It was amazing how someone’s state of mind could easily alter their appearance.
Few had ever been able to tell the sons of Elrond apart, even when they were children. Once a person had become acquainted with them, the task became simple enough, but to nearly all outsiders, it was practically impossible to distinguish the difference between them.
But Elrond himself had never had any difficulty. Perhaps it had to do with him being a twin himself. Elros and he, when they were small children, had delighted in attempting to confuse their foster father, Maglor, by switching places. So when his own sons had grown into that stage, he had already been familiar with all the tricks they could possibly play.
Now, though, even the most absent-minded could distinguish between the two.
Elladan was speaking with one of the Dúnedain that had come accompany him and his brother to the place where they would meet with Aragost. His stance was relaxed, but one had only to look at his dark eyes to see the alertness and intensity that was already guiding his movements.
Elrohir, on the other hand, said nothing. His face was pale and wan, blending into the grayness of the day, as their surroundings were still effected by the storm the night before. He concentrated on the saddle of his horse, his eyes darting neither here nor there.
Elrond closed his eyes briefly. He had failed to ascertain what troubled his younger son and the results of it were evident to all who chose to see.
His instincts as a healer and father all cried out for Elrond to put an end to this nonsense and forbid Elrohir to go. Even if he chose not to speak of what ate away at his heart, then at the very least he would be safe from the dangers that reigned outside of Imladris. In his current, distracted, state, he was a hazard to himself and to others.
But still he knew Elrohir would not stand to be left behind while his brother went forth into battle. He would not risk harm coming to his twin without him there to protect him. And so Elrond let him go. But he took no joy in their departure.
In those moments, both twins stepped forward from their separate locations and bowed to him formally. “We thank you for your hospitality, my Lord,” Elladan said, nodding respectfully. Elrond could not suppress a small smile when his eldest raised his eyes to his.
“You will always have a home and refuge here, my sons,” Elrond replied, his intense gaze softening as he widened his gaze to look upon both of his children. “May Ëarendil guide your steps and lead you home when the time is right.”
The two bowed once more before taking their places on their horses in the midst of their Dúnedain escort. As the group slowly moved out of the courtyard, Elrond watched his sons’ dark heads disappear into the distance.
Elrohir had not met his gaze the entire day, he realized with a start. Elladan had encountered no problem in locking eyes with his, in either conversation or in farewell at their departure, but his younger brother had kept his head up and eyes fixed on some far away object not see by any other.
Elrond watched the group fade into the trees, leaving the Last Homely House behind. In his heart, he knew he would not see them for a while. How much time would pass, he knew not. But when he thought of the time of their next meeting, his heart was filled with foreboding.
Something was going to happen. And for good or ill, it would shape the future.
--
If one dwelt in Imladris long enough, the passage of time was rarely noticed. The visual surroundings seldom appeared to change, always portraying the dignity and elegance often associated with the Firstborn. Indeed, the peace that saturated the valley of the Last Homely House filled one so completely that many would weep upon their departure.
One of the few events that would interrupt the strong flow of contentment would be the arrival of the messengers. Most messages came from Taur-e-Ndaedelos or the Grey Havens, but on occasion, the message-bearers would bring with them letters and notes from Lothlórien. When this happened, the Lord of Imladris would very often seclude himself in his private study for a great length of time, gravely considering the words that came from the home of his kinsmen.
Just as he did on this day. Elrond stared at the various parchments that lay before him. He had skimmed through them all quickly and found mostly updates of matters of trivial importance. Most, save one, in fact. At the top of the pile now lay a parchment bearing the penmanship of the Lady of the Golden Wood.
He stared at it warily. Relations between he and the mother of his wife had been strained in the past few years after she aided him in dimming Celebrían’s memory, and so rare was it that they corresponded. Celeborn would write often enough, enquiring after his health, but few words did Galadriel send to him, and what did come came from her husband.
What could she possibly wish to say? She knew well that Celeborn kept him appraised of Arwen’s state of mind and heart. What could she possibly have to say to him?
Shaking his dark head, mentally scolding himself for his reluctance, and firmly took hold of the message. Opening it, he held it close and read.
To Elrond, son of Eärendil, Lord of Imladris, greetings from Lothlórien.
Son-in-law, long has silence been between us. I wish I could say it was the matter of the growing darkness in the world that has kept my pen from writing a message to you, but I will not write to you lies. In truth, I have known little of what I could say to you. Oft I think too much has been said, but there are still other times I think we have stated far too little.
But there is nothing I can do to alter the past, so I find my only solace is to concentrate upon the present.
Your daughter is well, as my husband and lord has undoubtedly assured you many times. She thrives amongst the trees and elanor blossoms. Though she expresses no wish to return to Imladris at this time, I am certain her heart calls out to behold her father’s treasured presence. However, despite her silence in this matter, she has chosen to share some of her other thoughts with me.
Elrond, Arwen worries greatly for her brothers. She cannot, or will not, say anything that is specific, but she is certain that both are greatly troubled, Elrohir especially.
This alone tells me that no all is well west of the Hithaeglir. Husband of my only child, father of my grandchildren, I beseech you this: recall your sons from this mad quest to avenge their mother. Celebrían is gone from this land and though her sons are dear to her, she would have no wish for them to join her in Aman through the Halls.
Both Elladan and Elrohir suffered greatly at the loss of their mother, just as the rest of us did. Suffer they still do. I say to you, bring them home. Allow them to heal. Let not their despair and grief consume them.
Galadriel, Lady of Lothlórien, closes this letter.
Elrond knew Galadriel’s words-Arwen’s words-were correct. Much of what she had said to him he had already thought of extensively. He knew he had made a mistake in allowing his sons to depart Imladris in their state, Elrohir in particular. Elladan had warned him, pleaded with him to see that his younger son was obviously plagued, and he had seen it. But when he had attempted to confront him, to soothe his pain, Elrohir had firmly turned him away, refusing the subtle offer of comfort and rest.
His sons were fully grown, well past their majority. For the most, they did as they pleased. Both Celebrían and he had agreed that they would be allowed to make their own decisions without undue interference. They were of age and free to make their own choices.
But this was a time when parental authority had to be invoked.
But how to call them? His sons traveled extensively when they were not at home. They could be as far east as Lothlórien, or as far south as Gondor. It meant little that they mostly chose to move about with the Dúnedain Chieftains. If Elladan and Elrohir did not wish to be found, they would not be.
Elrond closed his eyes wearily. He would send messages to the Dúnedain, stating that he wished his sons to return as quickly as possible to Imladris. He would not have to send such a message to Lothlórien. From the words Galadriel had written, she and Arwen would order them home immediately if they appeared there.
To be truthful-something Elrond prided himself on being-he still did not know how to heal his sons of their sorrows. He and Galadriel had done what was necessary to keep him on this side of the Sea, but he doubted the same solution was the answer to his sons’ dilemma.
Despite his uncertainty, however, Elrond was determined to follow the course he had been urged onto. His sons were in danger and he would not let either of them from his sight until the peril had faded.
--
They crept through the trees, silently stalking their prey. None of the animals of the forest noted their passage, or if they did, they did nothing to alert anyone of what they saw.
For this Elrohir was grateful. He had no wish to enlighten the Orcs and Goblins that were in the clearing but a small distance away just yet. They would only know of his presence when he came upon them and ended their miserable lives.
He heard their grunts and smelled their fell odors. Sneering in disgust, Elrohir did one last quick glance about him. He could see Elladan moving forward with Aragost, Chieftain Arahad’s eldest son, off to his left. To his right, he saw a few of Aragost’s kin, including his younger brother, Aravir.
After a moment, Elrohir let his gaze go back to what lay in front of him. He saw the flickering glow of the fires that the Orcs and the Goblins had built. He could see their shadows moving languidly about the immediate area. He turned again in the direction of Aragost, waiting for the signal to advance.
Elrohir fought down a stab of impatience when he saw the son of the Chieftain quietly conferring with one of his men. Now was not the time for talking, a part of him raged. It was time for action.
Much to Elrohir’s relief, Aragost dealt with whatever he was speaking of quickly. He then turned back to what was before him and raised his hand slightly, indicating that they should move in.
Almost immediately, voices cried out from all over the forest, shouting the battle cry of Elendil.
The younger son of Elrond did not bother, instead choosing to dart forth into the melee. His curved blade found its mark with practiced ease. Elrohir let his instincts take control, automatically ignoring the putrid smells that soon began to assault his nostrils.
The battle was swiftly going in their favor. The Orcs and Goblins had not expected to come under attack, and thus had been caught unprepared, especially when it was revealed that the Dúnedain had two deadly Elven warriors amongst their ranks.
But Elrohir fought on, despite the growing advantage. In his mind, he saw that cave, the ragged remains of her gown, her agonized moans whenever someone touched her…
He let out a primal growl and increased the strength in his blows, his fury increasing his desire to see the horrid creatures before him suffer.
Let them die! His mind seethed. Let them suffer eternally! For her! She did not deserve what happened! She did not-
Surprisingly, it took only a pitiful moan to bring Elrohir out of his crazed thoughts. Whirling, he was horrified to see young Aravir lying on the ground, horribly bloody gashes on his leg and chest. At least a dozen of the remaining Orcs and Goblins were converging on the fallen Dúnedan.
Without heed for his own safety, Elrohir plunged towards the scene before him, not hearing the alarmed shouts of Elladan and Aragost.
He fought valiantly, but his concentration had been shattered as his mind fought two fronts, both the reality of the past and that of the present. His eyes showed him Aravir, weakly using his dagger to fend off any that came too close to him, but his mind and heart saw only her, lying defenseless on a cold, merciless stone floor of a deep, dank cave.
And as any warrior knows, when concentration is lost, the battle becomes even more deadly.
So when Elrohir found himself surrounded completely by three Orcs and four Goblins, he was not completely shocked. He held his blood-covered sword aloft, ready to attack.
But the wretched creatures had learned to use some type of strategic tactic when dealing with an Elf. So, they did the worst thing possible to Elrohir.
They charged him together as one.
He managed to kill at least three of them, perhaps four. But the others were there as well, swinging their daggers and swords at him. He felt one slice through the skin on his left side, another puncture his abdomen area.
How he did not scream out in pain, Elrohir would never know. But as consciousness began to mercifully fade, his last thought was for the safety of Aravir, even as he heard Elladan yelling his name in terror and horror.
Then there was nothing but darkness. And Elrohir welcomed it gladly.
--
When Elrohir’s body was viciously run through by a foul Orc blade, Elladan truly knew rage for the first time since the night they had found their mother. He cut a bloody swath through the remaining creatures that stood in his path, desperate to come to his twin’s aid. Horror soon coupled with his wrath when Elrohir slumped forward into the blood that covered the ground.
Vaguely, Elladan was aware he was shouting his brother’s name, as well as the fact that Aragost was following his example and hurrying forth to rescue his wounded younger brother. But he paid little attention to the Dúnedain that were beginning to draw closer to him. His only concern was for Elrohir.
When Elladan reached his side, he sank to his knees beside him, deftly attempting to ignore the disturbing similarities between the current situation and the one they had previously faced. It had only been through his brother’s strength of spirit that Elladan had not faded from grief and guilt. Now he had no one to rely on for comfort. He was-
No! It shall not be!
He quickly noted several of the Dúnedain gathering around him. “Some of you,” he demanded, barely giving them a glance, “help me. We must stop the blood flow and move him to a place where I can help him further. The rest, aid the sons of your Chieftain.”
The Men moved quickly and methodically, following Elladan’s instructions. The few that stayed with him quickly gave him their water-skins, allowing him to lightly wash the wounds that tormented his brother’s now-shivering form.
Hold on, brother, hold on.
Elladan moved ahead of them, making to where their horses had been brought. Aragost appeared out of the darkness to walk along side him.
“My brother’s wounds are not as bad as they appeared to be at first glance,” he reported. The son of the Chieftain glanced behind him. “What of your sibling?”
“They are bad,” the eldest son of Elrond answered shortly, determinedly not following the Man‘s gaze. “I fear for his life.”
Aragost paled slightly, then said, “We shall make for Bree. They may not be fond of the Dúnedain, but they will not turn away those that are in need of healing. We-”
“No,” Elladan cut him off. “My brother’s wounds are beyond the abilities of a normal healer to heal. He has other afflictions that cannot be seen. I must make for Imladris. Only my father will have the strength and knowledge to heal Elrohir.”
“But will he make it there alive? The distance…”
The Peredhel sighed, allowing some of his uncertainty show as he came to a stop before his horse. “I do not know. I do not believe he will.” He looked at Aragost. “But what else can I do but try? I will not look into my father’s eyes and tell him that he has now lost one of his children because I was too fearful to take an unavoidable risk.”
Without another word, Elladan grabbed a hunk of mane and pulled himself up onto the horse’s back. Motioning to the Men who held his brother, he commanded, “Put him up in front of me. I will hold him as I ride.”
Meanwhile, Aragost was looking around him thoughtfully. “I believe,” he said, “I can spare a few Men. They,” he gestured to those who held Elrohir, “Will accompany you back to Rivendell and see that nothing stands in your way.”
As Elladan gripped his brother’s unconscious form as tightly as he dared, he spared the Man a grateful smile. “Thank you, my friend. I am in your debt.”
Aragost did his best to return the smile, but shook his head. “My kin owe you and yours more than we can ever repay. Think of this as but a vain attempt to do so in any case. Ride, son of Elrond, ride like the wind.” With that, Aragost turned away to gather up the remains of his group.
Elladan turned also, maneuvering his horse out of the clearing. The Men escorting him followed closely, having no problem keeping up. As the animals picked up speed, Elladan looked down at Elrohir.
Beads of sweat were growing apparent, even in the dim light that lit the forest. His eyes were moving rapidly beneath his closed eyelids, and even his pale lips were beginning to form either pitiful moans or perhaps even words.
“Nana…”
The Peredhel’s heart clenched and tears sought to fill his own grey eyes. Even, perhaps especially, now, Elrohir’s thoughts went to her. And from the sheer emotion that came forth in that one word, Elladan could easily perceive that the memories going through his brother’s mind were not the most pleasant images. Elrohir’s fëa wilted more and more as the memories plagued his mind.
And that simple fact terrified the elder twin.
No, brother, Elladan silently pleaded as he continued urge his horse at an even faster pace. Do not leave these lands. Not you as well… Elladan silently implored, gritting his teeth in sympathy when Elrohir moaned as he did his best to bind the injuries. Once he had finished, he nodded to the Men, who had maneuvered themselves to different parts of Elrohir’s body. As one, the strong Men lifted the unconscious Peredhel up. Elladan would not accept the death of his twin, his other half. Frantically running through all he knew of dealing with sword wounds, he worked to stem the flow of blood while silently praying to the Star-Kindler to spare Elrohir’s life.