Visions And Dreams

Chapter One – Dreams Of Fire

Elladan set his book down and stretched.  He reached for his wine and took a sip, leaning back in the chair comfortably.  The room was quiet, the only sounds the slight scratch of Elrohir’s pen, the hiss of the logs burning in the grate, and the sounds of the night from outside.   Thunder muttered distantly, and he could feel a stormy heaviness in the air.   Inside, though, all was peaceful. 

He and Elrohir had spent the evening together in companionable silence, as they often did – on this occasion, Elrohir writing a report on the novices he was training while Elladan read.  And for once, Elladan had no cause to feel guilty for relaxing while his brother worked – his own training reports were not due for another two weeks.  He glanced at Elrohir, wondering if he had finished, but he was still deep in thought, frowning at the sheet before him, one finger idly tapping on the desk as he concentrated.

Elladan sipped the wine again, cradling the goblet in his hand.  A flicker from the fire drew his attention, and he turned to look at the flames.  They seemed to flare and waver oddly, holding his gaze, and he stared at the blaze in fascination.  The flames grew larger and brighter, drawing him in until he was unable to tear his eyes away.  Mesmerised, he stared at the flickering, flaring flames as the inferno grew and grew, blotting out the rest of the room.   All awareness of his surroundings faded, until the only thing he could feel was the heat of the blaze on his face, the only thing he could hear the roar and crackle of the conflagration, and the sharp crack of splintering wood.  He watched the flames as they leapt higher and higher in their deadly dance, staining the night sky red.  Glowing sparks drifted this way and that like fireflies.  He could smell the thick, acrid smoke on the air.  And he could hear the cries …

o-o-o

Elrohir finished the report he was writing, put down his pen, and flexed his aching hand thankfully.    He looked at the names he had jotted down consideringly.  Although Elladan was responsible for his own group of novices, they both found it helpful to discuss their charges together.   “El?”  he asked absently.  “I was thinking of moving Edrahil and Derrilyn up into the next training group.  They both show great promise.  What do you think?”

There was no reply.  “El?”  Elrohir turned towards his brother, who had not moved.  It looked as if Elladan had dozed off while reading.  He gave a wry grin of exasperation.   “El!  Wake up!”  He crumpled a sheet of his rough notes into a ball, about to toss it at his twin when he stopped, sensing that he was not asleep.   Crossing to the fireside, he knelt and looked at Elladan more closely.   He sat motionless, staring at the fire, his book forgotten on the floor.  “Elladan?”

There was still no response.  Elladan gazed fixedly at the dancing flames, his eyes unblinking, face ashen.   The glass in his hand – fortunately only half full –  tilted at a dangerous angle, the contents close to spilling.  With a sigh,  Elrohir gently took it from his lax fingers and set it on a table.  Then he waited.

He was growing familiar with his twin’s sudden spells of inattention.  For most of his life, Elladan had been prone to visions and waking dreams.  They came rarely, at odd times, and in odd ways – in the glitter and sparkle of sunlight on water, in a single drop of rain, or in the flicker of a candle or firelight – as now.  Sometimes they would come and go in an instant, and none would be the wiser – though Elrohir usually knew. 

After a few seconds Elladan came to himself with a start.  He blinked and shook his head slightly, rubbing his eyes.

“Here – drink this.”  Elrohir held out the abandoned glass, only releasing it when he was sure that Elladan gripped it firmly. He watched as Elladan sipped the wine slowly, then leaned back with a sigh.

“How long?” he asked in resignation.

“A few moments – no longer,”  Elrohir replied.  “What did you see?”

Elladan was silent for  a moment, then replied slowly, “A fire.”  He said nothing more at first, but Elrohir waited patiently.  He did not point out the obvious, that the fire Elladan had been staring at so intently was there in front of them both.  He knew that was not what Elladan meant.

“Where?”  he prompted.

Elladan massaged the back of his neck before replying.  “The stables,”  he said at last.  “I saw the shapes of elves and of horses.  The straw was burning.  Everything was burning.  I could hear the horses – they were terrified.”

Involuntarily, Elrohir glanced towards the windows in a gesture he knew was futile.  The night was quiet and still, and only the cries of night-birds drifted through the open window.  There was no crackle and roar of leaping flames, no stench of burning.   Whatever Elladan had seen, it could happen at any time in the next week, the next year, the next century – or never.  He had never doubted the veracity of Elladan’s visions, but the vagueness frustrated both of them.   They came infrequently, but when they did it was often difficult – or impossible – to pinpoint a time or a place until after the event, too late to take any action to prevent or alter what may occur.

“Was there more?”  he asked at last, when Elladan remained silent.

Slowly, Elladan nodded.   “Someone – I did not see who – must have gone in to release the horses.  Some of them came racing out past me, so close they brushed against me.  But not all.  I think some were still inside, when – when the roof collapsed.  The rest of the horses – and whoever had gone in after them – were still in there.  Trapped.”  He shuddered, and drained the last of the wine.

Elrohir shivered.  The mere re-telling was bad enough to imagine, but for Elladan it would be as vivid and real as if he had been there, and witnessed this horrific event – which, in a way, he had. 

He placed a reassuring hand on Elladan’s arm.  “It has not happened,”  he reminded his brother softly.  “It may never happen.   But did you see anything else?  What caused it?  Do you know when?”

Elladan shook his head.  The horror was leaving his eyes, but now he was  frustrated.  “No.  I wish I could tell more!  When – why – who?  But there is nothing more!”  He struck his fist on the arm of the chair in irritation at himself, then stood,  beginning to pace the room restlessly.  “You know what it is like, El!  There is never enough detail to pinpoint when, or where, or how.  If only I could do something to prevent what I see happening!”

“What may happen,”  Elrohir reminded him.  He paused, thinking.   “A fire … it could be caused by a lantern.    I nearly dropped one a few days ago, when Hithil suddenly nudged me.  We should …”  he broke off as Elladan’s attention drifted again.

“Hithil,”  Elladan repeated.  “I saw her, fleeing the blaze.  There was a foal with her.”

Their eyes met, and Elrohir felt his stomach sink at this apparent confirmation of the imminence of the event.  He sighed.  “She is due to foal in a few days.  Soon, then.”  He nodded decisively.  “I will warn the grooms.  They still have to use the lanterns at night, but some of them have become careless – placing them on the ground, rather than using the hooks; not extinguishing them as soon as they should.”

“Marach would never have allowed such laxity,”  Elladan observed.

“No.  Aradan is not the elf his father was – but he is wonderful with the horses,”  Elrohir pointed out in fairness.  He did not particularly like Aradan – who had charge of the stables – finding him difficult to work with.  The elf tended to take any comment or suggestion as a personal criticism.  It made attempting any change or improvement in the stables a tedious affair.  His shortcomings, though, were overcome by his truly amazing rapport with the horses.  “He cares more for them than he does for those who work under him,”  Elrohir continued.  He sighed.  “Anyway, I will talk to him – tonight.”

Elladan frowned.  “Tonight?  Do you have to?  Hithil has not foaled yet.   Whatever happens, it will not be tonight – there is still time.”

Elrohir hesitated.  “El – I do not doubt you, you know that.  And yet – the details are not always … accurate.   You could be mistaken about the timing.   Or …”

“Or it may never happen at all,”  Elladan finished.   “I know that!  And yet I feel somehow that this is close.  It will happen – soon.  A matter of days, perhaps.”

Elrohir shrugged.  “Then the sooner I warn Aradan, the better.  It will not take long.”  As he stood, he gazed at Elladan.  “El, go to bed.   You look exhausted – I know how these things tire you.  Goodnight.”

Elladan scowled.  “Are you worrying about me, little brother?  I thought that was my job.”

Elrohir gave a grin.  “I am allowed, you know.  I will speak to Aradan now, and see you in the morning.  Goodnight.”

Elladan tried to frown, but yawned instead.  “Oh, very well,”  he grumbled.  “You win.  Go and talk to Aradan, if you have to.  I wish you luck.  Goodnight, little brother.”

o-o-o

After Elrohir had left, Elladan remained in his seat, twirling the empty glass between his fingers.  He tried desperately to recall more details of what he had seen, but nothing would come.   The vagueness and lack of clarity were the most frustrating things about the visions, for it was all but impossible to predict when or how something would occur.  Although disturbing, he would gladly welcome any number of these dreams and nightmares if it meant that he could prevent disaster or tragedy.  He knew though, from talking with his father and grandmother, that seeing such things meant little.  They may or may not occur, but none knew – until it was too late –  which dreams were true and which were inaccurate. 

It was not all insubstantial and unclear, to be true.  There had been small triumphs – he had once seen Galadriel and Celeborn travelling to Imladris the day before they arrived on a surprise visit for the twins’ conception anniversary, and one day had pulled his mother out of the way seconds before a heavy copestone had toppled from one of the archways.

These little victories, and others like them, were enough to convince him to trust his instincts and accept what he saw.   Caught by a sudden idea, and a nagging need to know more, he set the glass down and leaned forward, staring intently at the fire again, trying to recapture the earlier visions.    But try as he might, he saw only the gentle flames dying away, and the logs settling into ash.  He watched until his eyes ached, but there was nothing more. 

Finally admitting defeat, he extinguished the last two candles, leaving the room in darkness.   Distant thunder rumbled, and a faint, far-off flash of lightning flickered dimly.   He had not heard Elrohir return, but his brother would have gone straight to bed – as he should himself.

In bed, however, he found sleep elusive.  He tossed and turned restlessly, seeing again images of the burning stables, the billowing smoke, and the leaping flames.   He felt a growing sense of impending doom, and an increasing urgency gnawed at him.  Why?  Why this mounting apprehension?    His eyes still ached, and he closed them wearily, trying to rest.  Thunder boomed again, closer this time, and he could see the subsequent flash of lightning even through closed eyes.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright, wide awake and all weariness gone.  He knew in that moment, without any doubt at all, what would happen – and when.   Rising,  he dragged his clothes on again quickly, thrusting his feet into boots, and ran through to Elrohir’s room. 

“Elrohir – wake up, now!”  he snapped.  “Get up – we need to hurry!”  He stopped.  Elrohir’s bed was empty, unslept in.   The sense of looming disaster and dread mounted until he could scarcely think, but he could not afford the time to stop and worry.

Leaving the house, he ran along winding paths down towards the stables, praying he would not be too late.

To be continued …

Chapter Two – Past And Present

Elrohir walked slowly towards the stables, pondering the visions Elladan had seen.   The things his brother described always seemed so vivid and real, Elrohir could almost imagine he had seen them himself – though he was thankful he had not.  He did not envy Elladan this burden of visions, dreams and nightmares. 

It was one of the few true differences between them, for Elrohir had never suffered from the ability to foresee events as Elladan did.  While grateful that he did not share this scourge, he did wish he could ease Elladan’s frustration, and alleviate the torment of seeing events he was powerless to change.

It was not all doom and gloom, of course.   He recalled the first time Elladan had experienced a premonition.  It had been a few days before their tenth begetting day, and they had been playing in a stream, watching the play of light in the droplets of water as they splashed and dodged each other happily.

o-o-o

Elrohir kicked a great wave of water at Elladan, and hooted with laughter when his brother did not move out of the way quickly  enough.  Much to his glee, it soaked him from head to toe.  Far from being annoyed, or seeking retribution, Elladan blinked and shook his head, then turned to him with a startled grin.  “Daerada and daernana are coming!”  he exclaimed.  “I just saw them!”

“Where?”  Elrohir cried excitedly, spinning around to look.  “Nana never said!”  He began to splash out of the stream to find and greet his grandparents.

“They’re on their way here, now!  I saw them travelling!”

Elrohir looked back towards the house, then up at the side of the valley, where glimpses of the steep path could be seen between the trees, then all around.  All was quiet.  “Where?”  he questioned.  “There’s no-one there, El!   What do you mean, you saw them?  Where?” 

“They’re not here yet!”  Elladan retorted.  “They’re still on the way.  I saw them though, riding through Eregion.”

With one foot on the bank, and the other still in the water, Elrohir stopped and stared at him incredulously.  “Don’t be daft, El!  Eregion?  How could you possibly see them there?  It’s days away!”

Elladan flushed, and looked puzzled.  “I know that,”  he said defensively.  “But I still saw them!  I know I did!”  He scowled mutinously at his brother.

Elrohir was on the verge of making a stinging retort when he realised that Elladan was beginning to look upset.   He swallowed his response and tried again, changing tactics.   “Well,”  he began placatingly.  “It would be nice if they did come.  I know I’d love to see them again;  it’s been ages.  Perhaps you were thinking about that, wishing they were here, and looking forward to it?”

“Are you saying I imagined it?”  Elladan cried, full of indignation.  “I didn’t!  I saw them!”   He looked around at the empty paths, and frowned.  “I know I did,”  he added quietly.  He turned his back on Elrohir and stalked back to the house.

With a sigh, Elrohir followed, worried and wondering what was the matter with his brother.  He was certain that Elladan would not lie about something like this, but it was equally clear that he could not possibly have seen their grandparents.  So what was wrong?

They both avoided the subject for the next few days, and Elladan appeared quiet and rather withdrawn.  Then, the afternoon before their begetting day, Celebrían called them both down to her.  “I have a surprise for you,” she announced with a smile.  “Daernana and daerada are coming to see us – just in time for your celebration!  I did not say anything before; I wanted it to be a surprise.  Are you ready?  They will be here soon!”

Elrohir gazed at her, astounded.  Elladan shot him a triumphant look.  “I told you they were coming!”  he gloated gleefully.  “I saw them!”

o-o-o

Elrohir sighed.  He had always felt rather guilty for not having believed his brother that first time – although Elladan, full of joy at having been proved right, had been quite insufferable for the next few days.  However, since then he had always trusted Elladan’s visions.  The things he foresaw would come true – eventually.  The problem was that neither of them knew when or howevents would be proved accurate.

This latest premonition was typical.  It seemed likely that it would occur soon – in all probability – and that someone would be injured.  When it would happen was unclear, but it seemed likely to be within the next few days.  Precisely what would happen was uncertain.  The lanterns were a possibility, but the weather in recent days had been stormy, and lightning could also be a factor.  Who would be injured was unknown.  Elrohir was uneasily aware, though, that many of Elladan’s visions focused on him – but the thought of being trapped in a burning building was not one he wanted to pursue.  He could only hope that they could act on Elladan’s warning to take precautions and prevent tragedy.

He reached the yard, and paused to look at the stables with fresh eyes.  There was great potential for a fire here.   The walls were built of wooden planks, and the roof was of thatched straw.  Piles of hay and straw were stacked in the yard, leaning against the walls.  There had been no rain for weeks, and the whole place was tinder dry.  A second’s carelessness with a spark or a lantern, and the entire structure would erupt into an inferno.

He crossed the yard, and pushed open the heavy door.  He was not sure if Aradan would be working that night, but one of the grooms was always on duty, sleeping in a bed of hay within earshot of the horses they cared for.  He had done it himself in the past – usually as punishment for some misdemeanour, until his father realised that for him, working with horses was no punishment at all.

Tonight he was in luck, and would not have to disturb anyone from their rest.  A glow of light came from one of the stalls, and a voice murmured gently and reassuringly.  As the door closed behind Elrohir with a creak and a bang, the voice broke off to call,  “Who is it?”

“Elrohir.”

Aradan appeared from the stall, and stared at him unwelcomingly.  “I suppose you came to check on Hithil.  She is fine; there is no need to make sure.   Although she is a few days early, there are no problems.  She is nervous, though – I think the thunder unsettled her.  There is no need to check up on me, though.  I can manage.”  He turned back to Hithil, patting her neck soothingly.

“She is foaling?”  Elrohir asked sharply.  “Now?”  He joined Aradan in the stall with Hithil, stroking her flanks and talking to her softly.  As he edged past Aradan – who did not move aside to let him pass – his foot came within an inch of a lantern placed on the floor, next to deep straw.  Elrohir bent to retrieve it, hanging it on the hook provided.  “Be careful with the lanterns,” he said mildly.  “The risk of fire is too great.”

Aradan said nothing, but snorted slightly as he bent to Hithil again.  His whole manner changed as he tended to her.   “Good girl; steady now.  Be calm – there is nothing to fear.”  His voice was calm and soothing, and Hithil quietened under his touch.

“I am glad you were here with her,”  Elrohir said softly.  “There is no-one better.”

Aradan glanced at him warily, as if suspecting some sort of sarcasm.   Then he shrugged.  “I often think I prefer horses to people,” he admitted.  “I understand them better.  They do not find fault or complain.  They simply accept.  They accept me.”  He turned back to Hithil, patting her neck. 

Elrohir placed his hands on her sides, extending his awareness to assess both Hithil and the foal.  Lifting her tail a little, he smiled at the sight of the tips of two small hooves, just visible.  “All is well,”  he told Aradan.  “He is impatient to arrive, I think.”

“He?”

“The foal is a colt.” 

“You know that already?”  Aradan smiled when Elrohir nodded.  “Ah, of course – you are the only healer I know who troubles to look after the beasts as well.  Have you decided on a name for him yet?”

“No, not yet.  I will wait to see what he looks like.”  Elrohir returned his attention to Hithil as she shifted restlessly between them, then turned and slowly sagged downward to lie on her side.  She snorted slightly and turned to look backwards as if puzzled by events.  As Aradan crouched by her head, still murmuring softly, Elrohir knelt behind her, stroking her flank.

At one point it appeared the foal was not making any progress, so Elrohir stripped off his tunic and carefully slid his hand and arm into Hithil.  He could feel the colt’s forelegs and his soft nose, then his broad shoulders, but there did not seem to be any further obstructions.   Drawing back, he rubbed her flanks and belly, massaging gently and soothing her.  Sensing all was ready, he held the colt’s forelegs and very gently pulled on them as Hithil strained and pushed.

With a rush of fluid the colt slid out to rest on the bed of straw.  Hithil gave a final snort and lifted her head to look proudly at her offspring.  He was a rich chestnut with a dark mane and tail, and an uneven patch of white on his face.

“He takes after his father,”  Aradan commented.  “Gaeroch has that same patch of white.”

They watched as Hithil and the colt lay together for a few moments, both recovering their strength.  Then, with a snort and a heave, Hithil struggled to her feet and nuzzled at her foal, smelling him.  She licked at his face, then nudged him, urging him to his feet.  With a lurch, the foal wobbled up, first onto two legs, then four.  He stood, wavering, then took an unsteady step forward, then another, until he was pressed close against his mother.  She moved slightly, and the miracle that Elrohir and Aradan were both waiting for occurred.  The colt found a teat and began to feed.

Elrohir watched the colt suckling contentedly, his tiny tail wriggling with bliss.  No matter how many times he saw it, he would never stop wondering at the marvel – that such a young creature, only moments old, could already stand and walk.  The little one butted his head imperiously at Hithil, demanding more milk, and she turned her head to watch this impatient newcomer with wonder.

Aradan edged past Hithil, and joined Elrohir in the centre aisle of the stable.  He looked back at the pair and smiled.   “They will be fine now – we can leave them to get to know one another.”  He glanced at Elrohir.  “Thank you for your help tonight.  I can finish here, if you like.  Goodnight.”

Rather feeling that he had been dismissed, Elrohir went back outside.  In the stable yard, he drew a pail of water from the trough and rinsed off the blood and grime before pulling his tunic back on.  He rubbed at the back of his neck.  He had all but forgotten the reason behind his visit to the stable, and Elladan’s premonition.  Now that the immediacy of the colt’s birth had passed, he felt unaccountably tense and on edge. 

Despite the fact that he had not a shred of Elladan’s foresight, he had a nagging sense that something was about to happen.   He glanced back at the stable, now mostly in darkness, just as Aradan appeared in the doorway.   A faint light flickered behind him.

“Aradan!  Did you put the lanterns out?”

“I left one burning.   Why?”

“Hithil will not need it.   Would you go back and put it out?  Please?”

Aradan shot him an exasperated look, but turned and went back in, muttering something under his breath.  The light died, and Aradan reappeared.  “Happy now?”

Elrohir was about to nod, but found himself shaking his head.  There was still something wrong.   He realised he must be sensing Elladan’s tension and unease, which meant that his twin was still deeply troubled about what he had seen.

“What, then?  What now?” 

Elrohir shrugged.  “I cannot tell.   Something.  Are you sure Hithil and the colt are all right?”

“Yes!  Look, do you want to …”

Aradan broke off; his words lost in a deafening clap of thunder as a jagged streak of lightning split the sky.  It struck a tall tree overhanging the edge of the stable yard, which burst into flame. 

Elrohir felt a chill run through him.  His ears rang, and he felt as if the whole dark world was turning upside down.  It was clear now what Elladan had foreseen – and it had been nothing whatsoever to do with the lanterns.  This was something that no-one, however vigilant, could have prevented.  The fire could only spread, though, and his knowledge of what was going to happen made the scene all the more terrifying.

Aradan began to run.  “I will get help – we need to stop that before the other trees go up!”

“No, wait!”  Elrohir caught at his arm.  “Look!”

As he spoke, a blazing branch broke away from the tree.  They watched in horror as it fell onto stacked bales of hay piled at one side of the stable.   The hay ignited instantly, flames licking at the wooden walls of the stable.

“There is no time!  We have to get the horses out first!”  Elrohir pushed Aradan towards the trough.  “Water!  Get yourself wet!”  he shouted.  Seizing a bucket, he dipped it into the water trough, then poured it over himself, drenching his hair and clothes.  Snatching up a filthy strip of rag, he plunged it into the water as well, before cutting it with his dagger and thrusting half at Aradan.  “Ready?”

With a nod, Aradan turned and ran back to the stable.  The commotion had already drawn two of the other grooms who lived nearby.  Elrohir turned to them.  “Get help.  Get this fire out.  And if Elladan comes down – keep him back.  There is no need for both of us to be in there.  Stop him.”

Without waiting for any response, he tied the soaked rag around his mouth and nose, quaking inwardly.  This was the stuff of nightmares – quite literally, for he had had a horror of fire and burning since a particularly vivid dream of Glorfindel and the Balrog long, long ago.   The scene filled him with fear, yet he could not stand back while the horses were trapped – neither could he send another in his stead.

Taking a deep breath, Elrohir followed Aradan and plunged into the blazing stable.

To be continued

Author’s Note:  Many thanks to Jastaelf for betaing this chapter for me – I know nothing about horses or foaling!

The Future Foreseen

As Elladan left the house, he wished fleetingly that his father was present.  Elrond could, if he wished it, influence the weather in the valley of Imladris – though he rarely interfered with nature’s whims.  Rain – heavy, prolonged, drenching rain – would be most welcome now.   Torrential rain, soaking the forest and undergrowth, saturating the buildings and barns and roofs.  But his parents and Arwen were away on an extended visit to Lothlorien, and would be unaware of the impending crisis.  He just hoped that there would be an Imladris for them to return to.

He had barely set foot on the path when the night was vividly lit by a blinding flash of lightning.  Brighter than daylight, brighter than the sun, it ripped the sky apart.  It struck somewhere near the stables – as he had known it would – but he could not see where.  The noise was deafening, ringing in his ears and swallowing all other sound, and in the immediate aftermath of the flash he could still see the outline of the jagged flare, even with his eyes closed.

Flames erupted from the trees, spreading rapidly.  As he raced along the path that led to the stables, Elladan searched his memory for every fragment of the vision he could recall.  It was difficult, for although the central scene of the blazing stable was imprinted vividly on his mind, the peripheral details were vague.  Who had been there? How many horses?  More importantly, who had not been there?  

As he grew closer he could see that both the trees and the stables were burning.  He stopped at the edge of the yard for a moment, taking in the scene before him.  It was even worse than that which he had foreseen.  The walls were already well alight, and stacked bales of hay at one side of the stable blazed furiously.   Flames licked at the thatched roof and leapt high into the air, lighting the area with an eerie red glow.

A few of the stable-hands passed buckets of water from one to another in a desperate attempt to quell the flames.  Another tried to catch the horses which had been released.  The beasts ran madly around the yard, initially too panicked to be calmed.  He saw Hithil, her eyes rolling with fear, and at her side a new-born foal.  It now seemed clear to him why Elrohir had been delayed, but where was he now?

Desperately he searched the yard for some glimpse of his brother among the elves dashing here and there.  More and more were arriving with every moment, drawn by the commotion.  Despite the apparent chaos there was an underlying order to the frantic activity.  The most experienced grooms sought to catch and calm the horses, while anyone who could wield a broom beat at the burning undergrowth with grim determination.  Others threw pail after pail of water at the stable, concentrating on the doorway, keeping the entrance free of flames so that those inside – elves and beasts – could flee.

There was no sign of Elrohir.  Despite his fears, Elladan was not rash enough to rush blindly into the blazing stable without being absolutely certain – not that there was any doubt in his mind – that his foolhardy brother was in there.  It would be the ultimate irony if he himself became trapped while Elrohir was safe and well; and it would not be the first time that he had misinterpreted a vision.  He would never forgive himself if Elrohir was injured while saving him.  In desperation he caught one of the grooms as he rushed past, seizing him by the arm and pulling him around so that they were face to face.  “Elrohir!”  he shouted.  “Where is he?”

The groom shook his head wildly.  “I have not seen him!  Please, my lord – help me catch these horses!” 

He and Elladan both dodged to one side as a horse careened past them, and Elladan released him abruptly.  Turning to another of the stable-hands, he repeated his question.  “Have you seen Elrohir?”

The stable-hand did not answer, but his eyes flicked towards the stable.  Elladan shook him.  “Tell me!  Did he go in there?  Is there anyone else?  Who?”

Reluctantly, the groom nodded.  “Elrohir and Aradan.  They went to get the horses out.  But –”  Elladan released him, and turned towards the stable.  Behind him, the elf called vainly, “But Elrohir told me to stop you!”

Even in the midst of his ever-increasing alarm, Elladan found himself smiling at that.  It was unfair of Elrohir to issue such an impossible order to the unfortunate stable-hand.

Before he could take a single step, Elladan found that he too was seized from behind, his arms held firmly.  He spun around to confront his assailant, to find himself facing Glorfindel.

He shook him off angrily.  “Leave me!   The stable – I have to reach Elrohir!”  He moved toward the stables again, furious at the delay.

Glorfindel seized him roughly, pulling him back.  “Stop this, Elladan!  You will not go in there – I forbid it!”

Elladan stared at him in disbelief.  Did Glorfindel really imagine that he could stop him?  “Elrohir is in there!”  he snarled.

“I know!  And what do you think you can do?”  He stepped aside as another of the horses, wild-eyed and flecked with foam, erupted from the stable and nearly trampled them both.  “Elrohir knows what he is doing,”  Glorfindel continued.  “He needs to release the horses and send them out – the poor beasts will be too panicked to know which way to go.”   He released his tight grip on Elladan, but did not back down.  “Think, Elladan!   Elrohir and Aradan are the best for this task – you are needed out here.  There are not enough of us to prevent this spreading.  If the fire reaches the house …”

Elladan nodded reluctantly.  He understood only too well.  After weeks of fine, dry weather, the woods and trees were tinder-dry.  The trees in leaf would be slow to burn, but fire would spread through the undergrowth rapidly.  From Glorfindel’s view, it was only too clear – their priority was to slow the fire’s progress and stop it before it was too late. 

“But the roof,”  he protested.  “It will collapse!”

“No doubt,”  Glorfindel answered calmly.   “There is little we can do now to save the stable itself.  But by then Elrohir and Aradan and the horses should be well clear.”

“No!  Glorfindel, I saw this – the roof will collapse, and Elrohir is in there!”  He drew a deep breath, aware of his incipient panic.  “I saw the fire, earlier this evening,”  he explained more calmly.  “I saw the roof fall in.  And I saw someone trapped.”

Glorfindel looked at him sharply.  “I see.   Elrohir?”

Elladan shrugged.  “I could not tell,”  he confessed miserably.  “Someone.   But it does not matter who it was!”  he added sharply.

Glorfindel glanced towards the stable briefly.  “Then we must act quickly.   First we must prevent this spreading, then we must ensure that Elrohir and everyone else is safe.”  He turned a haunted gaze on Elladan.  “Trust me – I do not want either of you to die enveloped in flame!”

Elladan flinched at this brutal reminder.  Glorfindel sighed in exasperation and pushed him away.  “Move, Elladan!”

Recovering his wits, Elladan again stopped one of the stable-hands who was leading a skittish pair of horses away from the noise and confusion in the yard.  “Imlach, how many horses were in there?”  he asked urgently.

“Twelve – thirteen with the new little one.  They came out first.  All the others were in the pasture down by the river.”  The groom held the headstalls tightly as one of the horses jerked his head upwards.  “Shh.   Do not fret – we will soon be away from here,”  he soothed.  “Aradan and your brother are doing their best,”  he added to Elladan, “but now we need to get all of the horses out of the way.  They are a danger to themselves and us like this!”

Elladan looked around the yard, counting swiftly.  Hithil stood in one corner,  the new foal hiding behind her.  Four more had been caught and stood trembling with fear, balking at the idea of moving past the stable to safety.  Two others were still running loose, defying all attempts to catch them.

There must be only three horses left in the stable, but it meant that Elrohir would still have his hands full.  He moved to where he could look through the doorway into the stable itself.  Amongst the smoke, flames and heat-shimmer he could see two figures guiding horses towards the door.  He breathed a sigh of relief.   Elrohir was clearly still safe – or as safe as he could be in the circumstances – and would soon have rescued the last remaining horse.

He returned his attention to the yard.  The loose horses still had to be dealt with, but those already captured would need to be led to safety without delay.  Who was available?  Most of the elves present were engaged in fighting the fire.   By the path at the edge of the yard he saw a gaggle of young girls, clad only in nightgowns.  They were wide-eyed, wanting to help but unsure what they could do.  He beckoned to them, and they ran to join him.  “I want you to go with Imlach here.  Take the horses we already have, and lead them down to the fields by the river.  Can you do that?”

They nodded earnestly.  “Yes, my lord,”  one agreed.

“Good.  When that is done, come back for the others.”   He did not wait to see them go, but approached one of the two horses still circling the yard.  Moving quietly to its side, he began talking softly to it, soothing and calming the panicked beast.  Gradually it slowed, then stopped, allowing him to slip a halter over its head.

Glorfindel joined him again, coughing.  “We need more water!”  he gasped.  “It is taking too long to carry water from the stream, and the water trough is too slow to refill.”  He pointed to the slope above the yard.  “The pool up there …”

“Yes!  If we can breach the bank, and divert the water this way – if we dampen the undergrowth enough, it will be easier to stop the fire spreading.”

Glorfindel nodded.  “I already have a team working on it.”  He looked at the sky, the stars hidden by dark, towering thunderclouds.  “I wish it would rain.  Your father could make it rain.”  He glanced at Elladan.   “I suppose you and Elrohir …”

Elladan shook his head regretfully.  “No.  He uses Vilya.  El and I have no mastery over the ring.”

“Ah, well.  I will do what I can.”  Glorfindel turned away, then glanced over his shoulder.  “And tell Elrohir to hurry.”

Elladan passed the horse he had managed to calm to Edrahil, one of Elrohir’s novice warriors.   There was now only one horse still running free, and one still in the stable.  All the others had been caught, and most moved to the safety and calm of the river pasture.  He cast an anxious look back at the stable.  There was still no sign of Elrohir, and the stable roof was now well alight.  Surely it would not be long before his fears became reality.  Raising his voice, he called across the bedlam. “El!  Hurry up – there is not much time!”

A muffled shout reached him through the shouts and roaring flames.   “I know!”

Realising he had to be content with that, Elladan turned to the last horse, Dúath, who was proving the hardest to catch.  He kept backing out of reach, circling the yard, still too panicked to be calmed.  It was difficult to get too close to him, for he was too terrified to know friend from foe, and at times would rear up, lashing out with his hooves, causing those attempting to catch him to leap back out of range.  In the end Elladan threw caution to the winds, and stepped close, seizing Dúath’s mane.   He whispered tender reassurances, and slowly Dúath calmed as he heard the familiar voice.   “Hush, now.  Hush.  I know you are frightened of the fire.  It is dangerous, yes it is.  It burns, it kills.  But you are safe now.”

At last he stood quietly, and Elladan stroked the soft nose gently, patting his neck and still murmuring gently. But even as Elladan turned to call Edrahil, there was another loud clap of thunder, and the horse reared high again with a shrill whinny.  Tearing himself free of Elladan’s grasp and shouldering him aside roughly, he lashed out again.  Elladan, caught off balance, fell hard on his back, and lay winded, staring up at Dúath as his forelegs beat the air.  As the plunging hooves came down again, Edrahil darted forward and grabbed at Elladan’s arm, dragging him away and hauling him to his feet.

More hands tried to seize the horse, but Dúath, driven beyond fear by the noise of the storm, evaded them all easily, then turned and galloped back into the burning stable, seeking the only familiar place in all this madness.

Elladan swore, furious at himself for releasing his grip, at Dúath for his blind panic, and at the grooms for not trying harder.   There was no time for this.   Throwing another fearful look at the blazing roof, he froze, seeing the scene in his visions unfold in front of him.   Smoke billowed across the yard, stinging his eyes and catching painfully in his chest, and a wave of heat blasted him.  A wall of flame shot up, engulfing the roof completely, and he took an involuntary step back from the blistering heat. 

“El!”  he shouted desperately. “Get out of there, now!  It is too late!  Elrohir!”

He never heard if there was any reply, for at that moment, with a great whoosh of flame and a splintering, snapping, crack of wood, the supporting beams finally gave way.   The roof collapsed inward with a creak and a groan,  and the flames leapt high, engulfing the doorway and obliterating all hope of escape for those within.

To Be Continued

Author’s Notes:   The idea of a horse running back into a burning stable comes from Lindelea’s ‘The Tenth Walker’ story about Bill the Pony.

Chapter Four – Clear And Present Danger

As Elrohir plunged into the barn, a wave of heat hit him.  The air was already so thick with smoke he could barely see, and his eyes immediately began to sting and burn.  Part of the side wall of the stable, nearest the burning bales, was ablaze, but so far the flames had not spread further.  However, the horses – well able to smell the acrid smoke, and see the flickering flames – were already restless,  moving uneasily and snorting nervously.  They shuffled in their stalls, shaking their heads and softly whickering.

Aradan was already at the stall where Hithil and her foal stood huddled together.  Elrohir joined him, sharing his silent determination that no matter what, these two should be the first saved.   He could already tell that it would not be easy.  Hithil stood protectively before the colt, resolutely blocking all Aradan’s attempts to reach him.

“Can you get Hithil out?”  Elrohir shouted.

Aradan shook his head grimly.  “She will not leave without him.  If I can manage to reach the foal, she will follow – but she will not let me get past her!”

“Let me try.  Hold her head.”

As Aradan restrained Hithil, successfully distracting her, Elrohir edged past and seized the foal’s stubby mane.  Pulling as hard as he dared, he dragged the foal past his mother, out of the stall and into the centre aisle of the stable.  Hithil turned with a snort as she saw her foal being taken from her, and instinctively followed, her maternal urge to protect him even stronger than her fear of the fire.

The wall and one of the partitions near the entrance were already burning fiercely, so Elrohir shielded the foal’s view of the flames with his body.  The foal, trusting and curious, walked meekly with him – through the thick smoke, past the flames, and towards the exit, and safety.  Hithil paced close by his side.

At the stable door Elrohir released the foal, standing by warily as Hithil pushed past him in case they suddenly turned back.   He had heard tales of horses who would run back into a burning stable, clinging to a known sanctuary in the face of chaos and confusion.  Scenting clean air, Hithil burst out into the yard, her foal by her side.  He heaved a sigh of relief.  “Thank the Valar for that,”  he muttered.  He could not have borne it if anything had happened to them.

He blinked to ease his stinging eyes and drew a deep breath of fresh air before turning back into the blazing barn at a shout from Aradan.  “Elrohir!  Come on!” 

Working from the front of the stable now – the area closest to the fire – Elrohir lifted the bar across the nearest stall.   “Come on – out you go,” he urged gently.  The stallion needed no further prompting, and shot forward, nearly knocking Elrohir over, and out into the yard.  Elated, he turned to the next stall.   If all the horses were that eager to escape, he and Aradan could save them all before disaster struck.

It proved a vain hope.  The next stall housed an elderly mare who was noted for her stubborn temperament.   She stood stolidly, resisting both Elrohir’s gentle persuasion and his increasing irritation.  “Come on, old lady – you do not want to stay here, do you?  Come outside, and you can have all the oats you want.  Come now,”  he coaxed her.  She took not the slightest notice, but backed further into a corner of her stall.  “Move,  you awkward, obstinate creature!   Get out!”  She still refused to move, and finally, reluctantly, he left her.  There was no time, and while Feinloth was refusing to leave, there were other horses that he could help.

Even so, it was slow work.  The horses, for the most part, were usually amenable, willing beasts, and trusted both him and Aradan completely – but not now.  It took all Elrohir’s skill – and patience – to get close enough to each mare or stallion to whisper soothingly to them, to calm them enough to venture out of the stalls.  Then they had to be coaxed past the flames now licking at the door frame itself.  It all took time – time they did not have.   The fire was spreading with a frightening rapidity, and the horses were growing increasingly panicked.   It gave him no satisfaction at all to note that Aradan was experiencing just as much difficulty. 

Outside, he could hear shouts, orders being given, running feet and the sound of the horses he and Aradan had managed to release running wildly around the yard.   He could hear Elladan’s voice too, and wondered fleetingly how in all of Arda anyone had been able to make his twin see sense, and prevent him from entering the stable.  Elrohir’s earlier order to the groom had been instinctive, but he had never dared hope that it would be successful.

Glorfindel was there too – it was probably he who had stopped Elladan – and Elrohir knew that between them, he and Elladan would take control of the situation, bring order to the confusion outside, and set about tackling the fire before it spread through the woodland.  It was some relief to know that Imladris itself would be safe.

 As they worked, Aradan looked sharply at Elrohir.  “You knew this would happen – or something like it,”  he commented, as he sent another panicked horse on its way out into the open.  “How?”

Elrohir shrugged as he opened the last stall.  “Elladan knew somehow.  He does, sometimes.  He warned me.  I came down to tell you.”  From the long look of disbelief Aradan gave him, Elrohir judged that this was neither the time nor the place to explain the uncertain nature of Elladan’s visions.   “He said …”  Elrohir broke off his commentary to Aradan as the horse in the stall backed away nervously, her ears flattened.  Murmuring soothingly, he calmed the jittery mare  and coaxed her out gently.  As she fled outside, Elrohir glanced back at Aradan.  “Elladan told me something else, as well.  The roof – he saw it collapse.  Aradan, we have to hurry.  This is taking too long!”

They both glanced up instinctively.  Flames licked across the underside of the roof, and the dry thatch and supporting roof-beams were already burning.   Aradan shrugged.  “The roof will collapse?  It takes no great wit to work that out,”  he stated dismissively.  “The stable cannot be saved.  All I care about is that we get the horses out.”

Elrohir looked around the stable despairingly.   Aradan’s single-minded devotion to the horses was blinding him to the steadily increasing danger they all faced.  The fire was spreading, and there were still a few horses remaining stubbornly in their stalls.  How much longer did they have?  He wished there was something more he could do, some way of holding off the impending disaster. 

Then, in the work area at the far end of the stable, he saw it.   The end wall backed onto the perimeter of the stable yard, and was built of stone. A long ladder and a rack of tools hung against it.  Elrohir ran to the ladder, pulling it off the iron staples that held it in place.  “Help me with this!”  he shouted to Aradan.   Aradan ignored him.  Hauling the ladder upright, Elrohir wedged it under one of the Y-shaped roof beams.  If – when – the roof caved in, the ladder might hold it up for a few vital moments.

Even in the short time it had taken to push the ladder into place, the smoke had thickened even more.  It was impossible to see more than a few inches even if his eyes had not been streaming, and in the end Elrohir shut his eyes as much as possible and worked by instinct.  He knew the stable like the back of his hand, and did not have to be able to see to know his way around.  There were four horses left, then three, then two.  Dúath, the second to last, emerged from his stall warily, ears flat and his nostrils flaring.  Suddenly he stopped and shied as more flames leapt up beside him.  Before he could think of retreating back into his stall, Elrohir gave him a sharp slap on the rump, and the stallion surged forward through the flames and smoke to freedom.

Only one horse remained, but time was running out.  Even through the wet cloth it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe, and his damp clothes were steaming in the heat.   Elrohir looked up at the roof again.  He estimated that they had a few minutes left, no longer.  From outside, he heard Elladan’s voice again, raised in a shout of warning.  “El!  Hurry up – there is not much time!”

“I know!”  he called back.  Elladan would have to be content with that, but he knew how worried his brother would be.  He was worried himself.  Only Feinloth was left now, and Elrohir returned to her in a last ditch attempt to force her out.  If it came to it, could he bring himself to leave her behind?  He knew the answer had to be ‘yes’ eventually, but he wanted to make one last effort.

Aradan joined him, and together, by brute force, they hauled Feinloth out of her stall, her head towards the stable door.   Standing one on each side of her, they guided her past the flames, and were only moments from success and safety when disaster struck.  Elrohir had all but forgotten the storm that had caused this, but there was a loud clap of thunder which proved the final straw for Feinloth.  She broke free, and dashed to the back of the stable.  From outside there was a shrill whinny and a cry of alarm – and then, like a bad dream, Dúath appeared through the smoke, heading back into the stable.

“Balrog’s balls!  What are they doing out there?”  Elrohir demanded.  He plunged after the horses, dodging to one side as a piece of burning thatch fell from the roof.  He could dimly hear Elladan shouting his name, but it was too late.  They had run out of time.  Flames shot up across the doorway, a wall of fire that drove them back from the fierce heat to retreat against the far wall.

He glanced at Aradan, seeing his own fear reflected there. They were trapped.  This was no way to die, but their only chance of survival lay ahead.  He gazed at the wall of flame in dread.  It would require all his courage, strength and determination to do this.

“Aradan!  We have to go!   We must try – we can run through the flames there.  There will be water on the other side – it is our only hope!”

Aradan stared at him, then at the flames.  “You mean to leave Feinloth and Dúath?”  he asked incredulously.

Elrohir gave the horses one last look.  “If they will not follow – we will have to,” he said despairingly. “But there is no other way out that I can see or think of.”   He hated himself for suggesting it, but he had learned both as a warrior, and as his father’s son, that harsh decisions had to be made at times. 

The decision, though, was made for them.   There was a roar of flame, and the fire leapt still higher.  The whole roof was blazing, and pieces of burning thatch dropped down, setting light to the few areas where the fire had not yet reached.   The smoke was choking now, and Elrohir coughed harshly, realising that somewhere – probably in the struggle with Feinloth – he had lost the strip of rag that had protected him from the worst of the smoke.  

Above, the roof beams were burning fiercely and ominous cracking sounds made them both look up.  Blazing shards rained down on all four, and Elrohir brushed them off as they fell on him and the horses.

Then, with a final creaking groan, the wooden beams gave way and fell, and the whole roof collapsed in a shower of sparks and flaming debris.   

To Be Continued

Author Notes:  This chapter is dedicated to the staff of Paignton Zoo. 

Since I started this story in January, real life locally has echoed events in the tale – with a far more tragic outcome.  The zoo staff and firefighters risked their lives to rescue animals from a fire last week, but sadly two giraffes, a mother and her still-unnamed, week-old calf died.   Although rescued from the fire, a third giraffe, the father, subsequently died this weekend.

The real-life heroism shown far eclipses that of fictional characters.

Chapter Five – Tomorrow Is Today’s Dream

(Kahlil Gibran)

As the roof fell, a wall of fierce heat blasted Elrohir.  Flames leapt up as air rushed in, fanning the blaze even higher.  Above his head, the burning thatch fell towards him and he closed his eyes, raising one hand in an impotent defence against the inevitable.  Fleeting, chaotic thoughts raced through his mind – anger at the pointlessness of this, and his own stupidity; fear for himself; sorrow for Aradan and the two horses that would die with him; relief that Hithil and her foal were safe; anguish at what this would do to Elladan.

A blazing beam struck him a glancing blow on the shoulder, knocking him to his knees, and he instinctively held his breath against the smothering, suffocating sensation as the roof fell on him, bracing himself for the searing pain to come.  His only thoughts now were for his twin.  “Forgive me, El,”  he thought in despair.  “I should have listened to you.  You knew this would happen.”

A shower of sparks and burning fragments rained down on him, red hot filaments of straw and thatch that burned his hands and face.  Then the falling debris stopped, and slowly he realised that he was still alive.  Coughing harshly against the choking smoke, he raised his head cautiously, his eyes stinging and smarting. 

He was still alive. 

Scrambling to his feet, he looked back.  Half the barn was engulfed in flames, the stalls buried beneath the burning wreckage – yet where he stood the fallen roof was still supported precariously by the ladder he had wedged beneath the beams.  If it had not been for Elladan’s premonition and warning, he and Aradan would both be dead.  It would not hold for long – what was left of the roof sagged at a perilous angle, and the ladder itself was now burning – but for now it was enough.

A groan at his feet brought his attention back to Aradan.  He was trapped beneath the spar that had struck Elrohir, and only half conscious.   It lay across his shoulders and upper back, pinning him down as he struggled to move.  Elrohir seized the blazing beam and heaved it off Aradan,  hauling it to one side.  Aradan’s tunic was burning, and he beat out the flames with his hands, then dragged him further back to the far end of the stable where Feinloth and Dúath still huddled.  The stone floor by the work area had been swept clear of straw and hay, and he kicked the burning debris that had fallen from the roof to one side as he lay Aradan down on the cobbles. 

The heat was intense, and Elrohir could feel sweat trickling down his back and beading on his face.  Desperately he searched for a way out of this fiery tomb.  The wall behind them was of stone, and the blazing remains of the thatch that lay before them was thigh-deep, and quite impassable.  On his left, the wall blazed fiercely, backed by the burning bales outside – but on his right, parts of the wooden wall had not yet caught light.  If he could break that down, they might still escape. 

Overhead, the roof gave an ominous creak, and more debris drifted down.  Elrohir flinched, and cast an anxious glance upwards.  The ladder was still in place – barely.  He ran his eyes over the rack of tools on the wall, and those that lay on the workbench – small tools; knives; equipment for repairing saddles and the like.   There was nothing there that he could use.  Although he was quite prepared to kick the wall down if necessary, the planks were of stout, seasoned timber, strong and unyielding.  But there, propped against the wall was an axe, forgotten and abandoned long ago.  It was covered in dust and hung with cobwebs.   Why it was there, what use there had been for it in the stable, he had no idea – and nor did he care.

Seizing the axe in both hands, he swung it hard, striking the wood with all his strength.  The planks splintered and cracked, then broke apart as he wielded the axe again.   Elrohir knew he was no dwarf – their skill and delicacy of touch with an axe astounded him – but strength, not delicacy, would serve him here.  He wrenched the axe free, kicking at the lower panels, then swung it again.  The wood split apart, opening a small gap in the wall.  He bent to the hole, drawing a deep breath of clean, fresh air, and then another.  There were shouts outside now, and as he struck with the axe again, one whole panel dislodged and hung drunkenly from a single nail.  Hands appeared and tore it free, then someone outside began to attack the remaining panels methodically with a skilled, dwarf-like precision.

As soon as the gap created was large enough, Elrohir helped Aradan to his feet and guided him to the gaping hole in the wall.  He was still rather dazed, and leaned on Elrohir as he staggered across the floor, one arm hanging limply at his side.  Edrahil stepped through the gap and helped Aradan through.  “Elrohir!”  he shouted.  “Hurry – you must come now!”

Elrohir took a step back, shaking his head.  “No!”  he managed to say, before another fit of coughing took him.  “The horses – I will not leave without them!”  After risking so much, and with them all so close to safety, he knew he had to make one last attempt to save Dúath and Feinloth.   

Edrahil glared at him, but then shrugged.  “Come on then!”  he cried with resignation.

“Where –”  Elrohir could not continue, wracked by coughing, but Edrahil understood.

“Elladan?    Safe outside, being held back by at least a dozen elves, I imagine.  I decided that this –”  his comprehensive gesture took in the flames, the fallen roof, and the horses –  “was preferable to trying to reason with him.”  Edrahil turned to Dúath, but the horse suddenly snorted and surged forward towards the hole created.  It seemed he had finally realised that the sanctuary of his stable was less of a haven than he had expected.  He barged through the gap, smashing more of the panels as he went, and bolted across the yard, scattering elves as he went.  And Feinloth – the intractable, obstinate creature who had caused them so much difficulty by her wilful refusal to move – meekly trotted after him, as if she had never had any other intention but to leave.

Even as Elrohir gaped at her in disbelief, Edrahil seized his arm and pulled.  “Now it is our turn!”  he shouted.  “Come on!”

Elrohir nodded, and allowed himself to be pulled towards the opening in the wall unresistingly.   Edrahil pushed him out, and Elrohir stumbled forward onto his knees in the yard as someone seized his arms and dragged him further from the stable.

He knelt on the wet cobbles, coughing and gasping, bent double as he heaved in great breaths of air.  His eyes watered and stung, his chest ached and burned from the coughing he still could not contain, and he felt dizzy and light-headed.  But he was alive.  For now, that was all that mattered.

He sagged against someone who knelt beside him, supporting him, and slowly raised his head, blinking as he took in the scene before him.  The stable was gone.  All that was left was a deep pile of burning straw, wood and thatch, the flames slowly dying now.   The only parts left standing were the end wall that formed part of the yard boundary, and the smashed panels he had escaped through.  Even as he watched, the last section of the roof – the part he had shored up – fell inward with a creak and a groan, pulling the remains of the side wall with it, and the flames danced briefly again.

Overhead, thunder rumbled again, and at last – far too late – rain began to fall; heavy drenching rain that soon quenched the last of the flames.

o-o-o

Elladan  stared in horror as the roof fell.  “No!”  he howled in anguish.   He sank to his knees on the damp, muddy stones as all the nightmarish visions he had foreseen came to horrifying life in front of him.  “No,”  he pleaded softly and desperately.  “Elrohir …”

Shuddering, he bowed his head, dimly aware as Glorfindel and Edrahil flung themselves at him, holding him back.  But holding him back from what?  There was no point now,  nothing that he could do.  It was too late. 

Glorfindel was shouting something at him, the words blurred and indistinct, drowned out by the roar and crackle of the fire. Elladan stared at him uncomprehendingly, then blinked and turned away.  It did not matter – nothing mattered anymore.  He had hoped – desperately, foolishly – that Elrohir would be safe.  But the fool’s hope had failed.

The flickering flames danced before him, showing fleeting, tempting images, and he stared at them dully, numb and lost.  He tried to tear his gaze away – for what use were his visions?  They had not saved Elrohir.  Yet the flames leapt higher, catching his attention insistently, flaring unevenly until he searched the depths of the blaze for an underlying order.  The flames grew and spread, forming a living, flickering backdrop for the new visions that unfolded before him.  The images were gone again in an instant, but it was enough.

He scrambled to his feet with a cry,  full of renewed hope, and brushed Glorfindel and Edrahil off absent-mindedly.  “There!”  he shouted, pointing.  “Around the side!  They are there!”

The cry was echoed by a groom who had been dousing the walls with water in a vain attempt to halt the spread of the flames.  “Here!”  he called.  “I can hear something!”

Elladan raced around the side of the stable, skidding and nearly falling on the slick cobbles.  A dull thud sounded as something heavy struck the wooden panels, then another blow came.  There was a splintering crack as the wood broke, and a large side panel fell outward, only loosely attached.  Elladan grasped it, tearing it free, and bent to peer through the gap.  The interior was an inferno of flame, and the air thick with smoke.  He could see little, but was able to make out a single figure, and the dim shapes of two horses.  “El!”  he shouted.  “Can you hear me?”

Before he could hear any reply, he was grabbed by the arm and hauled back.  One of the foresters pushed in front, brandishing a large, long-handled axe.  “Get out of the way!”  he snapped, before adding belatedly, “My lord.”

With a skill borne of long practice the forester struck at the panels, opening a large gap.  Elladan struggled ineffectually, but he was held fast by Glorfindel and several others.  “You are not going in there,”  Glorfindel pointed out evenly.

“Let me go!”  Elladan hissed furiously.  Glorfindel said nothing, but gave him a look that would have quelled the Balrog.  Elladan ignored him, still struggling.  Edrahil threw them a glance, then darted forward into the flames.  As Elladan watched in mute fury, he reappeared with someone draped limply against his side.  Fear leaped in him as he saw the semi-conscious figure – and then leaped again as he realised that it was Aradan, not Elrohir.   Two of the grooms guided the stable master to safety, but Elladan’s eyes were fixed on the hole in the wall, and the blaze raging behind it.  Where was Elrohir?    Edrahil disappeared again, and moments later Dúath exploded out of the stable, kicking some of the panels to splinters as he went. 

Those in his path leapt aside, and Elladan took the opportunity to shake Glorfindel off.  He ran forward, dodging Feinloth who followed Dúath out into the yard.  Then, to his utter relief, Edrahil and Elrohir appeared together.  Elladan grabbed his brother as he stumbled forward, falling to his knees, and pulled him well away from the blaze.

Weak with overwhelming relief, he held Elrohir as his twin drew shuddering gulps of air, fighting desperately to breathe.  He could feel the ache deep in his own chest, and concentrated on breathing slowly and evenly, lending all his strength to Elrohir.   As the harsh coughing gradually eased Elrohir leaned against him and gave him a faint grin.

The frantic activity in the yard was slowing now – Dúath and Feinloth had both been recaptured, and stood, trembling, with the grooms.  The blaze was subsiding – there seemed nothing left to burn, anyway.  The stable had been destroyed; only stones now left standing.   And scant seconds after Elrohir and Edrahil had escaped, the beam supporting the final part of the roof collapsed with a crack, burying the last refuge under burning thatch.

o-o-o

Rain fell – great heavy drops that splashed into the ash, and hissed on the glowing embers.  It sent rivulets of black mud, edged with a fringe of straw dust, trickling across the yard.   As Elrohir’s ragged breathing slowed, Elladan helped him to his feet.  He held his brother at arm’s length, examining him with his eyes.  Elrohir appeared alive, whole, and undamaged – if a little singed.  His face was smeared with ash and soot, and his hair tangled with strands of straw.  Elladan’s relief transformed into joy, and he hugged Elrohir tightly.  The thought of what he had seen, what had so nearly happened, chilled him – how could his twin have acted so rashly?  The joy mutated again, and his relief and elation spilled over into anger.    He straightened, placing his hands on his brother’s shoulders and pushing him hard against the wall of the stable yard.  “Do not ever, ever, do that to me again,” he began fiercely.  “Do you never listen?  I told you what I saw.  You knew what would happen!  You could have been killed!”  The horror of the moment when he had seen the roof collapse inward, in the full knowledge that Elrohir was inside, would stay with him always.

Elrohir gave a weary grin.  “I am sorry, brother.  I did listen – and that is what saved us.”   He raised his hands in self defence, pushing Elladan away again.  He gave a small hiss of pain, and Elladan dropped his hands, seizing Elrohir’s wrists instead.  He swore softly.  Elrohir’s hands were torn, bloody and burned.  The palms were reddened and blistered, and in places the blisters had broken, leaving raw flesh.

“El!  What have you done?”  he cried in dismay.  He pulled Elrohir towards the water trough, and plunged his hands into the water.  Constantly replenished by the stream, the water in the trough was clean again, and cool, and Elrohir gasped as it touched his wounds, jerking his hands out of the water.

One of the healers appeared at Elrohir’s side, and she gripped his wrists, holding his hands down in the water.  “You need to cool these burns,”  she instructed calmly.  “You know that as well as I do.  Stop behaving like an elfling.”

Elladan stepped back, his concern giving way to amusement.  Athela was an old friend, and she would stand no nonsense from his brother.  “I am all right,”  Elrohir protested weakly.   He coughed again.  “I just need to catch my breath.”

Athela eyed him without sympathy.  “I will be the judge of that.”  She sighed.  “I fail to see how a supposedly intelligent elf – a healer too, no less – can be so pig-headed and stubborn. You and Aradan are both coming to the infirmary – now.  Is that clear?  Elladan, tell him,”  she ordered.

Elrohir drew breath to argue, coughed again, and capitulated without further protest.  Slowly the wet, bedraggled group moved towards Imladris itself, leaving behind the smouldering ruin of the stable.

To Be Continued

Chapter Six – Die Another Day

In the infirmary, Athela directed Elrohir into a side chamber as another healer descended on Aradan.   “Sit down,”  she instructed him imperiously.

Elrohir sat on the bed as indicated.  Although he hated having any fuss made of him, his own healer’s instincts told him that he needed help, and Athela did not need another awkward patient.  He was beginning to feel the toll events had taken on him. The surge of energy that had driven him since the fire started had ebbed away, leaving him drained.  He was weary and sore, and ached all over.  Breathing was still painful and difficult, and though it had eased a little, his chest still felt as if a weight was pressed on it.  His throat was sore and dry, and he craved water – though the way his hands throbbed and burned so unbearably, he doubted he would be able to hold a cup.

Elladan stood behind Athela, watching him grimly.  Suddenly his brother turned to the sink and poured a cup of water, then returned to Elrohir’s side.  “Drink this,”  he said brusquely.  He held the cup with a healer’s expertise as Elrohir drank, the water cool and soothing on his parched throat.   Before he could thank Elladan, his twin turned away, stiff-backed, to set the cup back beside the basin.

Athela cast Elladan a swift glance as she touched her fingers briefly to Elrohir’s throat, nodding to herself.  Then she moved her hand to his chest, closing her eyes slightly.   Finally she nodded again, and gave a small smile.  “You were lucky,”  she told him.  “I expected the damage to be much worse.  I do not think you have done any lasting harm.  You do realise that the smoke alone could have killed you?”

Elrohir nodded wearily.  “I know.  I did what I could.  I used a strip of wet rag and tied it around my mouth to protect myself from the smoke and flames – but I lost it at some stage,”  he added vaguely.

“A damp cloth?  Well, you showed some sense at least.  But it was foolish to risk yourself like that.”  Athela turned away, taking a small pot from a shelf and gathering phials of herbs and other items.

Elladan took a step closer.  “I told you that!”  he hissed angrily.  “It was too dangerous.  Did you even stop to think what you were doing?  Of course not – you never do!”

Elrohir stared at him in surprise.  He could understand Elladan’s concern, but not this anger.  He knew that his twin thought he sometimes acted without considering the consequences – but in this case, he had been only too aware of what would happen.  Yet how could he have acted any differently? 

Too tired to argue, he shook his head and looked away, watching Athela as she added some pungent herbs and oils to the pot.  A kettle simmered over a small stove, and she poured water onto the herbs, stirring the mix together before placing the pot over the heat.  The dark water boiled, and there was a hideous stench.  Then, carefully lifting the pot off again, she poured the contents into two shallow bowls.  Passing one to the healer caring for Aradan, she held the other before Elrohir.  “Breathe this,”  she ordered.

Foul-smelling steam drifted up from the water.   Elrohir grimaced, his eyes watering from the fumes, but he breathed in, feeling the vapour penetrate his nose and throat.  “Again,”  Athela said.  “You need to breathe more deeply.   This will soothe your lungs, and stop your throat swelling.”

“Arconia?  I know what it does,”  Elrohir pointed out.  He took another deep breath of the steam, then another, feeling his breathing ease a little more each time.  “Athela, the horses – someone needs to see to them as well.  None of the grooms will know how to treat them.”

“You are not going anywhere!”  Elladan snapped before Athela could respond.  “You need to stay here.  Athela, tell him!  He might listen to you.”

Athela cast them both an amused glance.  “I can make up another batch of the arconia, and have it sent down,”  she agreed, indicating the bowl.  “Any one of the grooms will be able to administer it then.  You and Aradan are staying here!  Now, let me see this.”  She took Elrohir’s hands in hers, carefully avoiding the broken blisters and raw burns.  “How did you do this?”  she asked.

Elrohir frowned.  Although the pain was intense now, he had not been aware of burning his hands, and had only noticed the injuries when he pushed Elladan away.

“He did it saving me,”  Aradan rasped from the other side of the room.  “I was trapped when the roof collapsed.   Elrohir pulled one of the roof beams off me.  You saved my life – thank you, my lord.”  For once there was no edge to Aradan’s voice, and no sarcasm in the title.

“You were both taking foolish risks!”  Athela said acerbically, before Elrohir could respond.  “I know you were more worried about the horses – but I am more worried about my patients!”

In a rare moment of solidarity, Elrohir glanced at Aradan and caught his eye as they both tried to hide smiles.  “Your pardon, Athela,”  Elrohir said.  “Next time, I will endeavour not to damage myself.”

Elladan snorted.  “There had better not be a next time!”  he snapped predictably.

Athela sighed, but ignored them.  She poured cool water over the burns, washing away the last fragments of dirt and burnt straw.  Elrohir drew a sudden breath at the sharp pain, but said nothing.   He knew that the burns were not particularly serious, and he had certainly had far more severe injuries in the past – but little he had experienced had hurt as much as this.  Finally Athela took a pot of sweet-smelling salve, and smeared it onto the burns gently, with a skilled touch as light as thistle down.  He tensed, steeling himself not to flinch away at the first excruciating strokes, and concentrated on keeping the pain to himself.  If Elladan sensed it too, it would only add to his inexplicable anger.

“Relax,”  Athela murmured.  “It will soon ease.”  She wrapped loose gauze around his hands, bandaging it lightly, then stepped back.  “That is all I can do for now,”  she said, “but I will need to see you again tomorrow.  Keep the bandages dry.  You will need help with washing and eating, and with personal needs for a few days.  Do you need anything now?”

Elrohir shook his head.  “No.”  All he wanted now was to sleep, and forget the pain of his hands, and his memories of the blazing roof collapsing above him.

“I will do it,”  Elladan said curtly.

Athela nodded as she gathered up her medicines and bandages.  She whispered something to Elladan, then glanced back at Elrohir again with a sudden smile.  “Try to sleep,” she added as she left.

Slowly the salve began to work, and Elrohir breathed a sigh of relief.  As his hands became blessedly numb, he became aware of countless other aches and pains, all minor in comparison, and the stinging on his face and arms where sparks had caught him.  He could smell the pungent smoke that still clung to his skin, clothes and hair – but suddenly he was too weary to care any more.   Exhaustion caught him, and he leaned back against the wall.   “What a night,” he mumbled.  “We were lucky, though.  After what you said, there were times when I feared we would not make it out of that stable.”

Elladan regarded him impatiently.  “Then why did you –” he broke off, and shook his head, swallowing whatever he was about to say.  “It does not matter,” he added more gently, reining in his anger.  “It can wait until the morning.  Athela says that you must stay here tonight, and have someone keep watch, in case your breathing is still affected by the smoke.  I said –” he stopped again as Elrohir interrupted.

“You said you would stay?  El, when are you going to stop fussing over me?”  he asked with a tired grin.

“When you start to listen to me, and start to take care of yourself!”  Elladan snapped, losing patience again.  He sighed.  “El, go to sleep.  We will talk tomorrow.”

As Elrohir lay down, he felt Elladan pulling his boots off.  As sleep descended on him like a fog, he had one thought in mind.  In the morning, he would search for the root of Elladan’s anger.  There was surely more here that mere reaction to the night’s events.  As he pondered the cause, the fog of sleep thickened, and carried him away.

o-o-o

Once Elrohir was asleep, Elladan moved silently across the room, extinguishing the lamps and candles.  Dawn was not far off, and already a faint glimmer of light came from the window.  He turned at a slight sound from Elrohir, but his brother still slept – though restlessly, and lines of pain and exhaustion were etched around his eyes.  Returning to the bed, he sat at Elrohir’s side – watching, as he had promised Athela.

He still felt conflicting, confusing emotions.  Although he rejoiced now that he knew his twin was safe, there was still the legacy of the stark fear he had felt as the roof of the stable collapsed.  Anger still bubbled in him, too – anger at the insane risk Elrohir had taken, anger at the way he had disregarded his own safety, and ignored  Elladan’s warnings.  Watching Elrohir as he slept though, he was aware of a more uncomfortable emotion, one he was not proud of.  He was hurt by Elrohir’s lack of trust.  Through all the vagaries and uncertainties of the visions, he had been sure of one thing – that Elrohir trusted him and believed him.  When he had doubted himself, frustrated by the lack of clarity, Elrohir had always reassured and calmed him.  To find now that his twin had ignored his warnings, had not trusted him – it hurt.

He sat, brooding on this new development while outside the sky lightened as the sun rose over the distant mountains.  The storm had finally burnt itself out, and the rain had stopped.  Crossing to the windows, he pushed them open and stepped out onto the balcony. 

Airy breezes; sunlight and starlight; the scent and sight of water and growing things – all these were essential to healing, and every room in the infirmary opened onto the peace and tranquillity of the valley.  After the rain, the air smelled of wet leaves and damp earth, but over it all hung the acrid smell of smoke and burnt wood, an evocative reminder of what had happened. 

He watched, casting frequent glances behind him, as the sun rose higher.  As the shadows of night dissipated, and the valley was flooded with the glory of a new day,   Elladan felt his own dark mood lightening, lifting even as the shadows lifted.  He smiled.  Even though he still needed to talk to Elrohir, today was a day to be thankful for.

o-o-o

In the room behind him, he heard Elrohir stir.  He turned, and waited until Elrohir joined him on the balcony.  He was barefoot, still grimy and soot-streaked, and ash and straw clung to his hair.  “Good morning, little brother,”  Elladan greeted him.  “You look terrible.”

Elrohir grinned.  “I feel a great deal better than I did last night,” he admitted.  He raised his face to the sun and took a deep breath of the clear air.  “At least I can breathe again.”  He sat on the low wall, and looked up at Elladan.  “Thank the Valar for your vision last night,” he commented unexpectedly.  “If you had not warned me, Aradan would have been down there alone – and he would never have got Hithil or her foal out.  And if not for your warning about the roof, we would have been killed when it collapsed.   Do not ever doubt the truth of your visions again.  It saved many lives last night.”

“What do you mean?”  Elladan asked rather sharply.  “You did not seem to take much notice!  You certainly ignored my warnings,” he added bitterly.

“What do you mean?”  Elrohir echoed, surprise in his voice.  “Thanks to you, I knew full well that the roof would collapse eventually.  Although I had no intention of still being there at the time – I rather hoped we would be well clear of the stable by then – I jammed a ladder under the central beam just in case.  It worked, El.  When the roof fell, the ladder held it up for a few vital moments until we could get out.  Your warning saved our lives,”  he concluded simply.

“Then why …”  Elladan sighed.  “I know why – I know you.  But when I got to the stable, and saw it burning – just as I had foreseen – and then realised that you were in there, despite everything – I thought you had ignored me.  That you did not believe me.”

“So that is it.”  Elrohir gazed at him, then nodded to himself.  “Is that why you were so angry?  But El, what could I do?  Stand outside and watch the stable burn – with the horses inside?  Order someone else to go in there in my place?  El, I could not!”

Elladan nodded.  “I know that – now.  And I should have realised it before.  I thought you were taking a needless risk.   I should have known better.”

“A needless risk?  It was a risk, certainly.  I knew the danger we faced.  But needless?  Never.  What else could I do?”

Elladan was silent.   He could not expect his twin to have acted any differently – and, if he was honest with himself,  he would have done the same.

Athela’s arrival spared him from answering.  She cast a swift, professional glance at Elrohir, then turned her attention to his hands.  She unwound the bandages and inspected the burns carefully.  “You seem to be starting to heal,”  she decided.  She prodded at a particularly tender spot.  “Does that hurt?”

“Yes!” Elrohir hissed.  “You know it does!”

“Good,”  Athela  smiled serenely.  “That means there is no serious damage.  If you could not feel it, it would indicate far deeper burns.  You may well have lost the use of your hands.”  She applied a little more of the salve, then replaced the bandages.  As she turned to leave to tend her next patients, she stopped and turned back to Elrohir.  “Ah yes – Edrahil brought a message from the grooms.  He says that the horses are uninjured,  and that the new foal is feeding well.  He said he thought you and Aradan would like to know.”

“Thank the Valar!”  Elrohir exclaimed fervently.  “That is good news indeed.  Thank you, Athela!”

She smiled as she stepped closer and gave Elrohir a swift kiss.  “And I am glad that you are well.  I no longer need you to stay here – but remember, keep the bandages dry!” 

Elrohir’s eyes followed Athela as she left, and Elladan coughed to attract his attention.  “So, little brother – Hithil’s foal.  I take it that is what delayed you last night?  Does he have a name yet?”

Elrohir grinned.  “I thought to name him Naurion.  It seems fitting, would you agree?”  He got to his feet.  “I know what Edrahil said, but I want to go and see the horses for myself.  Come on – I will take you to meet Naurion!”

“El!”  Elladan called after him.  “Do you intend to go like that?  Have you seen yourself?

Elrohir glanced at himself and frowned.  He sniffed, then grimaced again.  “I reek of smoke as well,”  he complained.  “I need a bath.”  He glanced down at his bandaged hands.  “El – I suppose –  would you …”

Elladan felt himself grinning.  “Help you?  Yes, of course.  Come, little brother.  I will help you wash, and then we will greet the newest inhabitant of Imladris.” 

As he followed Elrohir back indoors, he reflected that perhaps his visions and dreams were not the curse he had always imagined.  Sometimes, there was much to be learned from them.

The End

Author’s Notes:  Naurion means ‘Son of Fire’.