Chapter Nine –  The Outlaws

Elrohir stood still momentarily as he slammed the door behind him.  He was in a narrow space between two beds, at one end of the room reserved for the most seriously ill patients.  Suddenly he found the stifling atmosphere in the hospital far too suffocating and claustrophobic.  It pressed down on him, making it difficult to think or breathe.  He had to get out.  He moved quickly between the close-packed beds, making for the main entrance to the schoolroom, and went out through the doors which led out towards the town gates.  Finally outside, he took a deep breath of the cool night air, and kept on walking, wandering aimlessly through the darkened streets and alleys of the town, not noticing where his feet led him. 

His mind was reeling from Elladan’s revelations.  How could Bereth be dead?  As they had journeyed together he had come to know and like the young, rather shy apprentice healer.  And if it had not been for Bereth’s quick thinking at Withypool, Elrohir knew he would not have been able to escape from the raging torrent of water, and would be dead.  His actions had been foolish then; he had not taken the time to stop and think before plunging into the roaring river after Dacy.  It was a failing both his parents and brother had scolded him for many times – but he knew he would do the same again.

As he walked, the fresh air began to slowly ease the tension he felt, and his anger also faded.   However it did nothing to help the headache which had been lurking for days, pressing against his temples like an ever-tightening clamp around his head.  He realised it was the first time he had set foot outside the hospital since his arrival in Barlynch.  The days since then had passed in a blur of tending the sick, preparing and administering medicines, and healing; the days and nights blending together seamlessly amid a steadily growing exhaustion. He knew he had been running himself perilously close to collapse, but had been unable to stop, knowing that to do so would result in more deaths, and not wanting to bear that burden on his conscience.  Tiama had been one of the first he had helped, and he had been desperate to save her, knowing how much towns like this depended on their healer.  She had fallen ill on the day he arrived – had it really been ten days ago?  He could have sworn it had been only four, maybe five days at the most, but ten?   Added to his journey time, it meant he had been away from Imladris for two weeks.  He had only intended to be gone for about a week at the most.  No wonder Elladan had been worried, it was the longest they had ever been apart.  And now that they had at last been reunited, all he had done was to first weep, and then rage at his brother.  Elrohir began to realise that some of his despair and anger – most of it, in fact – was centred on the guilt he felt.  He felt guilty about Bereth, and he felt guilty about the way he had treated his brother.  His desperate tiredness did little to help, either.

He heard again the bitter, angry words he had flung at Elladan.  How could he have done that?   How could he have said such things?  Elladan, more than anyone else, would know precisely what he was feeling.  They had never been able to hide things from one another, had never wanted to.  They had never needed to.  It made his words all the more unforgivable.

Elrohir found himself back by the gates, having apparently made a complete circuit of the town, although he could recall nothing of his route, or how far he had wandered.  It had been here that he had bid farewell to Bereth, waving him off with a light hearted comment about not befriending any wolves.  Then, from a walkway above the gates, he had watched his friend’s departure, until he had been lost from sight in the trees.  

The wooden steps which led up to the walkway rose on his left, and he climbed them again, to look out along the path where he had last seen Bereth.  He made the ascent slowly, wearily, and stopped at the top to catch his breath, appalled at how utterly drained he still felt.  Here above the walls he at last felt free of the confining restrictions of the town, and leaned against the chest-high parapet, deep in thought. 

It was so wrong, so unjust that Bereth had died.  Elrohir had very nearly gone to Tarlong himself, but the sheer magnitude of the fever here would have overwhelmed Bereth; and his more conventional healing skills, though growing, would simply not have been enough.  He should have been able to cope with the smaller outbreak at Tarlong, but now they would never know.  It had been such a shock when Elladan told him.  Elrohir felt desperately guilty, and wished fervently that he had done things differently, and at the very least asked if someone from Barlynch would accompany Bereth.  Maybe then this would never have happened.

Elrohir sighed.  The soul-deep weariness he felt was making it difficult to think clearly, but one thing was certain.  He had to find Elladan, swallow his shame and apologise.  The hardest part would be finding the courage to return to the infirmary.  Would Elladan ever forgive him?

He tensed at the soft sound of a footfall on the wooden stairs behind him, and his hand tightened convulsively on the stonework.  It seemed the decision to go back had been taken from him.  What would happen now?

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

Legolas had been talking quietly to Tiama when he heard the raised voices from outside.  Startled, he looked up, breaking off his conversation.  He had deliberately left Elladan and Elrohir alone, giving them privacy, knowing they would have much to talk about.  He had not expected the reunion to degenerate into such a bitter argument as that he heard now.  The door was wrenched open, then banged shut as Elrohir stormed in.  He barely stopped, but instead weaved quickly through the close-packed beds and left again through the main door that led towards the town gates.  He ignored – or rather, did not seem to hear – Legolas’ call, intent on his own thoughts.

The second door, designed to close slowly to avoid trapping small fingers, did not slam, but instead creaked gradually shut, spoiling the effect somewhat.  Legolas stared at the closed door, then caught Tiama’s eye.  She looked as surprised as he felt. 

“Well!  Whatever was that all about?  From the way he spoke, I’d have thought he’d be delighted to see his brother again.  So what happened?”

Legolas shook his head.  “I have no idea.  I have rarely known them to ever disagree – not seriously like that.  I had better go after him.”

Tiama stopped him.  “No.  From the look of him, I’d leave well alone for now.  You’d better see to the other one – Elladan?  I didn’t hear him shouting.  Go and talk to him, find out what they said.”

Legolas returned to the small grassed area where he had left the twins.  As he approached, Elladan seemed still startled and bewildered.  “Elladan?  What happened?  What is wrong with Elrohir?”

“We were just talking.  He was telling me about their journey, what he had been doing here.  Then I told him about Bereth.  Elrohir blames himself for his death!”

Legolas nodded.  “Well, of course he does.”

Elladan looked even more stunned.  “How can you say that?  How can it be El’s fault, what happened to Bereth?  Legolas, how can you possibly blame him for this?”  he demanded.

“Hush.  I did not say I blamed him, nor that it is his fault.  But Elrohir is bound to think so.   I know I would.  So would you, I expect, if the circumstances were reversed.”

Elladan sighed and closed his eyes, nodding slowly.  “Yes, I would.  I understand only too well how he feels.  I told him that.  He said – ”   Elladan shook his head.  “Never mind what he said.  I should never have told him about Bereth like that, not so suddenly.  I had better go and talk to him.  Is he inside?”

“Well – no.  He walked straight past me and out through the doors without a word.  Elladan, I have no idea where he went.  I wish I did.”

“He went out?  And no one knows where?  Legolas, I have to find him.  He was already upset, even before I told him about Bereth, because people here had died.  Legolas, I have to find him!”

Elladan spent some time searching, once again, for his brother.  The town gates had been closed for the night – surely Elrohir would not have ventured outside?  Elladan paused, thinking, then headed for the stables.  At Imladris, if Elrohir was ever troubled and did not wish for company, he would normally seek solace with the horses.

The stables were on the far side of the square by the gates, and were quiet and deserted, empty of all but their normal occupants.  His own horse and Legolas’ had been placed here, and Elrohir’s, a black stallion identical to his own, stood quietly next to them.  With a brief word of reassurance to all three animals, he left again.  Where else would Elrohir have gone?

Then he spotted a familiar silhouette on the walkway above the gates.  Finding the steps, he approached rather cautiously, unsure of his reception.  His heart sank as he saw Elrohir’s hands clench on the stonework, and noticed the tension in his shoulders as he drew nearer.  He was clearly still angry.

Elrohir’s soft words reassured him, though.  He did not turn, but stared unseeingly at the night.  “Elladan?  I should never have said what I did.  Will you forgive me?”  Elrohir sounded very hesitant, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Will I forgive you?  What kind of a question is that?  Ah, El, of course I forgive you!  How could I not?”  Elladan joined Elrohir on the walkway, standing next to him.  “But will you forgive me?  I should have given you more warning about Bereth.  It would have been better if I had told you in the morning.”  Elladan was very aware that his brother had been exhausted, and upset over the deaths of his patients at the time.  It had been foolish – no, worse, utterly thoughtless – to have told him like that.

“It would have made no difference.  But Elladan, although I have told you about my travels, you have said very little.  How did you come to be here?  How long have I been away?  I seem to have lost track of the days,”  Elrohir admitted.

Elladan paused, searching his memory of the last few days.  “The first we knew that something was wrong, was when Arahad returned.  He was angry, because no one had come to help them – but I knew you had left the day after his first visit a week before.  Legolas and I left at dawn the next day.  We retraced your steps as far as Withypool, and were able to confirm that you and Bereth had been that way some time before.  Then we got to Tarlong.”  Elladan stopped abruptly, living again the horror of Aldor’s words.   “The mayor, Aldor, said – he said they had found the body of an elf, a healer, and that he was carrying – ”   he felt inside his tunic, and removed the insignia Aldor had given him, now reattached to the chain Legolas had retrieved – “he was carrying this.”

Elrohir took his medallion, holding it lightly in his hand.  “Yes.  Bereth was worried he would be refused admittance at Tarlong, they were expecting me; so I gave it to him, more to set his mind at rest than anything else.  There was no need. They would never have refused to let any healer in!”

“They used it to identify him.”  Elladan’s voice sounded strangely flat.

“To identify Bereth?  But how – oh, no.”  Elrohir wondered how he could have been so blind.  He was dazed with weariness, but that was no excuse.  “They thought it was me?  Is that what they told you?  El?”

Elladan simply nodded.  “I thought it was you.”  His voice shook slightly.  “They told me you were dead.”  His head dropped, and he gripped the stone wall in front of him until his knuckles turned white.  “El, I thought you were dead,” he whispered.

“Oh, no.  Valar, no!”  Elrohir turned swiftly to his brother, and drew him close in embrace.  “El, I am so sorry.  If I had thought for a moment that any of this would happen – I wish I could change things,”  he said softly.  He tried to imagine the torment Elladan had been through, and how he himself would have reacted, given the same news.  It was something he could not bear to think about.  “When – when did you realise it was Bereth?”

“Not for far too long.  It seemed like an eternity.  Legolas had to identify him.  I – I could not do it.  I was so afraid that it was you …”  Elladan broke off, trying to forget the memories.  It was something he knew would haunt his nightmares for a very long time.

“I can imagine.  El, I am so sorry.  It must have been dreadful.”  Elrohir brushed a single tear away from his brother’s face.  “But you must remember one thing.  I feel sure that if anything ever happened to either of us, the other would know.  I am certain of it.  Remember that.”

Elladan nodded.  “I know.  And I always thought that, too.  But at Tarlong – they had proof, it seemed, and the only thing I knew without any doubt was that there was something terribly wrong.  That you had been deeply troubled.  I know why, now.  But at the time …”  Elladan took one pace back, looking at his brother closely.  “You still look troubled.  And tired.  El, you look terrible.”  

Elrohir was still pale, and dark shadows circled his eyes.  At the moment, even a casual acquaintance would find it easy to tell them apart.  Elladan did not know when he had made the decision, but suddenly knew that he would not tell his brother of the nightmares and visions he had experienced; would not tell him of the premonitions of death he feared.  It would cause needless anxiety if they were groundless fears, and if they were real – he did not want to place the weight of that foresight on his twin.  But it would be a heavy burden to carry the knowledge alone – they had never kept secrets from one another before. 

“Come, it is late,”  Elladan said now.  “We should return to the others, there is still much to be done.”

As Elrohir turned, he stumbled a little with weariness.  Elladan caught his arm, steadying him before he fell headlong down the steps.  “El, you need to rest.  You have still to recover from the last few days.  And do not tell me you are ‘fine’, or that you will rest later, or any other such nonsense.  Do not argue!”

“But I –”  Elrohir swayed a little despite Elladan’s supporting arm.  He felt light-headed, dizzy with tiredness, and his head still ached.  “Very well,” he admitted reluctantly.  “You could be right.”

**~~**

They stayed at Barlynch for a few more days.   No further cases of the plague had been discovered, and all the patients were recovering, including Elrohir.  Two more had died, much to Elrohir’s regret, but there had been nothing any of them could do.  Tiama had been shockingly pragmatic.  “They were both old.  I doubt they’d have survived the next winter.”  She sighed, noticing their expressions.   “You look shocked.  You have to realise that death is with us all the time, whether it is from illness, accident, old age, or the fevers that come every winter.  We grieve, but accept it.  It is a part of our life.”

They left, bidding a fond farewell to Tiama, with a promise to trade for medicinal herbs as they did with Tarlong.  With a last goodbye they finally left, heading east, retracing the route Elrohir and Bereth had taken two weeks previously.  Withypool was only a day’s journey away across the marshes, and they planned to visit Dacy and her mother again before returning to Imladris.

Their route took them  past dark, clustering trees, crowding close to the twisting path.  Open grassland lay to the south, gradually giving way to the marshland. 

Legolas was in the lead when he heard the approach of a horse and rider, although both were hidden by a turn in the path.  He tensed, his hand reaching automatically for his bow, but then relaxed a little as the rider came into sight.  The man rode slowly, slumped forward over his horse’s neck as if injured.  Legolas approached cautiously, still wary, but ready to give help if needed.  Behind him he could hear the twins, still out of sight, arguing about some triviality.  He had nearly reached the man when he swayed, nearly falling from the horse.  Legolas instinctively moved his horse forward, ready to catch him, when he heard a shout of warning from Elrohir.  “Legolas!  Look out!”

Legolas twisted to one side, only narrowly avoiding a slash from the knife that had suddenly appeared in the man’s hand.  “Damn you, elf!” he spat viciously, lunging forward with the knife again.  Legolas seized his wrist, gripping it tightly, pressing relentlessly until the knife dropped to the ground from the man’s numbed fingers. 

Legolas dismounted and pulled the man roughly from his horse, pinning him to the ground, just as Elladan and Elrohir rode up swiftly.  He looked up.  “How did you know?”   he asked.  “That it was a trap?”

“The horse,” Elrohir replied.  “It was Bereth’s.  This must be one of the raiders who killed him.”  He prodded the man with his foot.  It was not quite a kick.  “Do you have anything to say?”

The answer came very suddenly.  An arrow flew out of the trees, cutting a deep gouge in Legolas’ thigh.  He gave a cry of pain and whirled, drawing his bow and an arrow in an instant.  If he had not risen to his feet a half second before, the arrow would have hit him in the back, and Legolas would probably have never moved again.  The arrow was followed by several more, and a wave of attackers poured from the sheltering wood.  Some were mounted, on a motley assortment of horses and ponies, but most were on foot.  There were a dozen or more of them, and they clearly thought they would easily defeat the three travellers.

In seconds, Elladan, Elrohir and Legolas were surrounded, the three of them fighting desperately against what seemed like the whole band of robbers.  To Legolas’ shock, a second arrow, deliberately aimed,  took the man on the floor in the throat.  He gurgled and died.  The bandits clearly did not intend to leave any of their number alive to reveal their hideout.

The three elves found themselves fighting three or four of the outlaws each.  The men fought viciously, stabbing and slashing  uncaringly, not bothered if they attacked elf or horse.  Before he had been overwhelmed, Legolas had accounted for two of the men with his arrows, and now fought desperately against three more, armed only with his knife.  Both Elladan and Elrohir had dismounted, and fought on foot, pursuing those who tried to flee into the trees.  Gradually they evened the odds, until only four of the band were left.  One, either  bolder or more desperate than the rest, slashed at Elladan again, cutting a long shallow gash down the length of his forearm.

Only one of the raiders was still mounted.  Realising the unequal fight was all but over for them, he tried to flee.  He hauled hard on the reins, and wrenched his horse around, causing the animal to rear up.   He kicked it hard, and the horse reared again, its forelegs flailing the air in protest at the brutal treatment.   The movement brought it close to where Elrohir was still fighting two of the outlaws.  He whirled as he sensed this new danger, but it was too late for him to avoid the animal. 

One of the flying hooves caught him across the temple even as he tried to dodge, and he dropped heavily to the ground, senseless, to lay motionless beneath the plunging hooves.

To be continued

Author’s Notes:   I’d like to recommend a fic I found a couple of weeks ago – ‘Lost’ by FirstMate:

http:\\www.fanfiction.net\read.php?storyid=1481397   (but replace the \ with / )

If you like twin angst, you’ll love it!  Elrohir disappears, and has been missing for two years.  Then Aragorn stumbles across a nameless slave working on a farm he visits with the Rangers.

Chapter Eleven – The Calm Before The Storm

The night passed uneventfully.  After a brief battle with his conscience, Elladan woke Elrohir about an hour before dawn.  He would prefer it if his brother slept through the night undisturbed, but he had promised.  Besides, he would never hear the end of it if he failed to rouse Elrohir.  Rather to his surprise, he fell asleep again, and the last thing he saw was Elrohir standing over their campsite, silhouetted against the stars. 

Elrohir, for his part, was relieved to find that the sickness and dizziness had eased while he slept, and had almost gone.  Despite his brave words earlier to Elladan about ‘fussing’, he had felt distinctly unwell at the time, and knew that his brother was fully aware of how he felt.   His head still ached fiercely though, and Elladan probably knew that, too.   In the circumstances, he was rather surprised that Elladan had woken him at all, despite his promise.  It was even more surprising as Elladan had been behaving rather oddly in the past few days, and had been even more protective than normal.  He seemed unable to let go of the natural anxiety he had felt during Elrohir’s apparent ‘disappearance’.  Finally dismissing it as one of Elladan’s ‘older brother’ quirks,  Elrohir pushed his doubts to the back of his mind.  They were all anxious and on edge.  Rather than sit, nursing his headache in miserable silence, Elrohir stood, facing east, softly singing snatches of songs and ancient ballads as he watched the sun rise over the mountains far in the distance.

They rode into Withypool later that morning.   As they approached the outlying fields they appeared deserted, which was rather worrying.  Had the plague reached here?  Elrohir prayed they would not find Dacy or her family stricken with the illness.  They rode on, looking anxiously for signs of life.  A thin wisp of smoke rose from somewhere, and as they rounded a bend in the path saw in the distance three men tending a field near the village, and another group gathering reeds down by the river.

Despite the apparent normality of the scene, other things were very wrong.  There was an acrid stench of burning on the air, and the fields they passed had been fired.  It was not the usual seasonal razing of stubble, but wholescale devastation.  Crops, ripe and ready for harvesting, had been burned.  A cart lay scorched and blackened at the edge of one of the fields, the wheel spokes protruding like fingers. 

“What do you think happened here?”  Legolas asked.  “The raiders?”

Elrohir nodded.  “Almost certainly.  But how far did they go?  Did they reach the village itself?”

As they approached Withypool, all again seemed normal.  Children played, hens scratched in the dust, cats stalked the hens, and dogs barked.  But Elladan noticed two men standing guard outside the gate.  They had not been there when he and Legolas had arrived several days previously.  “El?  Do you recall seeing them before?” he questioned.

Elrohir looked at the guards.  “No, not that I remember.  But when I arrived last time, things were a little – confused.”  Most of the village had turned out for Dacy’s rescue, which would have included any guards who may have been on duty.  And after the long, bitter struggle in the river, the desperate battle to stay afloat, cling onto Dacy, and not be swept away on the flood, he had not really been in a fit state to notice. He had been pulled from the river by the villagers, too exhausted to climb up the steep bank on his own, and then half carried through the gates by Bereth.   For Elladan’s sake, he had played down the stark fear he had felt, just how dire the situation had been, and how close he had come to losing his life.   He smiled wryly as he remembered Bereth’s furious reprimand.

( “What were you thinking of?  Did you not realise how dangerous the current was?  Elrohir, I swear you have no sense at all!  And how did you expect me to explain to your father – and your mother – and your brother – that you drowned in the Bruinen, of all places!  Lord Elrond’s own river!  Elrohir, you are a fool!  I never dreamt that you could be such an utter idiot!”    Bereth had faltered to a stop as he realised that this was Lord Elrond’s own son he was shouting at so disrespectfully.   “I mean – that is – I – ”)

“El?  Elrohir!”  Elladan’s voice broke in on his memories.

“Pardon?  Sorry, El.  I was remembering something that Bereth said to me,” he explained sadly.  “But no, I do not remember the guards before.  I wonder why they feel the need for them now?”

With a look of alarm, they rode more quickly towards the village.  The workers in the field, some way off, straightened, and watched suspiciously.  As they approached the gates, the guards tensed, and one stepped forward, brandishing a long stave of wood.  He looked extremely nervous.   However, the elves had been recognised, for from somewhere within the village a voice called to the two guards.  “It’s all right!  These are friends!  Let them pass!”

Someone else had also seen and recognised them.   Dacy ran to greet them, but even as her mother called a sharp warning, she stopped dead just inside the gates, instead of racing down the path as she had done previously.  She hopped excitedly from one foot to the other, but did not venture outside the village.  “Mama!  It’s Elrohir, and Ell’dan, and Leg’as!   Come and see!”  Her gaze went from Elladan to Elrohir, then back to Elladan again,  and her eyes widened in amazement.  She took a step backwards, one hand groping behind her for her mother’s skirt, her thumb in her mouth.   “Mama?” she mumbled, rather puzzled.

Marla took Dacy’s hand reassuringly, and smiled in welcome.  But she too stared at the visitors, with an expression ridiculously like her daughter’s.   “Oh, my word,” she murmured.  Although she had seen both Elrohir and Elladan, and knew how alike they were, she still seemed startled to see the two of them, side by side.  Overcoming her amazement, she spoke again.  “I’m that glad to see you.   ’Tis right kind of you to come back to see Dacy again.”  She bent to the little girl and whispered to her.  “Go back now, go and help Ciana with the little ones.  You can come and talk to them later.”

They followed Marla as she led the way back to her house.  “Marla?  Did you have guards on your gates before?  Have you had trouble here?”  Elrohir asked her.

She nodded grimly.  “Aye, we had trouble, right enough.”

“Was it the outlaws you told me of?”

“Outlaws?  Murderers, more like!  They came on one of our people, out working in the fields, and they killed him.  They didn’t rob him, he had nothing worth stealing, but they killed him just the same.  For sport, it seemed.  Sport!”  She was understandably bitter.  “And then they burned the field.  We lost a goodly portion of our corn, but by a miracle had harvested the other fields just the day before. Anyways, since then no-one goes out alone, and they tend the fields in groups, and gather the reeds.  We put guards on the gates, and the little ones aren’t allowed outside the village at all, not for anything.  We’ve not seen these – these killers since then, but we’ll be ready if they comes back!”

Recalling the brave defiance of the two guards, and their pitifully inadequate weapons, Elrohir realised the villagers would be no match for the viciousness of the outlaws, but they would undoubtedly put up a valiant defence.  Hopefully such a sacrifice would no longer be necessary.   “I have no doubt of it,”  he said.  “We also met these killers, on our way here.”

“You did?”  Marla’s eyes went to the cut on Elrohir’s head.  The cut had begun to scab over, but was still swollen, and the bruise surrounding it was darkening.  “I can see you’ve had some sort of trouble.  What happened?”  She seemed to realise for the first time that there were only three elves in front of her.  “Where’s your other friend?  Where’s Bereth?”

“Bereth is dead,” Legolas explained simply.  “He was killed some days ago, by these same outlaws, we think.  When we came across them, one of them was riding his horse.  But you can sleep in safety – they are dead.  All of them, I hope, unless there is another group we did not see.”  As they briefly recounted their encounter, Marla looked at Elrohir again. 

“You want to be careful.  A bang on the head can be nasty.  Are you sure he’s all right?” she demanded of Elladan.

They ate supper together in the tiny kitchen, talking of the raiders.  They had again contributed their own supplies to eke out the meal.   “Marla, Teague, would the horses and pony be useful to you?” asked Elrohir.  “We will take Bereth’s horse back with us, but we have no need for the others.  Some of the animals may have been stolen as well, but I have no idea how to return them to their rightful owners.”

Teague looked amazed at such a handsome gift.  “I’ll say we could use ‘em!  In the fields, ploughing, or when we take the crops or reeds to Tarlong and Barlynch.  Are you sure?  If we ever do find out where they come from, I promise we’ll return the beasts.  Thank you!”

As Teague and the twins went to inspect the horses, Marla began to get Dacy ready for bed, much to her disgust.  Legolas went to the well to draw more water for Marla, to save her the chore.  He returned to find Dacy arguing with her mother.  “But mama, I want to stay up!  Do you think Elrohir will tell me a story?”  she pleaded.

“Dacy!  You’re not to ask him such a thing!”  Marla scolded.  “He will have much better things to do.  And you know he’s hurt!”

Dacy looked so contrite at this reminder that Legolas spoke up.  “I am sure that Elrohir would love to tell you a bedtime story,” he reassured her.  “There are many songs and tales they tell at Imladris.  I shall ask him now.”

Marla followed him back outside and went to a small store next to the door, removing the lid from a reed basket.  It was nearly full of apples, all carefully packed and separated by a wisp of straw.  She removed several apples and gave three to Legolas before replacing the cover.  “Apples,”  she said.   “Would you and your friends like some?”  She glanced across the yard to where Elladan and Elrohir were grooming the horses, arguing amiably about the right way to brush a tail.  “However do you tell them apart?”

“I found it impossible at first,”  Legolas admitted.  “And it can still be difficult if I have not seen them for a while.  But it is not so hard once you get to know them.”  He took the apples from her.  “El!”  he called.   Both twins looked up from their tasks and straightened, brushing a lock of hair back with identical gestures.  Marla laughed, suddenly sounding no older than Dacy.

Legolas sighed.  “They do not even know they do that, most of the time,” he explained ruefully.  “Apples!” he called again.  “Do you want one?”  As they both nodded, he threw the fruit over to them.  Elladan missed the catch, and the apple dropped to the ground.

“Butter fingers!” Elrohir teased him.

“Have you two nearly finished?  Because Dacy would like you to tell her a story, Elrohir,”  Legolas explained.

“But not if it’s too much trouble!” Marla interjected hastily.

“It will be no trouble at all.  It will be a pleasure.  El can finish here,” Elrohir assured her.  They returned to the house.  Elrohir sat in one of the few chairs, Dacy on his lap, snuggled against him and wrapped warmly in a blanket.  “What sort of stories do you like?” he asked her.

“About kings and princes and horrible scary monsters and beautiful princesses,” she told him promptly.

Elrohir tried to think what story he could tell her.   The only tale involving a ‘horrible, scary monster’ he could recall from his childhood was Glorfindel’s Balrog – and he did not think that would be very suitable, remembering how he had awoken, sobbing with terror.  Then an idea occurred to him.  He caught Elladan’s eye as he came in, and knew his twin had had the same idea.

“Very well.  Once upon a time, there was a prince.  He lived in a beautiful forest, but in the forest there also lived  some terrible creatures.  They were big, hairy, black creatures with lots of long, hairy legs.”

“Like spiders?  I’m not afraid of spiders.”

“Of course not.  Only silly little girls are afraid of spiders, and I know you are very brave.  But these were very big spiders.  Anyway, one day the prince went out into the forest for a picnic with a young maiden, a friend of his.”

“Is she a princess?”

“Well, yes, in a way.”

“Is she beautiful?”  Dacy persisted.

Elrohir hesitated.  Arwen was simply his sister.  Was she beautiful?  He glanced at Elladan, who shrugged, then nodded.  “Yes, she was beautiful.  All princesses are beautiful,”  Elrohir continued.  “So the prince and the princess rode into the forest, and stopped next to a quiet pool for their picnic.  But they did not know that the spiders lived there!”  He paused dramatically.  “But the prince began to sense that there was danger, and the trees whispered a warning to him.  They gathered their weapons, and prepared to leave.  But already they were surrounded!  Now the prince was very gallant, and he stepped in front of the princess, to protect her and defend her from the spiders.  But she too was brave and fearless, and she stood beside the prince to fight with him.  They both fought bravely, but more and more of the creatures attacked them, until they began to despair.”

“What happened?” Dacy whispered fearfully.

“The princess had two brothers, brave and noble warriors, who were also riding in the forest.  They heard the cries for help, and rode to the rescue.  They slew the last of the spiders, and saved the prince and their sister!  There was great rejoicing and merrymaking in the forest that night, in thanksgiving for the safe return of the prince and the princess.”

Dacy yawned.  “That was a good story.  And it had a happy ending.  But you forgot one thing.  Did the prince marry the princess?”

“No.  They decided they did not love each other enough, but they stayed friends for always.  And now I think your mother would like you to go to bed.”

Marla appeared, and scooped Dacy up out of Elrohir’s arms.  She was all but asleep.  “Thank you.  It was very kind of you to tell her that story.  Giant spiders indeed!  And talking trees!  Whatever next?  But she enjoyed it.”

As Marla carried Dacy into the single sleeping room, Legolas glared at Elrohir.  “That is not exactly how I recall it!  There were only five spiders, and Arwen and I had dealt with all of them by the time the ‘brave and noble warriors’ arrived!”

“But you must admit this makes a better tale.   But Legolas, there is one thing I never understood.  Whatever made you think you had to protect Arwen?”

“It was sheer, blind terror,” Legolas admitted cheerfully.  “Not fear of the spiders, but fear of what your father, and mine, would do to me if anything happened to her!”

Elrohir nodded, remembering.  “They can be a fearsome combination.”  He broke off abruptly as Marla returned, leaped to his feet, and eased her down into the seat.  She sat with a weary sigh, one hand resting on her swollen belly.

“Dacy’s a good girl, but she can be such a handful.  I wonder how I will manage when this other little one arrives!”

“When is the child due?”

“In a few weeks.  I hope – I hope all goes well.  There was another child, last year.  A boy.  He was stillborn.”  Her face grew sad at the memory.

Elrohir knelt at her side.  “Marla, you know my brother and I are healers.  Will you permit me to examine you?  Or Elladan?”

“You?  But childbirth isn’t men’s work!”

“You forget, we are not men.  We are elves.  I know what I am doing; I may be able to set your mind at rest.  But if you would rather not, then I understand.”  Elrohir smiled at her reassuringly.

Marla returned the smile, as her only reservations that this was solely a woman’s concern vanished.  “No.  No, I don’t mind.  Thank you.”

In response, Elrohir placed both hands on her abdomen, extending his healing senses, feeling the life within.  It felt totally different to an Elven child, somehow alien.  But despite that, there was a strong stir of life, and a restless movement.  The child was a boy, he could tell, strong and healthy, well-grown.  He opened his eyes to find Marla staring at him in awe. 

“What – what did you do?  I felt something, something soothing.  I don’t feel so tired no more.  Thank you.  But what of the child?”

“The baby is well.  I am sure h – it will be healthy and strong.”  He remembered at the last minute that humans did not know of a child’s sex before it was born.  “I have no gift of foresight, but I feel all will be well.”  He looked sharply at Elladan, who had made an abrupt movement.  There was something wrong there, his brother had been behaving very oddly of late.  He seemed deeply worried about something.  Ignoring it for the moment, he continued, “And Marla, I have a request of you.  If the child is a boy, will you consider the name Bereth for him?”

She smiled, nodding.  “Aye, we can do that, can’t we Teague?  Bereth.  I like the sound of it.  And Beretha if she’s a girl.”  She and Teague departed for their bed then, settling on the mattress next to Dacy, leaving Elladan, Elrohir and Legolas in the living area.

As they drifted into sleep, Legolas spoke.  “Elrohir?  Thank you for not telling Dacy who the prince in your story was.  I can never get used to the way people react!”

“It would have been unfair – they would probably have died of shock.  Besides, how could I shatter Dacy’s illusions?  – that the wonderful prince in her story was just you, when you had just been fetching water from the well!”

Long after Legolas and Elladan slept, Elrohir lay wakeful and restless, deep in thought.  He was both greatly concerned – what was it that Elladan was so worried about?  Why was he so jumpy?  Had something happened at home?  And, if he was honest with himself, he was also hurt.  Why would Elladan not talk of his concerns?  Why did he not share his worries?  Why did he feel the need to keep his  terrible secret to himself?

They roused themselves at dawn the next morning.  As they prepared to leave, Marla heated water over the fire and prepared an aromatic tea.  She took three cups out to where Legolas and the twins were preparing their gear.  “Here.  This’ll keep the chill out on this cold morning.”  She shivered a little, pulling her shawl a little closer.

Elladan also shivered.  “Yes, it is cold,” he agreed.  “Thank you.  Marla, go back inside.  Keep yourself warm.”    As Marla turned to go back indoors, Elrohir took all three cups from her.  He gave a cup to Legolas and turned to Elladan. 

As Elladan took his, his hand shook slightly, and the cup suddenly slipped, falling to smash on the hard earth.  The steaming liquid quickly soaked into the ground.  “Marla!  I am so sorry!” he apologised.

“It doesn’t matter.  Accidents happen.  I’ll make you some more.”  Bending, she picked up the shards and went back inside.

Elrohir looked sharply at his brother.  “Elladan, what happened?  Why did you drop that?” he queried.

“I just could not seem to hold it,” Elladan admitted.

“Let me see your hand,” Elrohir instructed.  He took his twin’s hand, turning it this way and that, finally turning it palm uppermost.  “Hmm.  There is nothing obvious I can see.  Legolas, how bad was that cut on his arm?”

“El, I can answer for myself!”  Elladan protested.

“Aye, I know you can, but Legolas will tell me the truth, not that ‘it does not hurt’, or that you ‘cannot feel it’.”

“Elrohir, that is the truth.  It really does not hurt.  I cannot feel it – not at all.  It feels numb.”  As he spoke, Elrohir was pushing up his sleeve to inspect the bandage.  It was smeared along its length with ominous dark stains.  Then Elrohir began to carefully unwrap the bandages.  The edges of the wound had not begun to heal.  The looked red and inflamed, and blood, so dark that it seemed almost black, oozed from the cut.

“El, this looks bad.  You should have said something!”  Elrohir scolded.

“I did not realise how bad it was.  It did not hurt, and I had other things to worry about.”

Elrohir slowly drew one finger along the length of the cut on the unbroken skin.  It was a ticklish spot, and would normally make Elladan squirm.  He showed no reaction.  “Can you feel that?  Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Next, Elrohir squeezed each finger in turn.  “Can you feel that?”

Silently, Elladan shook his head.  Elrohir grew more and more concerned.  While severe pain was always worrying, a complete lack of sensation was cause for even more concern.  “Elladan, I want you to open and close your hand.”  Elladan tried to comply, but found he could only bend his fingers halfway, and was unable to straighten them completely either.  “El, you need to get back to Imladris.  I want father to look at this.  Can you feel anything?”

“No.  Nothing at all.”

“Elrohir, what is it?  I cleaned and bandaged the wound myself – I know enough field medicine to do that!  And we used that ointment your father gave us.  He said it would work against most poisons.”  Legolas was feeling very guilty.  The shallow cut had seemed clean and very minor.  What had he missed?

“Most poisons.  I have seen poisons that prevent the blood from clotting, so a wound continues to bleed, poisons that cause a wound to become infected, and poisons that cause extreme agony.  But I have never come across one that stops a wound hurting!  This – this is something new.  I think my father should see it as soon as possible.  I want to ride straight for Imladris.  If we keep going, we can be there by dawn tomorrow.  Are you both ready?”

Elladan and Legolas both nodded.   They left Withypool, and set off for Imladris at a fast pace.  As far as Elrohir was concerned, they could not get there quickly enough.

To be continued …

Chapter Twelve – Those Who Wait

(Imladris – a few days previously)

Elrond stared blankly at the document before him, realising he had read it at least three times, without taking in a single word.  Other papers lay on his desk, some bearing his signature, but he could recall none of them.  He pushed the papers away with a sigh of frustration.  Just lately, he knew he had been tense and exhausted, short-tempered from lack of sleep and worry.  He had found it impossible to concentrate.  He was only too well aware of the reason why.  Over two weeks ago – two long weeks – his younger son had left home on a simple, straightforward errand.  One which should have taken him a few days; a week at the most.  But since then, there had been no news.  Nothing.  Elrohir seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Since then, Elladan had also departed, in search of his twin.  And still there had been no news, no word.

Elrond abandoned the pretence of reading, of working; and paced his study, crossing frequently to the windows which overlooked the length of the valley and the track from the ford.   He was tense with anticipation.  Something, some deep-rooted instinct, told him that today would be the day that there was news.  How or why he knew that, he could not say, but he found himself back at the window, watching the path again.  Perhaps they were riding home even now, Elladan and Elrohir in the lead, racing each other, arguing over who would reach the steps first, while Legolas and Bereth trailed behind, content to leave the twins to their self imposed challenge.

There had been no news, no message, nothing, not since Elladan and Legolas had left to search for Elrohir.  But they would be at least nine days behind Elrohir and Bereth, and by his reckoning they should have reached Tarlong some four days ago.  He prayed that they had found some trace of the – what was that?  His thoughts broke off as he caught a glimpse of movement, far below, on the road to Imladris.  Two riders – but not either of the twins.   Instead, what he saw chilled him with dread.  Two unfamiliar men, guards from the look of them, rode slowly towards Imladris.  Even at this distance he could see the crest of Tarlong on their tunics.  And behind them – behind them they drew a litter, bearing a covered figure. 

Elrohir.

Then the men were gone again, hidden from view once more by the trees.  Numb with fear, he raced through the halls to the courtyard, and along the path to intercept the men.   He was met by one of his own guards from the patrol guarding the ford, running ahead to meet him.  The guard made a hasty salute, then stepped full into Elrond’s path, forcing him to stop.  “Lord Elrond!  There is news – but first I must tell you one thing.  This is not Lord Elrohir.  It is not either of your sons.”

Elrond released a breath he had not been aware of holding.  Thank the Valar.  “Not – but then who – ”  he began disjointedly.   Who was it?   Legolas?  Please, no!  Thranduil, he knew, could not bear another loss.  Bereth? 

“Bereth,” confirmed the border guard, after a quick glance to ensure that none could overhear.   “These men say they have a message for you, but they will not discuss it with anyone else.  But they let me see who it was they brought here.”

One of the men spoke up, interrupting the unintelligible conversation.  “I have a message for Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían of Imladris.  Would you take us to them, please?”  He looked, and sounded, rather nervous.  It could be a dangerous task, being the bearer of bad news.

“I am Elrond,” the lord replied, switching to Westron.  “What is your message?”

“A letter,” said the man, removing it from a bag on his saddle and passing it to Elrond.   “From Elladan.  He asked that we escort the dead, and carry a message for him.”

Elrond broke the seal on the letter, and read it swiftly.  If it contained bad news, he wanted to know before he gave the letter to Celebrían.   The very first sentence told Elrond the most important news of all, but it was not what he wanted to hear.  They had found no trace of Elrohir at all.  Elladan described what he knew of Bereth’s death,  and asked his father to explain the circumstances to Bereth’s family.   He went on to describe the progress of the plague, and how it was affecting the communities along the Bruinen.  Finally, he told of his journey south to Tarlong, and admitted that he had no idea what had happened to Elrohir.  Elladan’s deep despair over his brother’s fate came through painfully clearly from the letter.

Elrond came to the end of the letter, and with a deep sigh, folded it again.  It did not contain the answers he had hoped for.  It did not contain any answers at all. Behind him he heard a sudden commotion, a gasp of fear and an anguished cry.  “No!”   Celebrían, drawn by the same awareness that had alerted him, had appeared, her eyes fixed on the covered litter. 

He turned to her, holding her, whispering fiercely in reassurance.  “It is not either of the boys!  But there is still no news of Elrohir.  This is Bereth.”  She sagged against him in relief, then straightened immediately, once again the Lady of Imladris.  Over her shoulder he caught the gaze of one of the other guards, also drawn by the commotion.  He stared fixedly at the covered figure, his face ashen.  Elrond went to him and drew him gently to one side.  “Beregar?  I am so very sorry.  Your brother is dead.  Come with me, I will break the news to your parents.”

As he left with the young guard, Elrond turned to the border guard.  “Will you find Erestor, please?  Ask him – ask  him to meet me. After I have spoken to Bereth’s family.”

The meeting with Bereth’s family was hard.  Elrond tried to explain to his parents, brother, and sister what had occurred, but it was difficult, so very difficult.  They were numb with grief and shock, and totally bewildered.  There was so little he knew; so little Elladan had been able to tell him.  And all the while, he was hiding his own fear and worry, until Bereth’s mother spoke as he was leaving.  “But Lord Elrond – what of your own son?  They left here together – what news is there of Lord Elrohir?”

Suddenly he was no longer the lord of these people, comforting them in their grief, but just a desperately worried father. “There is no news,” Elrond admitted.  “I have no idea where he is.  Elladan is still trying to trace him.”

It was late by the time he left Bereth’s home and returned to his own chambers.  He desperately needed the solace of his wife’s comfort and support – but she was not there.  Going in search of her, Glorfindel told him that he had seen her near the twin’s rooms.  Heading in that direction, Elrond went first to Elrohir’s room, and opened the door silently.  The room was in darkness, lit only by starlight from the window.  Celebrían sat on Elrohir’s bed, clutching one of his discarded shirts tightly.  She was not crying, but her hopeless despair was somehow far worse.

“Where is he, do you think?” she asked, without looking up.  “What has happened to him?  Do you think he is dead?”   Her voice trembled as she whispered, “Elrond, I cannot bear the thought that we may never see him again.”  Tears finally began to fall, and she wept helplessly as Elrond held her tightly.  “I miss him.  I miss him so,” she sobbed.

“I know.  I know.  So do I.  But – we must still have hope.”  His own tears mingled with hers as he sought for words.  “We cannot give up.  For our own sake, for Elladan, for Elrohir himself. We must trust in him.  We must trust in his courage, his skill, and his luck.  Remember, we so nearly lost him before we ever knew him.  Yet he came back to us.”

Against his chest, Celebrían nodded.  “Yes.  I know.  I will never forget.  And I do trust in him.  But what about Elladan?  How must this be affecting him?  What if Elrohir is dead?  I do not think I could bear it – we could lose them both.”   

Elrond was silent, stroking her hair softly.  He had to cling to whatever faint hope there was, but it was hard.  Elladan’s letter had explained the few stark facts he knew. That Elrohir and Bereth had left Withypool together, heading for Tarlong.  That Bereth had been found dead a few days later.  That there was no sign at all of Elrohir.  Was he wrong to hope?  Perhaps he was being foolish.  Perhaps it would be better to be realistic, to face the possibility – no, the probability that his beloved son was dead. 

The sound of a single voice, lifted in a lament, drifted in through the open window.  After the first few haunting bars a handful of other voices joined in, and were gradually joined by several more.  The first singers would be Bereth’s family, then his friends and fellow healers.  The laments and songs of mourning would continue through the night, until the stars faded, and would be followed by the burial.  Elrond knew he would have to be there for that.  But he found himself wondering.  Would the next  songs and prayers be sung for his son?  Would he lead the laments that would plunge the whole of Imladris into mourning?

Pain knifed through him as he remembered Elrohir’s smile, so infectious it could brighten the dullest day; his sudden laughter as he teased his brother or sister; his unexpected, unyielding stubbornness.  The interminable way the twins bickered endlessly, driving their parents, and all around them, to distraction.  The way they would still speak simultaneously, or finish the other’s sentence.  There was so much to remember. 

He had survived the death of his own twin, although it had all but destroyed him, but in truth, the bond between him and Elros had been sundered long before that by their choices.  His sons were much closer, their link much stronger.  How would Elladan be able to cope?  What would he do?  Like Celebrían, he knew he could not face losing them both.

At length Celebrían stirred against him, and he stood, helping her to her feet.  “Come,” he told her.  “Come to bed.  We cannot stay here all night.  We have no need to.”

“No.  I thought I would feel closer to him here, but it makes no difference.  I can feel him everywhere, throughout the house and the valley, but he seems so far away.”  She hesitated again.  “He – he will come home again.  I have to believe that.”

“Yes.  Hold to that belief.  Cel,  I have been thinking.  I think we should send word to Arwen.” 

Celebrían nodded in agreement.  “I already have.  I wrote to her this evening, the letter is still on my desk.  She should be here.  She will have no idea of what has happened.  And it will be a comfort to have her home.”  She sighed deeply.  “I wish I had my mother’s gift.  Then perhaps I would know where he is, what happened to him.”

“No.  It is an unchancy gift, you know that, with no way of telling what is true and what is not.  Of what may already have come to pass, and what may never happen. It would just torment you.  It is not a gift I would wish on any.”

They left Elrohir’s room together, and Elrond quietly closed the door, shutting out the soft strains of singing that still filled the night.  Celebrían still clutched the shirt to her chest tightly.  Slowly they climbed the stairs to their own rooms, to spend the night waiting sleeplessly, waiting for dawn, waiting for what news the new day may bring.

To be continued

Chapter Thirteen – Homecoming

The return journey to Imladris was far easier than travelling south had been.   The heavy rains that had battered Elrohir and Bereth, turning the paths to mud baths, had eased some days before, and the land had dried.  The river was no longer in spate, and flowed swiftly, tranquilly past them.

As the day progressed, Elladan rode in a haze of increasing discomfort.  Elrohir had found a sling in one of the bags to support his injured arm and prevent further damage.  But the paralysis had grown worse, and he could now not move his hand at all.  However the numbness in his hand and arm was fading, and had been replaced by a tingling sensation, similar to pins and needles, but much more intense.  A creeping lethargy spread throughout his limbs, and he was feeling increasingly light-headed.  He recognised the symptoms with a sinking feeling.  The wound was poisoned, and it was spreading.  He forced himself to stay upright on Balan, trying not to reveal quite how disorientated he felt.  Elrohir would only worry.

With his free hand, he felt behind him in his pack for a spare cloak.  The day seemed to have turned bitterly cold, and he was shivering.  Wrapping the cloak around himself, he felt a little better.  But now the tingling in his arm had changed to a steadily growing burning feeling.  It grew gradually more and more acute, until every tiny movement, every jolt Balan made, caused a wave of agony to flare through him.  It felt as if his hand and arm had been dipped in molten fire.

Grimly, he rode on.  It would do no good to call a halt, the sooner they all reached Imladris the better.  Without knowing what this poison was, without adequate supplies, this injury was beyond his skill to heal, or Elrohir’s.

Noticing that Elladan did not appear to be paying particular attention to them, Elrohir drew back a little, motioning Legolas to join him.  The unexpected severity of Elladan’s injury had shaken him, but that was not his only concern.  “Legolas?  There is something wrong with El.  I do not mean this injury, but something else.  In the last few days he has been – distant.  I wondered if you knew why.  Did something happen on your journey?  Has something happened at home, that he is not telling me about?”

Legolas wondered how to answer.  He knew what was worrying Elladan, and disagreed with his reasons for not sharing his concerns with Elrohir.  But he had promised Elladan not to say anything.  Instead, he asked a question of his own.  “When did you first notice something wrong?”

“Since Barlynch.  Not that first day, I was just so glad to see El; and I was so tired then, anyway.  But after that.  I know there is something he is hiding, some secret.  I have tried to talk to him, but he denies there is anything wrong!”

Legolas sought for the right words, words that would reassure Elrohir but not betray Elladan’s confidence.  “Well – when we were searching for you, he was naturally worried.  We had no idea what had happened.  Then, we found out that Bereth was dead.  We thought the worst.  You know how protective Elladan can be!  He is just worried, Elrohir.”

“So there is nothing wrong at Imladris?  My mother and father?  Arwen?  Are they well?”

“Yes!  Elrohir, have no fears there.  They are safe and well, all of them, as far as I know! Arwen was still in Lórien when we left.”  On this matter, at least, he could reassure his friend.

Elrohir was silent, and for a moment, Legolas hoped he had accepted the explanation.  But it was not to be. 

“You know what the matter is,”  Elrohir stated flatly.  “And he asked you not to say anything, I suppose?  Does he really think I am such a fool as to not notice how worried he is?  How distracted he has been?”  He did not push the matter any further.  He knew Legolas would not betray a confidence, and did not expect him to.  But it hurt that Elladan had confided in the prince, but not his twin.

“I can tell you one thing.  I think Elladan is worrying over nothing.  But you should be having this conversation with him, not me!”

“Oh, have no fears there,”  Elrohir sounded grim.  “I intend to!”  With an abrupt movement, he moved his horse forward, drawing level with his brother.  “Elladan?  Elladan!  Do you ever intend to tell me what you are so concerned about, or do I have to work it out for myself?  Well?”

Elladan made no response at first, until Elrohir called his name again.  Then he looked up with a start.  “El?  Did you say something?”

“Yes, I did!” snapped Elrohir.  “And – ” Then he saw clearly Elladan’s pallor, and the lines of pain on his face.  “And it can wait,” he finished.  “El, talk to me.  How bad is your arm?”

Elladan shifted his arm within the sling, in an attempt to ease the discomfort.  “Elrohir, there is no need to fuss!  I will be fine.”

“Aye, I know you will.  But humour me, yes?  Now, tell me where it hurts.”  He spoke in deliberate mimicry of their mother, as she soothed away the cuts and grazes of childhood. 

The tactic worked, and won a genuine smile from Elladan, the first all that day.  “Are you going to kiss it better as well?” he asked with a grin.

Elrohir shook his head emphatically.  “No, definitely not!” he declared.  “But El, you look terrible.  I want you to tell me everything you can.  If you pass out, I can at least tell father what to look for.”

Elladan blinked once or twice to clear his blurred vision, then nodded wearily.  He knew he would have no peace until he told Elrohir everything, and suddenly realised that he did not have the energy to argue.  “Very well.  You win.  I cannot move my hand at all now, nor my fingers.  But the numbness has gone.  It hurts.  You remember when I scalded my hand when we were little?”

Elrohir flinched in remembered sympathy.  “As bad as that?”

“No. Worse.”  He shivered again, pulling the cloak closer.

“El?  Are you cold?”

“Well, of course I am!  The weather has become bitterly cold today.  Do you not feel it?”

Elrohir shook his head.  “Not really.”  In truth, the day was a very mild, fine day for late autumn.  A weak sun warmed him as it shone on his back.  “Let me see.”  He reached out and placed the back of his hand on Elladan’s forehead.  As he had suspected, it felt hot to the touch.  “El, you have a temperature.  Is there anything else you have forgotten to tell me?”

Elladan sighed as he admitted defeat, closing his eyes wearily, and reciting the list of his ills.  “I cannot move my hand.  My arm feels as though it is on fire.  I can barely keep my eyes open, I feel so exhausted.  I cannot stop shivering.”  He swayed a little as a wave of giddiness swept over him.  “And I feel dizzy and light-headed,” he finished.  He opened his eyes again to find Elrohir gazing at him in concern.  “And yes, I know as well as you do what it means.”

“Then the sooner we get home the better.  We keep going,” Elrohir decided. 

They made just one stop that day, in the late afternoon, to rest the horses, drink, and eat the pastries which Marla had given them that morning.  Elrohir also wanted to examine Elladan’s arm again, before the light failed.

Legolas dismounted, stretching wearily, and flexing his leg stiffly.  The deep arrow wound was healing well, but his thigh still pained him at times.  At least he could be sure that the wound was not poisoned.  The four horses gathered around him, and he whispered to them, explaining the necessity for the long ride, and that they would continue through the night.  Then he turned them loose to drink and graze.

Elrohir held his brother’s good arm as he came off Balan’s back, and eased him down onto the ground.  Then he knelt at his side, removing the sling and the bandages.  Very gently, he looked at the cut, noticing that Elladan flinched at the slightest touch.  In the end, he rebandaged it, and replaced the sling.  “I wish there was more I could do,” he sighed.  “But there is still very little to see, and the only medicines we still have left is a few peles leaves.  That would help the pain, but dull your senses too much.  But we will be home in a few hours.” 

After they had rested for a half hour or so, they got to their feet, ready to continue the long ride.  As he stood, ready to remount Balan, Elladan stumbled on the uneven ground, jarring his arm against the horse.  He gave a gasp of pain, and hunched over the injury, clutching it to his chest. 

Elrohir was at his side in moments, supporting him, helping him to mount.  “Careful, El.  There is not much further to go, now.  A few more hours, that is all.” 

They set off again, and Elrohir rode close to his brother’s side, keeping a close eye on him.  At times Elladan’s head drooped down and he swayed forward over Balan’s neck.  At last Elrohir stopped both their horses, and dropped to the ground.

“Legolas, can you look after Bereth’s horse and mine?  I think I should ride with El.”  He jumped up onto Balan, seating himself behind Elladan, and placed his arms around his brother.  “Lean back against me, El.  I will not let you fall,” he murmured.  Elladan’s only response was a grunt.  He would have liked nothing better than to stop, to halt this unending ride, and to lie on the ground, cradling his arm, free of the incessant jolting that jarred unmercifully, and to sleep, drugged with peles if necessary, far from pain and torment.  But he knew it could not be, and his pride would not allow him to suggest it. 

He could endure this if he had to, and the beacon of home danced in his mind; the comfort; the warmth and security; the soft beds; the gentle, loving words of his mother; and his father’s healing touch.  Soon.  They would be home soon, and then he could rest.

Legolas watched the twins as they talked quietly, reflecting on all that had occurred since he had left Imladris.  Elladan’s worries and fears for his brother had been proved unnecessary, and now it was Elrohir’s turn to be concerned.  He hoped these latest worries would prove to be equally groundless.

They rode on through the night, drawing nearer and nearer to sanctuary.  Gradually the sky lightened as dawn broke, and Legolas saw landmarks he was familiar with, and knew they were close to Imladris.  He listened idly as Elrohir began to point them out to his brother.

“Do you see, El?  We are nearly home now.  It is not much further.  Soon we will be at the ford, then in the valley itself.  Do you think the guards will have seen us?  Do they know we are on our way?”  Elrohir knew he was talking to himself.  Elladan had become more and more unresponsive over the last hour or so of their journey, although he had tried hard to keep him awake and aware.  He knew that Elladan had tried to stay coherent, but he had just lost the battle to remain conscious, falling back limply against his twin.  Elrohir shifted his position slightly, and rested Elladan’s head against his shoulder.  He could feel the heat radiating from Elladan, and even unconscious he shivered slightly. He was clearly burning with fever.  “Try to stay awake, El, stay with me.  Soon you will be able to rest.” 

At the ford, the first of the border guards appeared, amazed and delighted at the return of the three travellers.  “Lord Elrohir, it is a joy to us to see you return!  Imladris has been a sad and melancholy place of late.”

Elrohir looked at the guard sharply.  “Sad?  Why?  Eilenach, what has happened?”

“Why, Bereth is dead.  Did you not know?  He was returned to us a few days ago.  And since the news of his fall, your lord father and lady mother – they have feared the worst.”

Elrohir stared at the guard, thunderstruck.  He had not forgotten, would never forget, Bereth’s death, but somehow he had never considered the effect the news would have on his own parents.  It had not occurred to him that they might believe that he, too, was dead.  “Eilenach, will you send a messenger ahead, to tell of our arrival?  Find my parents, wake them if need be.”  It was not long past dawn, they would probably still be abed.  “And warn my father that Elladan is hurt.  He will need treatment.”

Eilenach saluted crisply.  “Yes, my lord!”  His smile faded slightly as he looked at Elladan.  His eyes were closed, and he leaned against Elrohir, oblivious to his surroundings.  “I will go myself, and alert the healers.”

They crossed the ford, and were soon on long-familiar paths.  The horses quickened their pace, knowing they too were home, and the long journey was nearly ended.  Finally they rode beneath the archway into the courtyard.  Elrond was there, and Celebrían, Glorfindel and Erestor, and several healers.  It seemed Eilenach had done his job well, and roused half the house.  Elrond and Glorfindel together took Elladan from Elrohir’s arms, and Elrond held him gently, issuing a stream of orders to the other healers. 

As Elrohir also dismounted, Celebrían hugged him tightly, holding him close.  Her eyes brimmed with tears.  “I am so glad you are safe, I was so worried for you.  But Elladan …”

Elrohir leaned down and kissed her cheek.  “I am well, mother.  And El will be as well, now that father can see to him.”  He spoke with more confidence than he felt. He had every faith in his father’s abilities as a healer, but this poison was one outside his experience.  “Shall we go with them?”  With one arm around his mother’s shoulders, they followed Elrond towards the infirmary.

Legolas followed the group, deep in thought.  It was a relief to be back at Imladris, but he wondered if all their troubles were over.  Suddenly the conversation he had had with Elladan after they had arrived at Barlynch came back to him, when Elladan had confessed to him the recurring vision he still had of Elrohir, crying out for him.  Elladan’s words came back to him with a worrying clarity.  “I cannot see myself there anywhere.  And why am I unable to help him, to comfort him?  Why does El call for me so hopelessly?  Legolas, where am I in this future?”   Just how bad was Elladan’s injury?

To be continued

Chapter Fourteen – Memories and Nightmares

When they reached the infirmary, Elrond went to one of the small rooms that adjoined it, gently placing Elladan on the bed.  He began to examine his son carefully, questioning Elrohir about how Elladan had been affected, as he attempted to assess the spread of the poison.  His face grew grave as Elrohir described the initial numbness and paralysis, then the increasing agony Elladan had endured.  “Father, he was nearly crying with pain,”  Elrohir finished.  “In the end I gave him the last of the peles leaves we had, but it had no effect.”

Elladan gave a fain moan as his father lifted his arm, turning it slightly.  Even unconscious, he tried to pull away from the contact, and Elrond stopped.  “This reminds me of something,” he mused.  “Something I read about long ago.”  He closed his eyes, trying to remember.  “A scroll,” he recalled.  “A scroll about the creatures of Harad.  Something about a spider … Elrohir, would you go and look in the library?  You will probably be able to find it more quickly than anyone else.”

Reluctantly, Elrohir nodded.  With a last long look at his brother, he turned and hurried from the room, running down the stairs two at a time.  In Elrond’s library, he carefully lit a lamp, casting a warm glow over the shelves and cupboards that covered every wall from floor to ceiling.  Then he began searching through the scrolls that filled two rows of shelving.  They were carefully organised; he had helped to catalogue them himself, and he thought he knew the scroll his father was referring to.  Locating the section that contained works about distant lands, he pulled out an armload and carried them across to the heavy wooden table that stood in the centre of the floor.  Instinctively handling the manuscripts – some of which were ancient – with great care, he opened one after the other, skimming the contents before carefully rolling the document again and moving on.   His first search proved fruitless, and muttering in exasperation, he returned all the scrolls to their shelf, and tried again. 

This time he struck lucky.  The second scroll he opened was entitled ‘Mythical and Mystical Beasts of Near and Far Harad’ and was illustrated with delicate pictures of creatures such as unicorns, griffons and mumakil.  The mumak, he was fairly sure, did in fact exist, but he believed the others were indeed imaginary.  The third scroll was the one he was searching for.  ‘Venomous and Malevolent Flora and Fauna in the Lands of the Haradrim and the Treatment Thereof.’  The treatment thereof.  Could there be a clue in here to help Elladan?  Hastily replacing everything, he extinguished the lamp, and returned to the infirmary, taking the scroll with him.

As Elrohir departed, Elrond turned back to Elladan.  He twisted and turned restlessly, and Elrond knew he would have to send him into a deeper sleep to be able to do what he knew would be necessary.  He lifted his son slightly, touching his face and calling to him.  “Elladan?  Elladan, awake now.  Just for a moment, then you can sleep again without pain.  Wake up now.”

Slowly, Elladan returned to a greater consciousness, aware of the excruciating pain in his arm and hand, and a familiar, beloved voice calling him.  He tried desperately to concentrate on the voice alone, and to drown out all other sensations.  “Father?”

“Yes.  Wake now.  I want you to drink this.” 

Slowly Elladan opened his eyes, and tried to focus on the blur looming above him.  Gradually he was able to distinguish a face, one that matched the voice.  His father was gazing at him in concern.  “Elladan, drink this.  It will help the pain.”  A small bottle was held to his mouth, and he swallowed obediently, grimacing at the sickly sweet taste.

“Father, my arms hurts.”

“I know.  But this will help.”  He could hear love and concern in Elrond’s voice, and something else.  Fear?  Of what?

Elladan swallowed the last of the medicine.  “Poppy?”  It was one of the most powerful drugs used in the infirmary, and worked almost immediately.

“Aye, just a little.”

Elladan shifted his gaze from his father, his eyes sliding around the room.  His mother sat on the other side of the bed, and he smiled at her, moving his right hand towards her slightly.  He could see Legolas near the window, and whispered his name.  Then he looked again.  His father.  His mother.  Legolas. 

There was one face missing.  Fighting the seductive lure of the poppy, he tried to turn his head to see further.  “Where …” he began.  Against his will, his eyes were closing, and his voice faded.

“Hush.  You are safe now, at Imladris.  In the infirmary.  You are home now.”

Frustrated, he shook his head.  That was not what he had meant.  But it was too late now, and he only had time to acknowledge the cessation of pain before he began to sink into darkness and oblivion claimed him.  But the question he had not been able to ask remained in his mind, filling his dreams.  Where was Elrohir?

Desperately, he tried to recall what had happened, how he came to be in the infirmary.  His own pain, the grim and grave expressions all around him told their own story, and he knew he must have been very seriously wounded.  But how?  He tried to piece together what he did know.  That overriding question - where was Elrohir -  was what had driven him from Imladris, and Legolas had gone with him. They were clearly back there now, but what had happened in between?  Why could he not remember? 

His head swam with a swirling kaleidoscope of images and memories, but they made no sense.  There was a man, pointing a crossbow at him. There was a village, silent and deserted, and a house where all the people were dead.  He and Legolas picked their way along a riverbank slick with mud, and with a cry of fear Legolas plunged into the raging water.  There was a young girl, running to greet him, calling to him.  Calling him … calling him Elrohir.  Did she hold the secret to his brother’s disappearance?  Who was she?  He tried to put a name to her.  Marla?  Somehow it did not seem right.  The whirl of pictures continued to dance through his memory.  He could see Legolas’ face across a camp fire.  It was so vivid he could taste and smell roasted rabbit.  He saw again the man with the crossbow, and saw how his hands shook with fear.  The little girl was there again, this time seated on the lap of an older woman.  Her mother?

Desperately, he tried to push his recollections onward.  What had happened after that?  Why could he not remember?  A new memory came to him, dusk, a large town, its gates about to close for the night.  A guard, looking wary and suspicious.  He saw a long room, another man approaching him from the far end, his face full of sympathy.  He extended his hand, and dropped something into Elladan’s palm.  Mesmerised, Elladan stared at it uncomprehendingly, his eyes tracing the patterns and writing, the insignia.  As if from a great distance, he heard the man’s voice again.  ‘He carried this.  He had been dead for several days.’

The twisting vortex of images suddenly stopped.  No.  That could not be right.  The man spoke again.  ‘He had been dead for several days.’  No.  Not Elrohir.  It was impossible.

But was it impossible?   It explained everything.  It explained why both his parents were at his bedside.  It explained why Legolas was there, looking so concerned.  It explained the fear and grief he had heard in his father’s voice.

It explained why Elrohir was not there.

The memories were true, all of them, he could feel it.  And that meant that Elrohir was dead.

He caught his breath, desperately trying to deny what he now knew to be true.  Elrohir was dead.  A scream built up in his chest, a cry of utter desolation, grief and horror, and exploded from him before he plunged into an abyss of blackness and despair.  “ELROHIR!  No!”

The three in the room were catapulted to their feet in shock. As Elrohir re-entered the room, he halted at the sound of that desperate cry, and by the sight of his brother twisting desperately in anguish, frantic to escape from some horror.  Swiftly crossing the room, he suddenly stopped, caught by the strangest sensation that he had seen this before, had done this before.  It was nonsense, he knew that.  Never in his life had he seen Elladan so distraught, and never had he heard his own name called out in such terror.  Regaining his equilibrium, he reached the bed, and sat on the edge, passing the scroll blindly to his father. 

“El?  What is it?”  He placed both hands on his brother’s face, calling to him. “What happened?” he asked tersely.

Elrond shook his head.  “I do not know,” he admitted.  “He regained consciousness for a moment, and seemed to know where he was. At least, I thought he did.   He recognised me, your mother, and Legolas.  I was able to give him some of the poppy juice. Then he seemed to be searching for something.  The poppy took effect before I could ask him what it was he was looking for.  He was a little restless for a while. Then – then this happened.”  He seemed shaken by his son’s reaction.

Between them, Elladan tossed and turned, moaning slightly.  A cry escaped from him, an incoherent groan, full of despair, in which occasional words could be distinguished.  “El – oh, no, El – please, no!  El, where are you?  It cannot be true.  EL!”  Elrohir took Elladan’s right hand between his, and began to murmur to him softly and reassuringly, but Elladan’s desperate cries continued.

At the window, Legolas turned suddenly, looking at Elladan as if he had never seen him before.  “I know what this is,” he said suddenly.  “Elladan foresaw this, in one of his visions.”

Both Elrond and Elrohir looked up at him, startled.  “What do you mean, he foresaw it?”  asked Elrohir.  “What visions?”

Briefly, as rapidly as possible, Legolas tried to explain.  “When we were travelling together, Elladan kept having recurring nightmares and waking dreams.  He dreamed of your death, Elrohir, that you were deathly ill.  And I dismissed it, all of it, taking it as his natural concern!  Then, when we found you at Barlynch, it was exactly as he had foreseen.  He told me as well that he had seen you, like this, here, crying for him.  He thought it foretold his death, but feared only what it would do to you.  And that is why he has been so withdrawn and distant.  He did not want you to fear for him!”  Legolas paused, looking down at his friend sadly.  “He was wrong.  It was never you he saw, Elrohir, it was himself.”

Elrohir did not take his eyes from his twin, and brushed a strand of damp hair away from his face with a hand that shook a little.  “El, do not fear.  I am here,” he whispered.  This explained much of Elladan’s odd behaviour. 

But for Elrond, there was still one thing he could not understand.   “What, though, does he still fear?  Why does he cry out for you, Elrohir?  Why does he feel such desperate sorrow?”

Elrohir looked up at his parents, although he did not release Elladan’s hand.  “Because when El and Legolas first got to Tarlong, and were told that an elf had been found dead, they were told it was me.  El thought I was dead.”

At the window, Legolas nodded his sober agreement.  “Elladan was devastated.  We both were, but Elladan …  And then, later, we realised that there was some doubt.  Elladan had to question the guards to try to establish who it was they had found.”

Celebrían had not spoken so far.  Now she looked down at both her sons, placing her hands on their heads, gently stroking their hair.  “So if Elladan is reliving that moment – Elrohir,  you have to tell him!”

Elladan continued to thrash wildly.  A tear ran from one eye and he called again to his twin, lost in a nightmare of memories.

To be continued

Chapter Fifteen – Athela and Aeluin

As Elrohir continued to talk to his brother, softly reassuring him, Elladan gradually grew calmer, and his restless movements stilled.  Elrohir could not tell whether it was because Elladan was beginning to accept his presence, or because he was falling deeper into a drugged sleep.  He feared it was only the latter, as Elladan’s eyes still flickered although they remained closed, and his breathing was still ragged.  He was clearly still distressed. 

Relentlessly, Elrohir continued, desperate to reach his twin.  “El, if you can hear me, listen to me.  I know what they told you at Tarlong, but they were wrong.  Is that what you are thinking of?  I am here, I am alive, I am by your side.  Can you remember Barlynch?  We had such an argument.  El, I am so sorry for what I said then.  But you forgave me.  Can you remember that?”  He gazed at his twin, wondering if Elladan could hear any of this, or if he was wasting his breath.  But no, he reminded himself.  If there was any chance at all, it was not a waste.

Behind him, Elrond was studying the scroll Elrohir had found in the library.  Amongst the ‘venomous and malevolent’ fauna listed, there was a spider.  His heart sank.  It was as he had feared.  This was the creature he had vaguely remembered learning of in his studies of distant lands.  Its bite caused an initial numbness, so the victim did not even realise they had been bitten.  It masked the damage caused as the toxin then destroyed the surrounding flesh, eating away at skin and muscle and sensation, eventually causing intense pain.  And if the Haradrim had managed to develop an antidote, it was too far away to be of any benefit to Elladan.

There was one faint chance, one who may know of something similar. “Legolas, do you know anything of this?”  Legolas, after all, had first hand knowledge of deadly spiders.

Legolas read the document over Elrond’s shoulder, but then shook his head.  “No.  This is not like the spiders we have in the Greenwood.   The numbness it describes – I was bitten once; I knew immediately what had happened.  Numbness would have been a relief.”  He had never forgotten the shuddering, wracking pain that had engulfed his entire body.

“Aye, I remember.  You were bitten twice, as I recall,” Elrond said softly.  He had been in Lasgalen at the time, and he and Calmacil had both despaired, admitting to Thranduil that there was nothing more they could do.  Legolas had survived, against all expectations.  But that was ancient history now.  “It is as I thought – this poison on a weapon is something new.  It is an evil substance; the numbness masks the damage it is causing.  At least one of the outlaws who attacked you must have had knowledge of this.” 

“One of them – no, two I think,” Elrohir amended.  “They had a look of the Haradrim about them.  They could have brought it with them.  But Father, the scroll said ‘The treatment thereof’ – what does it say about this?  What can we do for El?”

“I do not know yet,” Elrond replied, still reading.   “But I think there is only one solution – the damaged flesh will not recover, it will have to be removed.”

Elrohir looked up, utterly shocked.  “You – you mean his arm?”  he asked in a horrified whisper.  “Father, no!  You cannot!”

“Hush!  I hope it will not come to that,” Elrond reassured him.  “I mean here.”  He took Elladan’s wrist, turning it slightly to expose the forearm, and running one finger along the cut, as Elrohir had done himself.  The edges of the wound were swollen and discoloured, and still oozed a thick, blackish discharge.  This time, Elladan did not react or try to pull away from the gentle touch, held in the thrall of the poppy syrup.  “I can treat his arm,”  Elrond continued, “but I think only you, Elrohir, can heal his other wounds.  You have to convince him you are alive.  If you cannot …”  He did not complete the thought.  If Elrohir could not reach his brother, Elladan might never awaken.  He could sink into despair and fade in his grief.

Elrond decided it would be best to act immediately.  There was no point in delaying, and the poison would only cause more damage.   Legolas watched, fascinated for a few moments, as Elrond and Elrohir moved in a practiced dance around the room, collecting the equipment and supplies they would need, before he and Celebrían were shooed unceremoniously from the room.

“Elrond will not have anyone who is not strictly necessary present when he is working,” Celebrían explained.  “That means us.”  She looked strained and tired.  The relief of Elrohir’s homecoming had immediately been replaced by new fears and worries.

“Then will you sit with me, Lady Celebrían?  I can tell you of our travels.  Elladan and I had several adventures of our own before we found Elrohir!”  Legolas spoke lightly, but neither were fooled.  The waiting would be hard on them both.  “And Elrohir has captured the hearts of at least two more maidens!” he added with a smile.

Celebrían looked at him gratefully.  “Thank you, Legolas,” she said quietly.  “Only two?  He must be slipping.  But yes, please tell me of your journey.”

In the room where Elladan lay, all was ready.  Elrond looked at Elrohir appraisingly.  “Are you sure about this?  Or do you want to join your mother and Legolas outside? I can ask someone else to help me if you wish.”

Elrohir shook his head.  “No.  I could not bear the waiting.  This will be easier.”  Despite his resolve, he could not help flinching slightly as Elrond made a deep cut in Elladan’s arm.  Bright blood flowed from the incision, tinged with darkness.  But Elladan was far beyond the reach of pain, deep in a drugged sleep.  Catching his father’s concerned gaze, Elrohir repeated steadily, “I can do this.”  He had helped his father as they worked together on a patient many times before.  The fact that this time it was his brother should make no difference.  He dabbed carefully at the blood where it trickled down his brother’s arm and onto the towels wadded beneath, then returned one hand to Elladan’s wrist, to monitor the pulse there.

By the time Elrond had finished his ministrations, the original shallow cut was both longer and much deeper.  But all the darkened, decayed flesh had finally been removed, and the blood that continued to well from the wound was untainted.  At last Elrond stepped away.  He straightened with a weary sigh, and brushed a wayward strand of hair away from his eyes, leaving a smear of his son’s blood on his face.  “Well, I have done all I can for now.  His arm should heal.”  He watched as Elrohir placed the last few stitches in his brother’s arm to hold the cut closed, studying them both.

 At last both his sons were home.  But one still balanced on a knife-edge between recovery or succumbing to his grief. The other he had all but given up for dead; he could admit that to himself now.  “Elrohir?  Come here,”  he asked quietly.

Elrohir looked up as he finished his task.  He was tired, weary, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion and worry.  As he stood back from Elladan’s side, Elrond caught him in a tight embrace, simply holding him.  “Oh, my son,” he murmured.  “How we feared for your safety.   When we learned of Bereth’s death, we thought you must surely have perished too.”

“Yes.  I know that now.  And El was told the same thing.  I cannot imagine how it would have affected him.  I am so sorry.  If I had thought for a moment … oh, father, I wish none of this had happened!”

Elrond took one step back, holding Elrohir at arm’s length, and looked at him carefully.  “What did happen to you?  And how did you and Bereth become separated?”  He raised one hand, lightly touching the dark bruise that still marked his son’s forehead.  “What is this?”

Elrohir looked at his father, slightly puzzled.  He had all but forgotten the wound he had received when the horse kicked him, but when he raised his hand to the deep gash, it still felt rather tender. 

“Oh. That.  It is nothing; there is no need to worry.  A horse kicked me when we were attacked by bandits.  And the rest of it – it is a long story.”

“A horse?  I can see there is a great deal you need to tell me.  Perhaps it should wait until your mother rejoins us.  “But first,” Elrond added.  “I would like you to have that cut looked at.” 

“There is no need!  It is minor; nothing to worry about.  I would rather stay here with El.”

“Elrohir!  I wish that just for once in your life you would listen to me!”  Elrond snapped.  The strain of the last few days; the last few hours, was evident in his voice.  He added wearily, “Please, do not argue.  Just – just do as I ask.  Go and see one of the healers.  Elrohir, I do not want to have to still worry about you.”

Elrohir opened his mouth to argue further, but then caught sight of his father’s expression.  Reluctantly, he nodded.  “Yes, very well.”  He looked again at Elladan, pale and still on the bed.  “But will you …”

“Aye, I will stay with him.  Do you not trust me?”    A hint of mischief crept into Elrond’s voice as he added, by way of inducement, “I think Athela is on duty at the moment.”

“Athela?”  Elrohir had imagined himself in love with her once, long ago – they both had.  The infatuation had fizzled out, as all such obsessions tended to, but they had remained good friends.

He found Athela in one of the adjoining rooms.  She looked up with a smile, then seated him and became very business like.  “How did you get this?” she queried, touching the curving gash lightly.

“We were ambushed, attacked by outlaws. I was kicked by a horse.”

“Yes.  I can see the shape of the hoof.”  She traced the outline of the imprint very gently with her fingertips, noticing how he flinched slightly at her touch.  “Did you lose consciousness?”

“Yes, but only briefly.”

“How long for?”  As he hesitated, she repeated, “Elrohir, how long?”

He sighed.  “About two hours, I think.”

She gave him a hard stare.  “You call that briefly?  What about later?  Did you experience any sickness or dizziness?  Any confusion?”

“I felt nauseous and very dizzy, but was not physically sick.”  Although it had been a very close thing, he recalled.  “It had passed by the next morning.”

“I see.  Was there anything else?  Headache?  What about your eyesight?  Was there any blurring of your vision?”

Elrohir shook his head.  “No.  Yes.  A severe headache, but that too eased.  But I could see clearly, and El – Elladan said my eyes looked normal.  Athela, I know what a concussion feels like.  And I would not take any risks with a head injury.”

She took his face between both hands, and peered at him intently.  “No, I know you would not.  But you know as well as I do that sometimes with a severe injury the victim is the last to realise it.”  Finally she released him, apparently satisfied.  “Well, it seems there is nothing wrong with you now.  But if the horse had been shod, you would not have been so lucky.”

As Athela dismissed him, Elrohir hesitated before he returned to Elladan’s room.  Although he did not want to leave his twin for longer than necessary, he realised his concern was a little selfish.  He was not the only one who cared about Elladan, and knew that their parents would want to spend time with him as well.  Telling himself that he was leaving his brother in safe hands, Elrohir left for a task he dreaded.  He went to see Bereth’s family.  It was something he knew he could not avoid, a self-imposed task that his own honour forced on him.

Aeluin, Bereth’s mother, had returned to her duties as an assistant healer, although he had not seen her in the infirmary.  He suspected she had been given light duties, work that would keep her occupied but where the occasional, inevitable lapse in concentration would not harm a patient.  Bereth’s father Bragol was a guard like his older son, and could be out on patrol.  But Aeluin, at least was at home, it seemed.  He knocked at their door and waited.   Aeluin looked up, startled to see him as she opened it.

“Lord Elrohir!”  She inclined her head briefly in greeting.  “Please, come in, my lord.  Will you be seated?”

“Thank you.”  He sat down, and accepted the cup of wine she offered, hoping the small courtesies would make her a little less tense.  And him.   “Aeluin, how are you?  I wanted to tell you how desperately sorry I am about Bereth.”

“We – are coping.  Just.  Bragol is out on patrol, all the time, he cannot bear to be here – there are too many memories.   But Beregar – I worry about him.  They were very close.  He feels the loss more than any of us, I think.”

Elrohir began to tell her of their journey, of Bereth’s last days.  “And Aeluin, remember that if there is anything you need, ever, no matter what, you have only to ask.  Any of my family.  I – I  owe Bereth my life.  None of us will ever forget that.”

“You – how?  What did he do?”

Elrohir swiftly retold the story of his meeting with Dacy.  “I tried to save the child, but the river was too swift.  We would both have been swept away if it had not been for Bereth.”  Finishing the tale, he ended,  “He saved my life.  I will always remember that.  I just wish things had ended differently.”  He went on to explain what he had found when they had arrived at Barlynch, the desperate plight of the people there.  “So I decided to stay, and sent Bereth on to Tarlong.  It was the only way we could help both communities.  I had to help Tiama and her people.”

“Tiama?”  echoed a cold voice from behind him.  “Who is Tiama?  Another of your conquests?  Is she the reason you abandoned Bereth and sent him to his death?  Was it just another assignation for you, Lord Elrohir?”

To be continued.

Chapter 16 – Another Wanderer Returns

Elrohir leapt to his feet and spun around, utterly stunned at the bitter accusation.  Behind him, Aeluin had also jumped up, and she gave a soft cry of protest.  “Beregar, no!  You should not say such things!  Lord Elrohir came here to apologise!”

“Apologise?  For what?  For causing the death of my brother?  How is that supposed to comfort my mother in the loss of her son; to comfort my sister and me in the loss of our brother?  You will have to forgive me, Lord Elrohir, but I do not accept your apology!”  Sarcasm dripped from his words.

Aeluin tried desperately to intervene.  “Beregar, please stop, you are making things worse!  Please!”

“Aeluin, do not worry.  He has every right to his anger with me.”  Turning towards Beregar, Elrohir continued, “You cannot blame me more than I already blame myself.   I just wish I could have acted differently.”   Since Barlynch, Elrohir had had time to come to the realisation that he could not have prevented Bereth’s death, unless he had managed to persuade one of the guards to accompany him to Tarlong.  And that, given the dire situation there, and the people’s stark fear of contracting or spreading the disease, was rather remote.   While he regretted the necessity of his actions, he knew he would have to do the same again.

Beregar, irrational in his grief, did not listen to either his mother or Elrohir.   “They left together.  Bereth was alive and well then.  Now they return, days apart.  Bereth – Bereth is dead, while he” – he flung an accusatory arm at Elrohir – “is alive and well.  You let my brother die!” he screamed.

“Beregar, you should not believe such things,” said Elrohir calmly.  “I owe Bereth much, I share your grief.”

“How can you?  How can you know what it is to lose one you love?  Your brother still lives!”

Elrohir flinched as if Beregar had struck him.  He froze, biting his lip. “Yes, he lives – for the moment,” he said quietly.  He turned and left suddenly, not even bidding farewell to Aeluin.  He dared not say anything else; he did not trust his voice not to betray him.  He walked blindly along the paths that led back to the house, relying on the familiarity of the route to guide him.  He could not fault Beregar for his earlier words, nothing the other said could even begin to approach the self-blame Elrohir felt himself.  But the comment about Elladan was too much.

All the fear and worry he felt for Elladan, all the sadness he felt over his twin’s very real grief, however misplaced, coalesced into a shapeless dread.  Elrohir knew he had been gone for far too long.  Who knew how Elladan was faring?  If his brother needed him, Elrond would not know where to find him – he had been on his way to the infirmary.  It was time he returned.

Anxious now, Elrohir quickened his pace, emerging onto the courtyard from a side path.  He crossed swiftly to the entrance steps, but jerked to a halt at a sudden cry of warning.

“Look out!”

Belatedly, he realised that a troop of horses had streamed in through the archway, and that he had very nearly walked beneath their hooves.  Mentally cursing his inattention – he could ill afford another such encounter – he veered away around them, paying little attention to the foremost rider, who was cursing him roundly.  But then the rider dropped to the ground in front of him, enveloping him in bear-like hug, and kissing him.

“Elrohir!  Is it really you?  After I got Mother’s letter, you were the last person I expected to see!”

“Arwen?”  Elrohir stared at his sister, more than a little dazed. Arwen sounded every bit as surprised as he felt, but he returned the embrace.  “Arwen, how wonderful to see you!  But what are you doing here?  I thought you were still in Lórien!”

Arwen nodded, lacing her arm through his, and guiding him towards the steps.  “I was,” she confirmed.   She flung a glance over her shoulder.  “Bryanth, would you see to my horse?  Bless you!” She blew the guard an airy kiss.

“Ar, stop a moment.  What letter?  And where is your escort?  Just look at you!”  She was dishevelled, her hair snarled and tangled where it had come adrift from her braids, tendrils clinging to her face.  She looked distinctly travel-stained.  Her guards were in no better shape, just three of them, all equally weary.

Slowing down a little, Arwen drew a deep breath, collecting her thoughts.  “Some days ago, grandmother told me it was time I returned home, but she would not say any more than that.  I left the next day, but just as we crossed the pass, a messenger met us.  He carried a letter from Mother; she sounded desperately worried about you.  So we rode as fast as we could.  The rest of the guards could not keep up, these are all that are left,” she added, indicating the three warriors.

Elrohir shook his head, his worry over Elladan temporarily displaced.  “Ar, you should be more careful!   You know how dangerous the pass can be!  If anything happened to you as well …” 

“As well as what?   El, whatever is the matter with you?”  Arwen sounded bewildered, and more than a little annoyed.

Swiftly, Elrohir explained all that had occurred during her absence,  ending with his encounter with Beregar.  Arwen’s expression saddened as she learned of Bereth’s death.  She had once exchanged shy kisses with him beneath the stars at one of the Mid Summer festivals. 

He finished his rapid explanation just as they approached the infirmary.  Raising one finger to his lips, motioning Arwen to silence, Elrohir pushed open the door to Elladan’s chamber, just a little.  His mother and father were still sitting at his brother’s side, and Legolas still hovered by the window.  “I am sorry I was so long, there was something I had to do,” he began.  “But look what I found down in the courtyard!”  He pushed the door open fully, revealing Arwen standing behind him.

A joyous reunion followed between all five, muted out of consideration for patients in the infirmary; but ecstatic none the less.  Then Arwen perched on the edge of the bed, turning her attention to her other brother.  “Elladan?   Will you not wake up and greet me?  Have you no welcome for your favourite sister?”  Her pleas had no more effect than any other.  Elladan remained totally unresponsive.  He breathed, and behind the closed lids his eyes flickered constantly, but there was little other sign of life.

“Is there no change?”  Elrohir asked hopelessly.  He knew it was a foolish question, if there had been even the slightest change Elrond would have said so immediately.  However he was still obscurely disappointed when his father shook his head.

“Nothing.  I have done all I can for now – I think, I hope, that his arm will heal, and that he will regain full use of it.  But other than that …  I do not know,” he admitted.  “But for now, Arwen has messages from your Grandmother and Grandfather, and much to tell us of her visit.  And Legolas tells me that there many tales to tell of his journeys with you and Elladan.  Will you join us in my study for lunch?”

Elrohir gave a slight shake of his head.  “I will stay here a while longer with El,” he said.  He gave a small smile, kissing his sister again.  “It is good to see you returned, Ar,” he added.  “I missed you.  We both did.”

As the others left, Elrohir sat by his brother’s side again, holding one of the limp hands in his.   He had no idea how much sensation Elladan may have regained in his left hand, so he sat on the right.  “El?  Elladan, can you hear me?  El, please wake up,” he called softly.  “I am here, I am alive, and I am safe and well.  I know what they said at Tarlong, but they were wrong.  El, can you hear me?  Can you feel me holding your hand?  Can you feel this?”  He squeezed Elladan’s hand tightly, looking for any flicker of reaction, any trace of awareness, any response at all.  There was nothing.  Elladan’s earlier restlessness, when he had struggled and fought against his terrifying nightmares, crying out with fear and grief, had faded to a frightening stillness, though his body still burned.  It seemed he was too weak even to fight the fever.  “El, if you can hear me, listen to me.  Do not give up.  You are not alone,  I am here with you, right by your side.”  His voice dropped to a bare whisper.  “I love you El, please do not leave me.”

He continued throughout the rest of the day, talking to Elladan, reading to him, reminiscing.  “Do you remember the first time we went to Lasgalen? When we dressed the same, so no one could tell us apart?  Do you remember the look on Thranduil’s face?  And father’s?  Legolas never knew who he was talking to, so he called us both Ellahir.  Do you remember that?”  He paused wearily, resting his voice for a moment, then continued with a touch of exasperation,  “El, will you please wake up?  Why are you such a stubborn son of an orc?”

“Do you usually speak of me so disrespectfully?  Or perhaps you refer to your father.    And if Elladan is the son of an orc, what does that make you?”    Celebrían’s soft voice, faintly amused, startled him.

“Mother!”  Startled, Elrohir sat bolt upright.  “I did not hear you come in.  I was just talking to El.”  

“I know.  Is there any change?”  Celebrían gave her son the cup of wine she had brought.

Elrohir sipped at the wine, grateful at the way it soothed his dry throat.  Then he shook his head slightly.  “Not yet.  But I will not give up yet.”  He sighed.  “Mother, why is he so stubborn?”

Celebrían did smile at that.  Elrohir seemed unaware that of the two, he could be far more stubborn than his twin.  But both her sons – and daughter – came from a long line of stubborn, strong willed elves and men.  Their grandfather had found the courage and determination to sail to the Undying Lands, to petition the Valar themselves and enlist their aid.  Her own mother had defied the Valar and been exiled as a result.  It was little wonder that her children could be so determined, obstinate, headstrong and pig-headed at times.

She leaned over and kissed them both.  “Keep trying.  If anyone can call him back, you can.”

Elrohir nodded wearily.  “I know.  I just hope I can reach him.”  As the door closed behind Celebrían, he took another sip of the wine, then swore softly.  The fire had almost died, and he should have asked her to place some more logs on it.  He straightened, moving a little stiffly after sitting for so long, and pulled his hand free of Elladan’s.  To his amazement, the grip on his fingers tightened imperceptibly, and he looked down at his brother.  “El?”  He moved his hand again, and this time he was certain.  Elladan’s hand moved fractionally towards him, seeking the lost contact.  He appeared to say something, but it was not possible to tell what.

Elrohir dropped to his knees beside the bed, his stiffness forgotten, the fire forgotten.  “El?  Can you hear me?  Are you there?”  He caught the groping hand in both of his, then moved one again to touch his brother’s face.  “Elladan, can you hear me?”

Elladan could no longer distinguish nightmare from reality.   The two ran together into a maelstrom of anguish, in which one thought dominated all.  Elrohir was dead.  The awful reality of that eclipsed even the worst nightmare he had ever had. It was simply something he had never contemplated.  But eventually a more tranquil dream came to him, one of happier memories.  In his dream he could hear Elrohir’s voice again, so much loved; so much missed.  His twin spoke to him of shared memories, of mischief and punishments.  There had been so much love and laughter in their family.  The pain of what he had lost; what they had all lost, tore at him.  Things would never be the same again. 

But for now he was content to relax into the dream, enjoying the illusion that Elrohir was actually by his side, talking to him.  He could almost believe that he could feel his brother’s touch on his hand.  He smiled slightly as Elrohir became frustrated, calling him a stubborn son of an orc.  His twin might be dead, but it seemed it was still possible to annoy him.  It was encouraging that some things had not changed.  But then Elrohir began to pull away from him, and Elladan knew that soon he would be alone again.  He tried to cling to the illusion of contact, to prolong the dream and delay his inevitable waking and return to bitter reality. 

He had to return, he knew that.  He could not succumb to the tempting oblivion that beckoned him.  Elrohir would not want that, although he would surely understand.   But Elladan knew he had to find within himself the strength to live – for his mother, for his father, and his sister.  And for himself.  But for now, he clung to the comforting security of the dream.  He clutched at Elrohir’s hand as he tried to withdraw it, and voiced his protest.  “No.  Stay, please stay.”  He made no sound, and wondered if he had spoken at all, or if the words were in his mind alone, along with the dream.  But it all seemed so real.

Elrohir’s voice came again, urgent now, calling to him sharply, almost as if in response to his actions.  He felt a gentle caress, as cool fingers touched his cheek.  Was it possible?  Could it be that Elrohir was truly there?  Scarcely daring to believe it, Elladan turned his head, very slightly, towards the sound.  “El?”  Again he could not hear his own voice, but it did not matter, for the answer came immediately.

It was the sweetest sound he had heard in all his life.  “Yes! Yes, I am here.”  It was Elrohir, replying to him, unmistakeable, for all there was an odd catch to his voice.  Elladan smiled, and shifted his grip a little, feeling the fingers beneath his slide free.  It did not matter.  Somehow, incredibly, Elrohir was with him once more.  Faintly, he could hear the slight rattle of glass on glass, and the sound of water being poured.  Then there was movement beside him again, and cool liquid brushed his lips.  Then he was lifted, and leaned back against Elrohir as the water was held for him to drink.

Elladan sipped at the water slowly, coughing slightly as it trickled down his parched throat.  Vaguely he wondered how long it had been since he had last drunk anything.  He was still thirsty when the cup was removed.  Then, struggling a little, he opened his eyes, blinking once or twice until he could see clearly. “El?”  he asked again slowly.  “Is it … really you?  They … told me you were dead.”   His voice was still weak and faint, but Elrohir gave him a brilliant smile.

“Yes, I know,” Elrohir said softly.  “But they were wrong.  It was a mistake, a terrible mistake.  I am here, I am alive, I am well – apart  from worrying over you!”

“Good.”  Elladan’s eyes drifted shut again, and his head fell back against Elrohir’s shoulder.  “Thought … I was … dreaming.”  He slept.

“It was no dream, brother,”  Elrohir spoke quietly.   He leaned back, Elladan resting against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around his brother.  Then he dropped his head and kissed Elladan gently on the top of his head, in a rare gesture of intimacy that they simply did not need normally. “It was a nightmare.  But it is over now.  You are back with us again.  Sleep now, without fear.”

To be continued

Chapter Seventeen – Conversations

Elrohir continued to hold Elladan for what remained of the night.  Now that Elladan knew his brother lived, he should be able to draw strength and comfort from the contact.  Elrohir gazed unseeingly at the darkened windows, trying to imagine the black despair and soul-numbing anguish Elladan must have felt in his nightmares.  To be told not only that his twin was dead, but then to relive that moment, and believe it anew – his heart wept for the pain Elladan had endured.

He was still concerned about Elladan.  There was the injury to his arm, the residual effects of the poison, and the fever that continued to burn throughout his body.  Although he could not help but rejoice that his brother had awakened and been lucid for a short while, the combined onslaught of the three factors of the original injury could still overwhelm him.

Across the room, the door into the chamber opened, and Arwen entered.  She moved across to the bed quietly, hesitantly, and stopped before she reached it, gazing down at her brothers, reluctant to disturb them. 

Elrohir turned his head slightly.  “Arwen.  Come and join us.”  He indicated the edge of the bed on Elladan’s other side.  She sat, and leaned over to hug them both.

“I thought perhaps you were asleep,” she explained.  “How is he?”

Elrohir smiled slightly.  “I was not asleep, just thinking,” he said.  “El woke up a little while ago.  He knew me; he talked to me.”  The relief and joy on his face was obvious.  “Now I think he is just sleeping.  But now that you are here, I think I should see to the fire.  It went out some time ago.”  He moved slightly, and settled Elladan back against the pillows before sliding off the bed and crossing to the fireplace.

When he returned, Arwen had taken his place, sitting at Elladan’s side and holding one limp hand between hers.  Elrohir instead went to a high-backed couch beside the bed and sat down, drawing his feet up and leaning wearily against the padded side.  “Father looked in twice during the night,” he commented.  “And Mother, and Legolas.  I wondered when it would be your turn.  Are you going to tell me to get some sleep?  They all did.”

Smiling, Arwen shook her head.  “No, I know you too well to suggest it.  You will never rest while you are still worried about El.”

Elrohir smiled.  It was true, Arwen knew him better than anyone, apart from Elladan.  The three had always been very close, even as children, though he feared that he and Elladan had often – not always unintentionally – excluded Arwen by their bond.  “Well, now that you are here, tell me what you have been doing.  How are grandmother and grandfather?  And what about Haldir?  Has he asked you to marry him again?”

“They are well, all of them.  And Haldir only asked me once.  I think he is learning.”  She leaned back against the head of the bed, still clasping Elladan’s hand, and began to tell of her year-long visit to Lórien.  She spoke of the tranquillity of the wood, the peace and calm, and the murmuring, musical voice of Nimrodel; and gradually lulled Elrohir into much-needed sleep.

~~*~~

Elladan drifted closer to consciousness, but his thoughts were still scattered and confused.  He had been dreaming such bitter dreams, full of darkness and despair.  He had dreamed of Elrohir’s death, and could still feel where the desperate anguish of that had torn at him.   But there had been another dream, one where Elrohir sat at his side, safe and well, though his eyes were full of worry.  But which dream been real?  Were either of them true?  Had Elrohir truly been there, or was it just another hallucination?  If so, it was the cruellest yet.

Warily, full of dread, Elladan opened his eyes again, praying fervently that he would see Elrohir there.  He did not.  Instead, there was Arwen, smiling at him.  Her expression was concerned, but not grief-stricken.  But where had she come from?

“Ar?” he asked weakly.  “Why are you here?   I thought …”  he stopped as she placed a finger against his lips.

“Hush,” she told him.  “Do not speak.  I arrived yesterday, do you remember?  Mother wrote to me, she was worried.  She said it was time I came home.  But I did not expect to find you at death’s door!”

Elladan gazed at her blankly.  Had he truly been that ill?  But why?  “Was I?  I – I cannot remember.  Ar, what happened?  And – where is Elrohir?  I thought he was here, beside me.  Was it – was it just a dream?”  Unbidden, tears welled up in his eyes at the thought that it had just been a desperate figment of his imagination.

Matching tears shone in Arwen’s eyes.  “Oh, Elladan, no!  Have no fear.  Look!”  She touched his cheek with gentle fingers, turning his head slightly.  “But hush, do not disturb him.”

Elrohir lay curled on the couch beside the bed, his feet at one end – their mother would not be pleased – and his head resting against the cushioned arm.  His eyes were empty in sleep, and someone, Arwen presumably, had placed a light cover over him.

Elladan smiled in relief.  “Good.  He led me a merry dance these past few weeks, did you know that?” he whispered.  “First he disappeared,  and no-one knew where he was, then I thought he had managed to get himself killed.  But it was poor Bereth instead.”  He paused, exhausted by the few words, then finished, “Did you know that?”

Arwen hushed him again.  “Yes, I knew.  Legolas told me all about it.  But rest for now.  Let me tell you about Lórien.”  Softly, her voice soothing, she told him about her stay in their grandparent’s realm, the quiet words again weaving a peaceful spell around him.  Elladan slipped once more into dreams, safe in the knowledge that he was home, and that his beloved twin was indeed alive and well.

Arwen watched over her brothers as they both slept, thinking how odd it felt.  The twins had always been very protective of her, despite the fact that she was not much younger than they were, and this reversal in their roles felt strange.  It was dawn now, and she knew that as soon as their parents awoke – assuming they had slept at all – Elrond or Celebrían, or both of them, would be here again. 

Sure enough, only moments later, the door opened and they both entered.  “Is there any change?” Celebrían began, but then she caught sight of Elrohir, still asleep next to the bed.  “I see that there must be,” she smiled.  “Thank the Valar!”

“Elladan awoke again a short while ago,” Arwen explained.  “He was still worried about Elrohir – he was afraid that when he spoke to him earlier it was just a dream.  But I think he has accepted it now.”

Elrond moved to the bed and began to examine his son, checking his temperature, feeling his pulse.  Elladan still had a slight fever, but it was less than it had been, although still higher than he liked.  His pulse was steady, if a little fast, and equally strong in Elladan’s left wrist – the circulation in his injured arm did not seem to have been impaired.  The only remaining test was to see how much feeling there was in that hand.

Elrond placed one hand on Elladan’s forehead, and said softly, “Elladan.  Elladan, awake now.”  His son responded almost immediately, his eyes flickering open once more.  Elrond did not miss the way Elladan’s eyes turned at once towards Elrohir, checking his presence, before focusing again on his father.  “Welcome back, my son.  I am glad to see you awake again, at last.  Would you like to have a drink?”

At Elladan’s nod, Elrond helped him to sit, before placing a cup in his right hand.  Elladan raised it to his mouth, but then stopped, looking at it suspiciously.  “What is it?”

Elrond ignored Arwen’s laugh, saying merely, “Watered wine, honey and herbs.  Nothing else.  No drugs to make you sleep, I promise.  It is time to wake now.”

Elladan sipped the wine slowly.  It was very well watered, he noticed, but the honey sweetened the taste and soothed his throat as he swallowed.   As he finished, his hand began to shake a little, and Arwen leaned across and took the cup from him before it slipped from his grasp.  He sighed in frustration.

“I want to see how much sensation you have in your hand,” Elrond said.  He took his son’s hand, flexing the fingers and massaging them.  “Can you feel that?”  At Elladan’s nod, he continued, squeezing each fingertip in turn.  “And that?” 

“Yes,”  Elladan confirmed.  “El did the same thing when we were at Withypool, but I could feel nothing then.”

Elrond smiled approvingly.  “He did?  Good.  He did well.”

“Of course.  I was taught by the best,” Elrohir murmured drowsily, still half asleep.  The voices had woken him, and he had been listening to the conversation.  “El, how does your hand feel now?”

“Better.  My arm throbs, but apart from that it feels much better.”

“That is well,” said Elrond.  “Now, let us see what movement you have in your fingers.  Squeeze my hand.”

Elladan tried, but he was unable to do more than curl his fingers slightly.  “I cannot,” he confessed, rather worried.  “That is all I can do.”

Elrohir sat up at that, trying to hide his concern, but shooting a worried glance at their father.   He hoped that the damage done by the poison – which had been considerable – had not caused lasting injury.

“Well, it is early days yet,” said Elrond, sounding supremely unconcerned.  “There is plenty of time for your arm to heal, and for your hand to strengthen.  We will see how things are tomorrow.  Sleep now.  I think we all had very little rest last night.”

As the room emptied – even Elrohir finally persuaded to seek his bed – Elladan lay back, frustrated at his weakness.  The smallest action exhausted him. He had been awake for a matter of minutes, and was already weary, and  could feel his eyelids drooping once again.  When would he feel stronger – and when would he regain movement in his hand?

~~*~~

As soon as it was light enough for him to roam the grounds of Imladris without alarming the guards too much, Legolas let himself out into the gardens.   He had spent a restless night, sleeping fitfully, and had looked in to see Elladan at one time.  There had been no change, and the strain and weariness showed clearly on Elrohir.  He had stayed, talking quietly to them both, until Elrond arrived.

He made his way to a small stream that flowed through the trees.  Others rarely came here, and he could seek the solitude he relished.  Today, however, it was not to be, for there was already someone there.  Legolas deliberately made his progress audible, and the other turned as he approached.

“Prince Legolas!” he exclaimed in some surprise.

“Greetings,” Legolas replied.  The other elf looked vaguely familiar, but he could not recall a name.  “Forgive me; I do not think I know you.”

His companion inclined his head slightly.  “My name is Beregar.  Bereth was my brother.”

“Then you have my deepest sympathy.  I was with Elladan when we learned of his death.  Elladan spoke very highly of your brother.”

“He did?  He has not seen fit to mention it to me since his return.”  Beregar sounded rather bitter.

Legolas frowned.  “Obviously you are unaware, but Elladan is gravely ill.  He received a minor wound that we did not realise, until it was too late, was poisoned.”  He paused, his expression grim.  “His family fear he may not live.”

Beregar regarded him in shock.  “I – I did not know.  Lord Elrohir said nothing of this.”

“Elrohir?  When did you speak to him?”

“He came to see my mother yesterday, with some excuse for Bereth’s death, the reason why he sent Bereth off into the wilds while he stayed in the comfort and safety of a town!”  Beregar abruptly turned his back on Legolas.

Legolas decided that, despite Beregar’s grief, he had to face the facts. “There was little comfort, or safety, in that town.  The infirmary was full to overflowing, their only healer had fallen ill.  There were over fifty patients there, and Elrohir had saved all of them, all but a handful.  When we arrived, he had collapsed from exhaustion, after working for ten days, alone and without rest.  As well as treating the sick, he had been using his own healing skills to help them.  You must know from your mother, or Bereth, how dangerous that can be!”

“I do,” Beregar admitted.  “They do not have such abilities themselves, but have often spoken of those who have.  He must have taken a great risk.”  He sighed.  “I think perhaps I owe him an apology.  My mother said as much last night.  I should not have said the things I did.”

Legolas looked at him silently, one eyebrow raised in question.

“I accused him of sending Bereth to his death,” Beregar said quietly.  “Of abandoning his commitments for an assignation with a woman – the healer you spoke of.  That he could not possibly understand my grief, as his own brother was alive and well.”

Legolas flinched inwardly.  Beregar could scarcely have said anything that would wound Elrohir more, yet he had said nothing when he returned to Elladan’s room.  “I think perhaps you do owe him an apology,” he agreed.  “But it may be best to wait until Elladan has regained consciousness.  Elrohir may be in a better frame of mind then.”

Beregar nodded, and turned away towards the house.  Legolas watched him go, hoping that the young guard would be able to find some peace to ease his heartache.

To be continued

 .

Author's Notes:  Well, here it is at last!  An update!  I make my own apology for the long delay, but work has been manic.  But I survived the great Inspection!  I may now have time to actually write a little more.

Chapter Eighteen – Apologies

As he reached his rooms, Elrohir closed the door behind him and leaned against it with a long sigh.   Despite his deep weariness, and continuing concern about his brother, he could not prevent the smile that crept unbidden across his face.  Elladan was awake and alert, and had finally been convinced that his twin lived.  He would recover.  For now, that was enough.  There would be time later to worry about the injury to Elladan’s arm, his inability to move his hand or fingers, the possibility of muscular damage – and Beregar’s unexpected accusation.

Ignoring his bed – he was desperately tired, but knew if he so much as lay down he would sleep until the next day – Elrohir went instead to the bathing room, drawing a deep, hot bath.  He unbound his hair, noticing that in places it was still caked with dried blood and mud from when the horse had kicked him, and stripped off his grimy, travel-stained, blood-stained clothes, kicking them into a corner to deal with later.  He realised with faint disgust that he had been wearing the same things since he, Elladan and Legolas had left Marla and Dacy over two days ago. 

He lay a long time in the deep water, revelling in the warm, sybaritic luxury, letting the aches and pains of their long journey, and the endless day and night he had just endured, soak away.  Finally rousing himself,  he ducked his head beneath the water, washing his hair thoroughly, rinsing away the blood and dirt from their journey.

At last Elrohir felt clean.  Leaving the now lukewarm water, he wrapped a towel about his waist, dressing swiftly in fresh, clean clothes, and combing and braiding his hair while it was still damp.  He did not know how long Elladan would sleep for, and did not want him to awaken alone.  As soon as possible, he returned to the infirmary.

He arrived to find the door to Elladan’s room slightly ajar.  Pushing it open, he expected to find his parents, or Arwen, or Legolas, or possibly one of the healers.  Instead, he saw a familiar, though unwelcome, dark haired figure leaning over Elladan, his back to the door.

A momentary panic and distrust flared through him.  “Beregar!  What do you want?  What are you doing here?” Elrohir snapped.  “Leave Elladan alone!”

The figure straightened, startled, and turned quickly.  “Lord Elrohir!  I – I was just – I did not hear you come in,”  Beregar stammered.

“I said, what are you doing here?” Elrohir demanded again.  He crossed to the bed, and glanced down at Elladan.  He relaxed slightly as he saw that his brother still slept peacefully, and appeared undisturbed.  Turning, Elrohir glared at Beregar again.  “Well?” he asked suspiciously.

Beregar did not meet Elrohir’s gaze, and dropped his head to stare at the floor.  “I – I thought you might be here.  And … I came to see Elladan,” he explained hesitantly.  “I did not know what had happened.  I did not know he was so ill.  And – I came to apologise for my words to you.  For my outburst yesterday.”  He lifted his gaze from the floor, and finally met Elrohir’s eyes.  “Lord Elrohir, forgive me.  I know that you would never have allowed any harm to come to Bereth if you could have prevented it.  I –I spoke in grief. And anger.”

His earlier mistrust faded, and Elrohir regarded Beregar with sympathy.  He knew the brothers had been very close, although Bereth had been many years younger than his siblings.  Beregar looked, and sounded, very downcast.  And fearful, too – with good reason.  In many ancient Elven societies, an accusation such as he had made – especially against his Lord’s family – could have resulted in exile.  Such laws had never been repealed, although they were no longer used in Imladris.  “You are forgiven, Beregar.  Although I pray I never know your grief, I do know what it is to love a brother – and to fear for his life.  Of course I forgive you,” he said gently.

Beregar let out a long sigh.  “Thank you, my Lord.  Thank you.  And – I hope Lord Elladan will be well.”

Elrohir smiled for the first time since entering the room.  “He will be.  Beregar, I have a request.  After a day journeying together, I managed to persuade Bereth to stop calling me ‘Lord’ Elrohir.  Will you do the same?”

Beregar nodded.  “Yes, my Lord.”  He flushed, nodded again,  and added “Yes, I will try.  Good day.”  He left the room hurriedly.

Still standing by the edge of the bed, Elrohir stared after Beregar, then looked down at Elladan again.  For a brief, insane moment,  he had  really believed that Beregar meant to harm Elladan.  Shaking his head in disbelief at his own suspicions – his exhaustion and anxiety was making him irrational – he released a long sigh, and took his now customary position beside his twin, leaning against the bed head.

“I hope you did not hear that, El,” he murmured.  “It was not one of my finer moments – you would not have been proud of me.  I am not particularly proud of myself.  What was I thinking?  I know Beregar would never harm you!  Thank the Valar I stopped short of saying anything more serious.”  He fell silent, and closed his eyes, still weary. 

A thought occurred to him, and he opened his eyes again, taking Elladan’s injured hand in his.  Although Elladan could not move his hand himself, any movement of his fingers and wrist would strengthen the muscles and aid his recovery.  Gently, not wanting to awaken him, Elrohir began to carefully flex his brother’s fingers, straightening and bending them, using his thumb to massage the palm of Elladan’s hand.  Very carefully, not wanting to pull at the healing incision on his arm, he turned the wrist as well, moving it up and down.  Finally satisfied, he finished by monitoring Elladan’s pulse.  It was nearly normal, and his temperature, too, was close to what it should be.

As he worked, Elrohir reviewed the conversations he had had with Beregar – both that morning, and the previous day.  He could not fault Beregar for his words – his own reaction at finding Beregar standing over Elladan spoke eloquently of the effect fear, grief and worry could have – but he realised that he would have to speak to Aeluin again.  It had been discourteous to have left so abruptly, especially as Aeluin had offered no censure of him, and had accepted his explanation of her son’s death.

Elrohir gently placed Elladan’s arm across his chest.  His brother still slept peacefully, although it was always disconcerting to see him with his eyes closed like that.  He knew that that was how Elladan had found him at Barlynch, and wished again that his memories of awakening to find Elladan caring for him were clearer, but his recollection of the moment was hazy, to say the least.  His thoughts drifted again to the endless, yet swiftly flowing days when he had been tending to the sick, and sadness swept over him as he remembered anew the children who had died there. 

As if on cue, the sound of laughter drew his attention to the window, which had been opened to greet the dawn.  Elrohir crossed the room to look down into a garden where elflings raced between the trees and swung, squealing, from the branches.  One of the older elflings suddenly saw him, and straightened, looking up at him contritely.  “Lord El!  I’m sorry, are we making too much noise?  I told them we should be quieter near the infirmary!”  He gestured at the others, still playing happily.

Elrohir smiled at the boy. “No, of course not.  Your laughter will do us all good – and that does look like fun!”  He indicated an elfling who was hanging upside down from a rather high branch.

“Oh, it is!” the boy agreed.  “Thank you, Lord El!”  The name had been coined by a rather bold elfling some years previously, and had quickly caught on.  With a wave, Elrohir turned from the window, and returned to the bed.  The shouts and laughter were soothing, not disturbing, and Elrohir listened, smiling, remembering the games and adventures he, Elladan and Arwen had had in their childhood.  He was skirting the edge of dreams when the door opened once again and Elrond entered. 

His father did not look particularly pleased to see him.  “I thought I told you to get some sleep?” he asked with resignation.

“You did,” Elrohir agreed.  “But I did not want El to wake and find me gone.  Not yet.”

Elrond nodded with a wry smile.  He should have known.  The twins had always been the same.  Whenever one of them had been hurt, they tended to revert to a habit from childhood.  When very young, they had been unable to sleep out of sight of the other.  “I suppose you would like me to ask someone to make up a bed for you in here?” he enquired.

“There is no need, I can use the couch again.  Arwen found a pillow.”  Then Elrohir looked at his father again.  “If you are going to be here for a while, I want to see Aeluin again – I owe her an apology.”

Elrond looked a little puzzled.  “Aeluin?  I think she is in the storeroom – she was making an inventory of the medicines and equipment.  Why an apology?”

Elrohir had forgotten that he had not mentioned Beregar’s accusation to anyone other than Arwen – and that had only been because he had been too shaken to hide it from her.  “Oh – when I spoke to her yesterday, I left rather suddenly,” he prevaricated.

“I understand,” Elrond told him gently.  “It cannot have been easy for you.  Go, I will stay with Elladan.”

Elrohir found Aeluin at the back of the huge room that held all their medical supplies,  deep in her work, counting under her breath.  He waited until she had made a note on her record sheet, then said softly, “Aeluin?” 

She turned quickly.  “Lord Elrohir!  Is – is there any news of your brother?  I did not know about him until I came on duty this morning.”

“He will be well,” he reassured her.  “But Aeluin, that is not why I am here.  I came to apologise for my abrupt departure yesterday.  I am sorry for my discourtesy.”

“After what Beregar said?  I was afraid the two of you would come to blows.  He was wrong to say what he did.  I told him that,”  Aeluin assured him. 

Elrohir frowned.  “But I understand why he said it.  I understand his grief and anger,”  he admitted.

“Yes.  And I realise now that when you came to see me, you did not know if your brother would survive the night.  Yet you took the time to talk to me.  Lord Elrohir, there is nothing to forgive.  Not for anything,” Aeluin concluded firmly.

Elrohir felt a great weight fall from him as he realised fully that neither Aeluin nor Beregar held him responsible for Bereth’s death.  Not now. “Thank you,” he told her, then left her to her counting once more.

He returned to Elladan’s room to find his brother awake, looking mutinous.  “He thinks he is well enough to get up,” Elrond said grimly.  “He is not.  The fever has left him dizzy and disorientated.  Elladan, you are not to move from that bed until I say you are well enough!” he concluded firmly.

Elladan glared mulishly at the door after Elrond had left, then looked pleadingly at his brother.  “El, I need your help,” he begged.  “I need to go.  I need to go there,”  he pointed to the door that lead to the bathing room and privy.

“I see,”  Elrohir said carefully.  “And you think you can get that far?”

“Not on my own,” Elladan admitted.  “Which is why I need your help.  Please, Elrohir!”

Elrohir hesitated, looking in the direction their father had taken.  “Very well,” he said at last.  “But I hope Father never finds out about this.  Come on.”  He helped his brother to sit, then placed Elladan’s arm across his shoulders, and wrapped his own arm around Elladan’s waist.  As he stood, Elladan swayed a little, and Elrohir nearly repented.  “Are you sure about this, El?”

“Yes!  How would you like it?”

“Come on, then.”

Very slowly, Elrohir helped his twin across the room, taking more and more of his weight as they went.  It was rather worrying just how weak Elladan was.  At the door, Elladan disengaged himself, and leaned against the frame.  “Thank you.  I can manage now,” he said with exaggerated politeness.

“Of course you can,” Elrohir sounded disbelieving.  He watched as Elladan took a few steps towards the privy, leaning heavily against the wall, then added, “Do you need me to hold it for you?”

He watched with a grin as Elladan gave a snort of laughter, and managed to fling a damp towel at him.  “Shut up, little brother!” he ordered.  “Or I will tell Father that this was your idea!”

Elladan’s sense of humour was intact.  It had to be a good omen for his recovery.

To be continued

Chapter Nineteen – Four Is Company

Elladan was nearly at the end of his strength as Elrohir helped him back to the bed, and beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all.  But it was so frustrating to feel this helpless!   He leaned heavily against his brother, concentrating all his effort on placing one foot in front of the other, and willing the room to stop spinning.  They had nearly reached the bed when the door opened.  Elrohir jumped and swore, turning sharply, and Elladan swayed dangerously, nearly falling with their sudden movement.  He felt Elrohir tighten the grip on his waist reflexively and attempted to steady himself.  Turning carefully to face the door, he saw Arwen and Legolas entering, bearing a tray.

“Sorry, El,” Elrohir breathed.  “Arwen, thank the Valar!  I thought it was Father.  Come and help me.”

“Now why should Father make you jump like that?  And why do you both look so guilty?  Could it be that Elladan is not supposed to be out of bed?”  Smiling at her brothers’ guilt, Arwen thrust the tray into Legolas’s hands, and crossed to the bed, rearranging the pillows as Elrohir indicated.  Elladan sank down gratefully on the edge of the bed, closing his eyes momentarily as he regained his equilibrium, and allowing Elrohir to prop him up, supported with the pillows.

He opened his eyes at the sound of Elrohir’s worried voice to see his brother gazing at him in concern.  “El, how do you feel?”

“Not wonderful,” Elladan admitted.  “I think that was far enough for now.  Perhaps Father was right.”  If he was honest with himself, he still felt very dizzy and unsteady.

“He usually is,” Elrohir sounded rueful.  “I knew this was a bad idea!  Why do I always let you talk me into these things?” he scolded.  He dropped one hand to Elladan’s wrist, checking the pulse, and frowned.  “Too fast.  Elladan, you are not moving from there again, even if I have to tie you down!” 

From the concern in the expressions of all three watching him, Elladan guessed that he probably looked as pale as he felt.  He nodded meekly.  “Very well, little brother.  I will stay here – for now.”  He feared that if he did try to stand, he would fall. He accepted the cup that Elrohir handed him, but found his hand shook slightly as he tried to drink. 

Wordlessly, Elrohir placed his own hand around Elladan’s, steadying his grip, helping him to sip the wine.  He sighed in exasperation.  “El, I swear you are the worst patient I have ever known!”

Elladan stared at his brother in amused disbelief at the breathtakingly inaccurate, unjust accusation.  Elrohir, though he was endlessly patient with others who were injured or sick, had no time at all for what he regarded as his own weaknesses.   When hurt or ill himself, he very quickly became impatient and frustrated, and uncharacteristically foul-tempered.  “Me?”  Elladan managed at last, with a weak smile.  “How can you say that?  Who fainted at supper once because you did not tell anyone you had fallen off the roof and hit your head?  Who was it who accused me of asking ‘foolish questions’ when I enquired about your headache after your encounter with the horse?  El, I fear you are a far worse patient than I have ever been!”

Elrohir flushed slightly.  “That was different.  The roof was a long time ago, and I did not want mother or father to scold me for being on the roof in the first place!  And as for the other, you knew perfectly well how I felt, but we could not stay where we were, we had to get back here.  Arwen, Legolas, what do you think?”

“I think you are one as bad as the other.  Anyway, we brought some lunch,” Legolas explained, hastily changing the subject and indicating the tray.  “Bread, cheese, fruit, cold meat, and some wine.  Enough for all of us.”

“Because when did you two last eat?  Elladan?  What about you, Elrohir?”  Arwen looked sternly at her brothers.

Elrohir looked rather blank.  “Last night, I think.  I remember Mother brought something …”  his voice trailed off.

Arwen sighed.  “Yes, she did, but you ate nothing, apparently!  Elladan?”

Elladan realised he felt extremely hungry.  When had been the last time he had eaten?   Although they had stopped once on the long ride back to Imladris, he had been unable to eat anything then, feeling far too unwell.  “El?  When did we leave Marla?  Was it yesterday?”

“Two days ago,” Elrohir told him.  “You have lost at least a day.  We got back about dawn yesterday.  Do you remember any of that?”

Elladan frowned as he tried to remember.  He could recall little, the greater part of the journey had passed in a haze of pain and delirium, and he had no memory at all of arriving home.  “I think – I think I remember you riding with me.  Is that right?  But if it was two days ago, no wonder I feel hungry!  Legolas, are you going to pass that tray over here?”

Despite his hunger, he had eaten only a little before pushing his plate aside, suddenly weary again.  Elrohir noticed, and took the dish from him.  “El?  Do you want to rest?  We can leave you in peace, if you want.”

“No!  Stay here and talk to me, all of you.  I have rested enough, I fear.  And El, if I do fall asleep, will you kick me to wake me up?”

Elrohir agreed with alacrity.  “Yes, of course, with the greatest of pleasure!”

Elladan leaned back, content to let the ebb and flow of conversation wash over him, as he flexed his hand experimentally.  Was it his imagination, merely wishful thinking, or was it a little easier to move than it had been?  But even if he never regained full mobility; even if he had awoken to find he had lost the use of his arm permanently – and although nothing had been said, he suspected that it had been a very real possibility – it would have been a small price to pay to have Elrohir safe.

He listened idly as Elrohir and Legolas teased Arwen about Haldir’s  unrequited love, and as brother and sister then rounded on Legolas to question him about his interest in Ashia, one of Calmacil’s assistants who was nearing the end of her healer’s training.  This was a scene he had thought he might never see or hear again.  It felt comforting to listen to the amiable bickering between his twin, his sister, and one who was a brother in all but name.  When he had been in the depths of black despair over Elrohir’s fate, Legolas had offered him unfailing friendship, understanding and support.  Gradually, the three voices faded into silence as he drifted again into sleep.

Arwen was talking of some of the friends she had made and met anew while in Lórien.  “And what is this I hear, Elrohir, about the mid winter festival?  Súriannë told me that two of your – friends – nearly came to blows!  She said that she took pity on you in the end, and looked after you herself.”

Legolas laughed.  “Yes, Elladan mentioned that!  How did you manage to ask two maidens to accompany you?  Did you forget?”

“No, I did not!  It was all Elladan’s fault.”  Elrohir sounded indignant.

“You knew?  You knew all along that it was Elladan?”

“Well, of course!  It took no great wit to work it out.  I knew I had not asked Elestirnë, so it had to be Elladan!”  Elrohir scowled at his brother, now fast asleep. 

Arwen smothered a laugh.  “Are you going to tell him that you know?”

Elrohir shook his head, grinning maliciously.  “No, of course not!  This is much more fun.  He lives in fear of what I will do to him when I find out!

Legolas noticed that Elladan’s eyes had closed, and he nudged Elrohir.  “El, look.  Are you going to kick him?”

Elrohir turned to look at his twin again, and his expression softened. He shook his head.  “No.  Leave him to sleep – he needs it still.”  He poured the last of the wine into Arwen’s cup, and gathered the debris of their lunch together.  “I will take this down to the kitchens, and get another flask of wine.  Be good – and try not to wake him.”

Legolas gazed after him as the door closed.  He shook his head in disbelief.  “Arwen, I may have said this just a few times before.  I will never understand your brothers!”

“Very few people do,” Arwen agreed.  “Even Father occasionally admits defeat, and he knows what it is like to be a twin!  But they understand each other.”

~~**~~

Elrohir did not use the main stairs that led into the great hall, but instead chose a smaller flight that emerged near the kitchens.  Balancing the tray in one hand, he extended the other to open a door when it suddenly flew open and a young elleth burst through.  She cannoned into him, rebounded, and sat down heavily on the floor.  Looking up, her mouth fell open and she blushed.  “Oh no – Lord El!  I’m sorry, I didn’t see you – are you all right?”

Elrohir managed to steady the tray, which had wobbled dangerously, and now he set it down on a convenient table.  He bent down, extending a hand to help the child up.  “There is no harm done, little” – he sought for her name – “Rothella.  Are you hurt?”

She scrambled to her feet, putting her arms around his waist for a quick hug, and shook her head.  “Oh, no!  But we shouldn’t have been running.  It was Helluin’s fault – we were playing catch.”

He frowned slightly, then lifted her high into the air, before settling her perched on his hip, and smiling.  “Do you think that wise, indoors?  If you break anything, you will have Erestor after you!”

“Oh, no, we won’t break anything!  The ball is soft, see?  Nana made it for us.”  Her brother, Helluin, nodded, and threw the ball to Rothella.  She held it out for Elrohir’s inspection.

Elrohir solemnly agreed that the ball was indeed suitable, and was about to pass it back when he hesitated.  “Your mother made this?  Do you think she would make one for me?  Or could I borrow this?”

“You, Lord El?  But you’re too old to play games!”  Rothella protested.

“I hope I will never be too old for games. But it is not for me, it is for my brother.”

“The other Lord El?” Helluin questioned.

“Yes, the other Lord El,”  Elrohir confirmed with a smile.  “He hurt his hand, and I think that this may help.”

Both Rothella and Helluin nodded eagerly.  “Of course you can borrow it!  I will tell Naneth, she will make us another this evening.”

“Then you have my thanks, both of you.”   He set Rothella back on her feet, and watched, amused, as the two raced away, calling for their mother.  Recalling his errand, he retrieved the tray and continued to the kitchens, collecting another flask of wine before returning to Elladan.

He found Arwen and Legolas playing chess and watched the game, offering occasional comments to both.  The room was growing dark, so Elrohir lit lamps and drew the curtains against the gathering dusk.  Elladan still slept, so they talked in soft voices, not wishing to disturb him.

Shortly after the conclusion of the game – Legolas won, but it had been hard-fought – Elrond appeared, smiling at the four.  “I thought you would all still be here.  Elrohir, have you changed the bandages?”

Elrohir shook his head.  “No, not yet, I did not want to wake him.  But there seems to be a little more movement in his hand, I think.”

Carefully, Elrond began to unwrap the bandages that swathed Elladan’s arm, but the movement inevitably awoke his son.  Elladan blinked a little, still drowsy, then glanced at Elrohir.  “El, I told you to wake me up if I fell asleep!” he complained.

“I know you did.  But you clearly needed to rest – you are still not well, Elladan,”  Elrohir explained softly.

Elladan looked as if he would argue, but could scarcely dispute the fact.  Instead, he turned his attention to Elrond’s examination of his arm.  The new incision was much longer than the original shallow cut, and deeper.  But the flesh was no longer inflamed, and the edges of the wound had begun to knit together, criss-crossed by a line of neat stitches.  Elrond touched one side of the scar gently, and ran his finger along one edge.  Elladan flinched and tried to pull his arm away.

Elrond was immediately concerned.  “What is it?  Does that still cause you pain?”

“No! It tickles!”  Elladan exclaimed.

“Good!”  Elrond gave a nod of satisfaction.  “It means the feeling is returning to your arm.  There should be no lasting damage.  Now, squeeze my hand as you did before.”

Elladan tried hard to do so, and was quite sure now that there was more movement in his hand.  But there was still no strength behind the grip.

“That will come with time,” Elrond told him reassuringly.

“I got this for you,” said Elrohir, producing the soft ball.  “I borrowed it from two of the elflings.  I thought it might help to exercise your hand.”  He demonstrated flexing his hand around it, then passed it to his twin.

Elladan squeezed the ball experimentally, and managed to make a slight impression on the soft leather.  He looked up at his brother with a smile.  “Well, it is a start, I suppose.  Thank you, El.”

Elrond completed his examination, but left Elladan’s arm uncovered.  “It is healing well, so I see no reason to re-bandage it.  Tell me, did you manage to get all the way back to bed without collapsing earlier?”

Elrohir looked up, startled, but then chuckled.  “I should have realised you would know!”

“I know you both far too well,” Elrond agreed.  “I would have been far more worried if Elladan had not tried to persuade you to allow him to get up.”

“He did make it back in one piece, but it was a close thing,” Elrohir admitted.

“If I had fallen, it would have been El’s fault,” Elladan protested.  “He nearly dropped me!”

Elrohir looked indignant.  “It was Arwen!  She startled me!”

“Now wait a moment!”  Arwen declared hotly.  “How was I to know that you were both defying orders – although I suppose I should have guessed.”

“Children, children,” Elrond said placatingly, with the familiarity and experience of many long years.  “Stop arguing, please.  What will Legolas think?”

Legolas, in an attempt not to laugh aloud at the squabbling, had crossed to the window, and was looking down into the little garden.  There was a man there, vaguely familiar, sitting on a bench beneath one of the trees, his face illuminated by light from an open doorway.  Puzzled, Legolas frowned, trying to place him.  “Lord Elrond?  Who is that?  He seems familiar, but I cannot think where I last saw him.”

Elrond glanced over his shoulder.  “That is Arahad, from Tarlong.  He came back here the day you arrived, you will recall.  That was how we first realised that Elrohir was – was missing.”

“Yes, of course.  And he fell victim to this fever too.  You were able to save him, I see.”

Elrond nodded.  “Yes.  But it was not easy.  The illness is very severe.  Elrohir did well to heal as many as he did, though I know he frets more over those who died.  He could have done nothing more.”

“Are you talking about me?”  Elrohir appeared silently behind them.

“Yes, I am,” Elrond told him.  “You did well at Barlynch, you know that.  I am proud of you.”  He looked closely at Elrohir, at the shadows beneath his eyes, at the utter weariness in his carriage, and touched the side of his face gently.  “But you look tired.  You need to rest – you are not invincible!” 

Elrohir nodded exhaustedly.  “I know.  And I will rest, I promise.  Later.”  When was it he had last slept, he wondered?  Apart from a few short minutes, the night before he had spent at Elladan’s side.  Before that there had been the long ride back to Imladris.  Then he had been wakeful through the long hours of darkness at Marla’s house, wondering at Elladan’s strange attitude. He had rested while sleeping off the effects of his head injury, but he suspected that his father would not accept that as rest.  It had to have been the night before they left Barlynch, some five nights previously.

“No.  Not later, now,” Elrond said forcefully.  “If you have no concerns for your own well-being, think of Elladan.  He should not have to fret over you, should he?”  Ruthlessly, he used the one argument Elrohir would be unable to resist, and combined it with his caress to insinuate a compulsion to sleep.

Elrohir blinked and scowled, well aware he was being manipulated.  “Very well, I give in.  But this is unfair!”  He yawned as Elrond steered him towards the couch, and lay down.  The pillows Arwen had provided felt cool and soft, and he was only dimly aware of a cover being placed over him as he fell deeply asleep.

The afternoon set the pattern for the next few days.  Elladan’s strength improved, and he stayed awake for longer and longer periods, as the weakness left by the fever slowly dissipated.  By using the ball Elrohir had provided, the strength, flexibility and feeling in his hand improved markedly, and he was soon able to resume weapons practice.

Legolas and Elladan were sparring on the practice field one day when a messenger arrived.    Elrohir, who had been watching the match – Elladan was winning, but only because Legolas continued to draw back – scanned the message, then broke into a broad grin.  He called across the field.  “El!  Legolas!  Come and read this!”

Legolas glanced up, and Elladan took advantage of his distraction to drive his blade – fortunately blunted – towards his right side.  The dagger in his left hand touched Legolas lightly on his chest, and Elladan gave a shout of triumph.  “First contact!  I win, princeling!  El, did you see?”

Elrohir crossed the field, waving the letter.  “I did indeed.  And you should see this.  Look!  A message from Teague.  Marla has had the child – a boy, strong and healthy.  He says Marla is well, and Dacy is delighted with her new brother.  And the child has been named Bereth.”

The End