – who had been silent the whole time – give a great sigh,  and felt his brother’s hand clasp his shoulder in support; warm, comforting, and immensely strengthening.  “Courage, little brother,”  Elladan murmured.  “I am with you.”

To Be Continued

Chapter Three – The Unexpected Moment

However certain our expectation, the moment foreseen may be unexpected when it arrives.

T S Eliot

The door opened with an alacrity that suggested that Elrond must have been standing very near it.  His gaze swept over both his sons, before coming back to rest on Elrohir again.  He closed his eyes briefly, then with a wordless gesture beckoned them both into the study. 

Wearily, Elrohir dropped into a chair near the fire.  Usually, Elladan would then perch on the arm of the same chair – but not tonight.   Although his hand brushed Elrohir’s shoulder briefly as he passed, Elladan took a seat on the opposite side of the hearth, eyeing his brother warily.  Despite his words of support, he was clearly still uneasy – but Elrohir hoped he was at least prepared to listen.  Would his father also listen?   He knew, with bitter regret,  there was nothing he could say in his own defence, but if he could at least warn others of the Ring’s danger, all may not be lost.

He looked up to see his father watching him, grave concern in his eyes.  “I sensed immense evil in the valley tonight,”  Elrond said quietly.  “There was great danger, and I also felt Vilya stirring.   My fears were centred on you, Elrohir – are you all right?  What happened?”

Elrohir knew he had been foolish to think that his father would not have been aware that something was amiss, even if Elrond did not know – yet –  exactly what had transpired.  “The Ring,”  he said simply.  “It tried to lure me to attack Frodo – and it very nearly succeeded.”  He looked away as he spoke, not wanting to see his father’s expression of horror and disgust, acutely aware of just how badly he had let him down.   Groping through the clouds of uncertainty the Ring had left in its wake, he began to speak in a low voice.  “I was restless and uneasy tonight – I have been since we returned from Lórien.   I needed peace, and solitude, and found myself drawn up to the hills above the pine woods.  I found Frodo there.”  Haltingly he explained events as they had occurred – to the best of his recollection.  “And yet at the end, something stopped me, and I knew I would not do it.”  He paused.  “I could not.”  He stopped again, shaking his head.  “The Ring is dangerous,”  he concluded.  “Deadly dangerous – I had no idea just how deadly it is.  We have to warn them – Aragorn, Legolas and the others.”

“I will,”  Elrond told him flatly.  “Have no fear there.  My concerns now are for you.”  He moved to Elrohir’s side, kneeling next to the chair so that Elrohir had no choice but to meet his intense gaze. “Elrohir, I have to know one thing.  I know you did not do this.  You said saw the lies the Ring told you; that something stopped you.  What?  Was that before or after Sam arrived?”  

Elrohir looked back at his father, aware of a sudden tension in the room, of the strain in Elrond’s voice, and Elladan’s anxiety.   For some reason his response was vitally important to them both.  He frowned, trying to recall events clearly.  The Ring had created such confusion and chaos in his mind that it was difficult to remember with certainty what had happened.  “There was one moment when I suddenly saw clearly what the Ring was doing.  It was – it was like a cleansing breeze blowing away the fog that surrounded me, or when a curtain of rain suddenly lifts.   In that moment I knew I had a choice – to take the Ring, or to refuse it.”  He shrugged slightly.  “So I said ‘no’ – I knew I would not do it.”

Elrond began to smile.  “And Sam?  Was he there then?”

Again, Elrohir shook his head.    “No,”  he said slowly.   “He came along later.  I told Frodo to go back down to the house, and to hurry, for it was getting dark.  I thought he would be safer that way,”  he added bleakly.   “Yet he seemed unsure.  He was so concerned for me!   Then …  I heard Sam calling.   We waited.  When he arrived he told Frodo it was time for supper, and they left together.”  He paused, trying to remember if there was anything else to report.

Across the fireplace, Elladan gave  a sudden smile, and a nod of satisfaction.  “Good!”  he muttered. 

Elrohir glanced at him in surprise.  “Why?  Why the interest in Sam?” he asked, puzzled.  Curiosity at this unexpected response broke through his haze of misery and desolation.

“Why?”  Elrond echoed.  “Because it makes a difference.  Did you reject the Ring of your own accord, because you came to your senses – or did Sam interrupt you before you could act?  Did he prevent this deed?”  He  smiled again.  “Do you see the distinction?

Slowly, Elrohir nodded.  There was a difference, an obvious difference; and it disturbed him that he had not seen it for himself.  The residual fog of doubt and despair still held him in its grip, but for the first time he began to allow himself to hope.  “You mean – you do not condemn me?  Yet I so nearly succumbed to it …”

“But you did not.  You stood firm against its evil.”   Elrond extended one arm around Elrohir’s shoulders, drawing him close.  “There are many who could not – like Isildur.  But your integrity and honour would not allow it.” 

It was as if an immense weight had been lifted from Elrohir.  The shadow and darkness that had pressed so heavily on him lessened, and he felt the balm of his father’s unconditional love surround him once again.  It had never been absent, he realised, but he had been too lost in his own despair to notice.  “I thought you would hate me for what I had done – that I had let you all down so badly.  I thought – no, I knew – that you would never trust me again, never forgive me.  I never expected this understanding and forgiveness.”

Elladan got to his feet, and crossed to Elrohir’s chair as well.  He perched on the arm and leaned back, one hand resting on his brother’s shoulder.    “Do you think so little of us?  Of me?  You are still Elrohir, my little brother.  Nothing will change that.”  He gripped Elrohir’s shoulder lightly, and Elrohir drew strength from the surge of love enfolding him.

He smiled at last.  “No.”

Elrond sighed.  “There is nothing to forgive.  The Ring is an enemy.  An enemy you have never encountered before, one that is far more cunning and clever than any others you have faced.  It is far more dangerous and subtle.  It laid a trap – for it was no coincidence that led both you and Frodo to such a high, remote place, I am sure of it!”

Startled, Elrohir glanced at his father.  He had not questioned why he had been drawn to the lonely hills, though usually he sought the sanctuary of the stables when troubled.  He shivered.  The Ring’s influence was frighteningly subtle.

“The enemy baited its trap, set an ambush, then attacked you,”  Elrond continued.  “It has happened before, and will undoubtedly happen again.  You saw the danger, and you fought back.  After a battle – from which you did not escape unscathed,” – here Elrond touched Elrohir’s cheek gently – “You were victorious.  You confronted the enemy, and won.   You showed great strength and determination in overcoming its temptations.  You defeated its attempts to lure you into action you knew was wrong.   Make no mistake, this was a battle – unlike any other battle you have ever fought, but a battle nonetheless.”

Elrohir looked at his father in surprise as he considered his words.  It had not occurred to him to view the events as a battle, but the struggle to maintain control over his thoughts had been every bit as taxing as any more conventional battle he had fought.  He felt totally drained, as if he had just fought long and hard against a battalion of orcs.  “A battle?”  he repeated in confusion.

Elrond sighed.   “You are intelligent – you know you are one of the best strategists I have.  Think, Elrohir!  How did the Ring try to subvert you?  What strategies did it use?”

As Elrohir considered the tactics the Ring had used, the last tendrils of its malign influence still clouding his mind faded away.   He rose to his feet and began to pace the room as he started to analyse the plan of attack the Ring had used.  It was a tactic he would use after any battle, and he saw the way it had lured him;  how it had targeted his own weaknesses; and how he had been able to fight against it.

“Its main danger is the way it can read into one’s soul,”  he explained incisively.  “It began by finding dreams and desires I know are impossible – and showing me how easy it would be to achieve them.  It offered me everything I have ever wanted, and more.  But it does more than that – it  found vague insecurities I never even knew I had; and petty resentments I had thought long since forgiven and forgotten.  It showed me such a mixture of truth and lies that I no longer knew what was real.”

Elrond nodded.  “What truths did it show you?  What dreams and desires?”

“Dreams?  Elrohir echoed.  He gave a bitter laugh.  “I want nothing more than for Aragorn to fulfil his destiny and be crowned King, but I know that it is more than likely that our hope – our Hope –  will end with an orc’s sword at the side of some lonely path.”

“That  is my hope – and dread – as well,”  Elladan commented quietly.

“Yes, but with the Ring I could have made it happen,”  Elrohir explained  “I could have swept him to victory, and cleared all enemies from his path.”  He made a broad sweeping gesture with his arm in emphasis.  “The battles and deaths we know will come would have been prevented.”  He stopped pacing, and turned to face Elladan and Elrond again. “Oh, it was very persuasive.”

Elladan nodded.   “That is an understandable temptation, little brother.  No wonder you found it hard to resist.”

“There was more,”  Elrohir continued.  “There was Arwen as well – she could have retained her immortality, so we would never lose her.”

Elrond closed his eyes, as if in pain.  “If I was given that chance …”  he did not continue the thought, but bowed his head in thought.  Finally he spoke again.  “I can see why the truth was so hard to face, to fight.  What of the lies it told you?”

Elrohir was silent for a moment.  It shamed him to admit that he had believed – even for a moment – some of these things.  He sighed.  “I wanted you to use Vilya to protect the valley, to keep Imladris safe for all time.  And more.   And I decided that the reason you did not was …”

“Was what?”  Elrond prompted gently.

“Was because you were afraid to use it properly; afraid of its power,”  he said in a low voice.

“Ah,”  Elrond said on a long sigh.  “’Twas not wholly a lie.  I could have used Vilya more – could have used it to heal hurts and the ravages of time.  And I could have used it – to heal – to heal – ”

“To heal mother?”  Elrohir asked.  He realised that his tentative question was echoed by Elladan, and smiled faintly.  They were of one mind again, at last.

“Aye,”  Elrond whispered.  “But would it have been healing – true healing – if I had forced her mind to acceptance and peace?  Vilya’s power lies in its quiet strength,  not in brutal force demanding acquiescence.”

Elrohir had a brief, sickening vision of his mother – apparently healed, smiling demurely and at peace; but an empty shell lacking the joy of life, the wit and sparkle that had been Celebrían.  From the shudder that racked him, he knew that Elladan saw the same thing.  “No,”  he whispered. 

“No,”  Elrond agreed quietly.   He smiled.  “You did well, Elrohir, to fight this.  You showed immense courage and strength.  I felt a faint echo of the Ring’s power long ago, and I know how hard it was to resist its lure then.  It called me to take it; to rise to glory and rule over Middle Earth.   The Ring had been greatly weakened by Sauron’s fall, yet it still called to me, and Isildur still fell prey to it.  Since then, it has had many long years in which to recover its strength; feeding off that poor wretch Gollum.  It has grown in power and malice.  I fear for the fellowship.  If the Ring can attack even you, still in the heart of Imladris – what of them?  Aragorn I trust, as I do you.  The hobbits – I think their simple loyalty and devotion to one another will protect them.  But Gimli?  I do not know him.  Boromir?  He is Denethor’s son, and Denethor will not take kindly to relinquishing his stewardship.  And Legolas – I know and trust him, but he faces unique dangers we cannot understand.”

“If the Ring offered him a way to overthrow the Shadow over Lasgalen, he would listen,”  Elrohir stated sombrely.  “Make no mistake, he would listen.  It is that persuasive and convincing.  He may not obey it – I do not think he would – but he would listen.”

“He cannot fail to be aware that Thranduil is alone among the elven rulers in not possessing a Ring of power,”  Elladan added.

“I think all we can do is alert them – all of them – so that they are forewarned,”  Elrond decided.  “If they know of the dangers of the Ring, they may be a little more cautious, and also aware of its influence on others.  Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.  In the morning, I will talk to them – without betraying you, Elrohir.”  He glanced at his son and smiled.  “Go to bed – you look exhausted.  You have faced a great trial, and triumphed.  I think you will emerge from this ordeal tempered and strengthened, like a steel blade, but this had taken its toll.  You need rest.”  He embraced Elrohir, and kissed his brow.  “Now good night.”

Elrohir found himself outside his father’s study with Elladan, unsure how they had got there.  Elladan gazed at him uncertainly, then dropped his eyes.  “Forgive me for my initial reaction – for ever doubting you.  I know you would not have done this.  I am sorry – forgive me?”

“As father said – there is nothing to forgive.  I can hardly blame you for your shock and doubt when I doubted myself so badly.”

Elladan smiled.  “Father was right about something else – you do look tired.  Go to bed, El.”

Elrohir shook his head.  “Not yet – I do not think I will be able to rest.   I still feel … unclean.  As if I have been defiled in some way.  Perhaps I will walk beneath the stars.”  He turned to Elladan and grinned.  “Do not worry – if I encounter Frodo again, I will not do anything foolish!”

“I have an even better idea,”  Elladan announced.  “Go and find Arwen and Aragorn – they are probably snug in some intimate corner somewhere.  Drag them away from their canoodling, and meet me in our sitting room while I find Legolas and a few bottles of Dorwinion.”

o-o-o

Much, much later, Elrohir stood by the windows of his bedroom.  The evening had been full of laughter and teasing, and not a little sadness – this would likely be the last time the five of them would ever be gathered together, at least in Imladris.   But Elladan’s plan had worked, and had driven the last shadows from his heart.   The memory of what had happened would never leave him – nor should it – but it had made him aware, as never before, of the power of the shadow.  Though in the times to come he might walk on dark paths, and face overwhelming odds, he knew now that he could confront that evil; that there were strengths he could draw on, both his own and that of the fierce love of his family. 

He would not fail again.

The End