Elrohir fought as if the hounds of Morgoth were nipping at his heels. His silver blade cut a bloody swath through the screeching, howling creatures that seemed to appear out of the very walls of the cave. The smell of sweat and blood filled him, causing his stomach to turn. But it mattered not. His thoughts were for only one person, who lay in a crumpled heap in the far corner.
When he finally broke through the madness of the battle, Elrohir immediately rushed forward, not even bothering to see if he was being followed by any stray Orcs. And there he found her.
She lay on her bare back, the remains of her traveling dress in a tattered pile a few feet away from her. Her beautiful golden tresses were matted with dirt. Blood was smeared over her bruised, shivering body.
Choking on a sob, Elrohir flung himself down beside her, fighting fiercely within himself to remain calm. A tear slid down his face when he gently touched her cheek and she moaned fearfully, flinching away from his hand.
Elrohir closed his eyes, trying to block out the horrifying sight before him. She should not look like this. Not her. Never her. She should be safe and warm in Imladris. A part of his mind desperately attempted to believe this was all a horrible nightmare and he would soon awake, safe in her arms as she stroked his hair comfortingly. He prayed none of this was real.
Behind him, he heard his brother hurrying in his direction. Elrohir heard Elladan come to an abrupt halt beside him and heard him let out an anguished, tortured cry.
“Nana!”
--
Hot tears poured down Elrohir’s face as he shot up from his bed, that single word ringing in his ears. Breathing heavily, he fought to free himself from the light blanket that had twisted itself around his slim form. He stumbled out of his sweat-soaked bed and quickly splashed water from a nearby basin onto his face.
The cool liquid felt soothing on his flushed and heated skin. Sighing with relief, Elrohir dried his face with a smooth towel, taking away the evidence of his tormented tears. He then quietly left his dark room by stepping out onto his balcony. A slight breeze immediately ruffled his already mused hair.
Imladris was sporadically lit by lanterns, but was otherwise dark. There was no moonlight to shine down on the house that night. Still, despite the darkness, the inhabitants slept in peace while the sentries watched over the valley. And from what he could see across the inner gardens, so did Imladris’s Lord. There was no light shining from Elrond’s chambers.
Elrohir could not help but envy his father. He felt as though he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in the Valar only knew how long. Still, he also felt like a monster for begrudging his father’s rest. It was no secret that he had rested little in recent days.
Three years. Three years ago, Elrohir’s nightmare had been his reality. Three years ago, he and Elladan had cut a bloody swath through the Misty Mountains in a mad search for their mother. Three years ago, Elrohir had wrapped Celebrían’s brutalized form in his cloak and carried her from the Orc den, to place her into the hands of her husband, his father, in the frantic hope he could heal her of the wounds and sorrows that plagued her.
But nay, it was not to be. Her fear had been too much for her distressed soul to endure. Within a year of her return to Imladris, Celebrían, the wife of Elrond Peredhel, the daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel, the mother of Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen Undómiel, had chosen to take the Grey Ships into the West.
And she had taken her youngest son’s heart with her.
Elrohir had felt the agony growing within him from the moment the ship had disappeared from his sight. Elladan had sensed his pain, but found there was little he could do to sooth it. Arwen, however, had not seen it, for the moment her mother had left the shores of Middle-earth, she had departed with the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. She felt unable to bear the sight of her once beloved home and all of the memories that lay within its halls.
Elladan had earnestly beseeched him to speak with their father of his pain, but Elrohir had stoutly refused to do so. He would not place his burden upon his father, whose pain had barely been mastered. Even now, it was considered dangerous to even mention his mother in front of him. So he would live and deal with his pain himself until the time came for him to take the ship to Valinor, where he would find healing.
And so it had been so from that day forward. Both Elrohir and his brother filled their waking thoughts with the absolute destruction of the wretched Orcs that had wrought such pain in their lives, leaving them little time for anything else. But even their single-mindedness could not order about their dreams. Flashbacks were becoming commonplace for Elrohir, unless he was able to utterly exhaust himself during the day. And even if that were the case, his sleep would not be restorative, having him wake the next day still weary.
The breeze grew stronger, sweeping across his form, through the leaves of the trees. A storm was coming, Elrohir noted instinctively. He sighed. If it was violent enough, it would delay his and Elladan’s plans to meet with Aragost, the heir of the Chieftain of the Dúnedain, on an expedition against a band of Orcs that had begun to roam the countryside with impunity, attacking innocent travelers and settled farmers alike.
Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he reentered his room, closing the shutters against the wind. He hoped the storm would not be too dangerous. He wanted to leave Imladris-and the memories it invoked-as soon as at all possible. To remain would only hasten his doom.
--
Contrary to Elrohir’s belief, his father slept not. Elrond’s rest, like his son’s, proved elusive.
When he found sleep would not come to him, Elrond chose to quietly walk the dim halls of Imladris, ensuring all was in order when dawn came. It was strange, he thought. Rare was it that Elrond felt the need to roam the halls of the house. In the past when he found he could not sleep, he often secluded himself in his study and busied himself with work. Elrond had never felt the need to waste time, even during the hours of the night.
At one point, he stopped at the spot where the Shards of Narsil were displayed. Looking upon them, he discovered that someone had touched them at some point, for they were not quite in their proper place. The fact that only two pieces were slightly ajar was not the point. With meticulous care, he moved both pieces back into place.
If Celebrían were there, she would smile at him coyly and say she knew the cure for his restlessness…
Elrond froze in his task. He clenched his jaw and shook his head, dispelling the stray thought. The pain that echoed inside of his heart fought to break free of its barriers. The battle within him nearly sent him to his knees, but he managed to keep his agony bottled inside, where it had to remain. Horror soon followed in its wake.
Why had such a thought come to him, out of the shadows? He did not understand. After Celebrían had left, he’d been nearly paralyzed with his grief. She was gone from him. What mattered to him now? His beloved wife was gone. He soon began to fade, much to the dismay of those around him. Elrond believed they must have thought they would soon be putting him too on the Grey Ship bound for the Undying Lands.
After a time, Galadriel had come alone to Imladris, under the guise of wishing to visit with her grandsons. But, in truth, she had come to offer him an option other than Valinor or grief. With the combined power of Vilya, Nenya, and her own mental abilities, she would delve into his mind, his heart, to mute the memory of Celebrían. To do so would not allow him to forget her, but to allow the pain to recede into a dull ache that he was capable of enduring.
After much debate, Elrond had agreed to Galadriel’s proposal. Despite his extreme longing to join with his wife once more, in his heart he knew he still had much to do in Middle-earth. With the retreat of Celebrían’s memory into the shadows of his mind, Elrond was able to return to some semblance of a normal life. Both he and Galadriel had been bedridden for days, suffering from the performance of the procedure itself, but what had been done was now done, never to be reversed.
But to ensure that the muting remained in place, he had packed all of his wife’s things away into storage, where they could not be seen. He had also removed himself to different chambers, both out of necessity and of being unable to endure staying in the rooms they had shared, where their three children had been conceived. He had regretted doing it, mostly for the sake of his sons, both who suffered greatly due to the loss of their mother, but the circumstances had dictated it must be done.
But on this very night, Celebrían’s memory had appeared to him, as strong as it had been when she had still been in Middle-earth. Why?
He wondered at the various possibilities for a while as he crept through the house. Soon, however, he came to the entrance of the gardens. Believing the fresh air might allow him to feel more at ease, Elrond stepped outside. The wind was blowing and he could almost literally smell the moisture in the air. Rain. It smelled of rain. Making a mental note to not stay out in the gardens for too long, Elrond slowly made a trek along the familiar stone paths.
The gardens of Imladris had always been impeccably well-kept. Even before their marriage, Elrond had seen to it, as Celebrían had adored all things that grew from the soil of the earth. When she had visited Imladris for the first time, having come with her mother during the Second Age in search of Celeborn, he had escorted her through the gardens on many an occasion. She had loved them and declared them one of her favorite parts of Imladris. Gazing up at him, she had blushingly claimed their beauty rivaled that of Lórinand’s in her eyes.
Nearly groaning in frustration, Elrond moved to return indoors. Coming outside had not been wise, he thought ruefully. The outdoors only served to fuel his memories of Celebrían. He-
Elrond stopped and looked up at the building.
It seemed he was not the only one who could not sleep this night. Elrohir was awake as well.
Elrond seized upon the opportunity presented before him. He would visit with his son and discover what troubled him, as Elladan had privately expressed concern for his brother to him. Perhaps focusing on Elrohir would give him time to allow his unexpected thoughts of his wife to vanish from his conscious mind. And it gave him the opportunity to return inside before the storm began in earnest, Elrond thought, feeling the first raindrops fall on his dark head as he stepped back inside the house.
--
Elrohir looked up, startled, from the text in his hands when he heard a light knock on his door. After he’d come in from his balcony, he had not even attempted to return to bed for some sleep, instead choosing to read until dawn. He held no desire in him to relive the haunting images in his subconscious mind for a second time in one night. Thus, he had stepped into his outer chamber and gone directly to the shelf of books, which had been nearly hidden by several potted plants.
While he had browsed through his selection, Elrohir had absently thought it rather odd for the plants to be kept in his chambers, as he was so rarely present in Imladris. But Glorfindel had always said that one could never have too many plants at hand. And so they stayed.
In the end, the book he’d chosen had been one of the dealings of the Elves of Lindon and their interactions with Númenor during the Second Age, a subject he found rather interesting, since the royalty of Númenor descended from his own family, the children of his father’s own brother. Still, he had not totally immersed himself in the pages when he’d heard the knock at his door.
Standing up, Elrohir left the book sitting on the arm of his chair and moved forward. Much to his surprise, he found his father standing there, a hesitant smile on his face.
“Adar,” he said softly, conscious of Elladan’s sleeping presence in the room across the hall. “What are you doing awake?” Standing back, Elrohir automatically allowed Elrond entrance to his room.
“I could ask the same of you, my son,” Elrond replied lightly, glancing around his outer chamber. He easily and quickly spotted the book lying haphazardly on the chair’s arm. “I did not know that the subject of Lindon and Númenor was so enticing it could not wait until a more civilized hour.”
Elrohir, followed his father’s gaze and chuckled, sounding both amused and nervous. He had incurred his father’s curiosity by staying awake, so he must deal with the consequences. But he still had no intention of telling him of the real reason for his wakefulness.
“I find my mind filled with the planning of the meeting between the Dúnedain, Elladan, and myself. I simply could not sleep,” he lied easily, but not without guilt. Only a few years ago, he recalled, Elrohir would not have dreamt of lying to his father. How things had changed in such a short amount of time.
Apparently, Elrond had also thought his response unusual. He turned to stare at him intensely and Elrohir fought the instinct to fidget beneath his father’s dark gaze.
“It is interesting,” Elrond commented quietly, “That you would be so restless. You kept yourself quite busy during the day, hardly bothering to stop and eat. I am surprised you are able to move at all, let alone remain awake to catch up on your history.”
Elrohir winced. He hadn’t anticipated his father’s sarcastic side, rarely seen anymore, would make an appearance. Nor had Elrohir thought he would pick up on his new tendency to work at his tasks to the point of exhaustion.
He shook his head. “There is much for me to do, Adar,” he responded, his tone neutral. Doing his best to imitate a fatigued yawn, Elrohir added, “And you are correct, I have done much and Elladan and I depart early. I really should rest.
His father still eyed him with his severe gaze, but he did not deny his words. “Very well,” he said at last. “I shall then leave you to your rest. Pleasant dreams, my son.”
Elrohir nodded graciously at the words, though he inwardly scoffed at them bitterly. He sincerely doubted he would ever have a pleasant sleep again in his life. “And you Adar. And you.”
--
Elrond stood silently in the courtyard of Imladris, his eyes locked on the main entrance. Messengers had arrived but two days previous, foretelling the arrival of his two sons. Months had passed since they had been in the place of their birth and had rarely sent a word of their doings except in the most vaguest of terms.
But he was no fool. Elrond knew his their hearts well. He was well aware of the fire that engulfed their spirits, for he himself felt those scorching flames as well. They all longed for the sweet taste of revenge.
He spotted their coming from a distance and immediately straightened, deftly ignoring the knowing smiles of Erestor and Glorfindel out of the corner of his vision. Elrond watched his sons come forth on their horses. They did not race their horses into the courtyard as they had often in their younger days, grinning unrepentantly as they were scolded for their misbehavior. Instead, they marched their steeds at a leisurely but steady pace, coming ever closer. Elrond tried not to fidget with impatience.
When they finally did arrive within the walls, Elrond studied Elladan and Elrohir’s faces more closely. Their expressions were grave, showing just how much they truly did resemble him. Not present were the identical smiles they had received from their other parent.
Quickly shoving that last thought into the depths of his mind, he stepped forward to greet them as they stepped down from their horses. “Greetings, my sons.”
The twins faced him and bowed suppliantly, as was proper in view of the inhabitants of Imladris. “Greetings, Lord Peredhel of Imladris,” they chorused solemnly.
“Long has it been since you have graced these halls,” Elrond said to them, allowing some manner of playful reproach to color his voice. “It is my hope that you shall abide here for a time. Much time has passed since a father has been able to enjoy the company of his sons.”
Elrond watched as the soberness of their expressions increased slightly. Undoubtedly both had noted he had stated ‘his sons’ instead of ‘his children.’ In these present days, few dared to mention Arwen, who had closeted herself in Lothlórien with her grandparents.
The moment quickly passed when Glorfindel took the opportunity to step forward. Bowing to them, he said respectfully, “Food and drink have been prepared for you, my lords, for you must be weary of your travel rations. Come.”
Once they had all seated themselves at the table, the formalities quickly faded. As the twins heartily enjoyed the warm food, Elrond told them of the goings on of Imladris and of the occasional letters sent by their grandparents.
When they appeared to have finished, Elrond said to them, “My sons, I have spoken to you of all that has gone on here, but what of the outside world? Little have I heard of your doings throughout the wilderness. Tell me of what you have occupied yourselves with.”
Elrohir was the first to speak. “Elladan can do as you ask, Adar. I have long promised myself I would show Glorfindel of some of the things I have learned during our travels.” He turned to gaze at the blond seneschal. “The Dúnedain know more than you originally thought, my teacher. I believe we can still learn from our old brethren. Shall you and I remove ourselves to the practice fields?”
Elrond gazed at his youngest son in surprise, which was echoed in Glorfindel’s expression as well. “Do you not wish to stay to speak with-”
Elrohir waved a hand negligently, quickly setting his utensils on his plate. “There will be plenty of time for talk, Glorfindel. Elladan and I do not have to meet with the Dúnedain for at least another month or so.” A bright, cheerful smile was plastered across his handsome face when he returned his gaze to his father. “Adar, would you excuse us?”
Elrond could not help but feel slightly hurt that his son was rushing off to pursue some project when he’d been home for but an hour, but he did not show this. Instead, he slipped a pleasant, indulgent expression onto his face and nodded congenially. “Of course, go ahead. We shall be able to speak later this evening.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Elrohir was out of seat and hurrying towards the door, a slightly confused Glorfindel in his wake.
Silence reigned between Elrond and his elder son for some time as they sat at the table, the remains of a spoiled meal around them. He soon turned to Elladan, hoping to salvage their feelings. “Your brother seems anxious,” he forced himself to comment lightly. “Have the Dúnedain learned so much in so little time that we of the Firstborn have yet to be trained in?”
Elrond noted Elladan’s pensive and worried expressions. “I am not exactly sure, Adar,” he said slowly, his dark eyes still shifted in the direction Elrohir and Glorfindel had gone. After several moments, he turned to Elrond, his expression having changed into one of hesitation.
Sensing his son wished to speak of something, the Lord of Imladris spoke quietly. “Does something trouble you, Elladan? Do you wish to speak to me of something?”
The younger Elf nodded slightly, though his air still held a troubled feel to it. “I do, Adar,” he answered, “But I do not wish to break a confidence, spoken or unspoken.” He paused for a moment, and Elrond waited patiently, though his concern grew steadily. Something was indeed wrong.
“My brother… has been much troubled these past… days. His sleep is constantly troubled, unless he is so exhausted he has no other choice but to sleep. And even then, he still does not find complete rest.” Elladan gazed into his father’s eyes solemnly, yet imploringly.
Elrond nodded, his mind working through the scant information he had been provided with. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “Your brother is merely suffering from insomnia. It is not uncommon for it to occur amongst the Peredhil.”
Elladan shook his head in denial. “Nay, Adar. At first, I thought it to be merely that. But this has been going on for months… if not longer. Something has deeply harmed my brother and it is not for I to fix it.” Again, he paused, then continued. “We have all suffered greatly, Adar. Suffering is a part of our lives. Only in Valinor can we hope to find peace. But… far away is the day before Elrohir will be able to seek the white shores of the Blessed Realm.” Elladan’s gaze turned pleading. “I beseech you, Adar, find what is tormenting him… only you can…”