Three

The youngest son of Elrond had always relived things in his dreams. His mindset was so similar to that of his father’s that it seemed a foregone conclusion. As he had grown older, Elrond had instructed Elrohir on how he could control his active mind and what he saw when he dreamed. And in the wake of what he had seen since his majority, Elrohir had found it to be an extremely useful skill.

But now, as he grew weaker and weaker of his wounds, he found also that his control over his thoughts was also slipping.

And so, he dreamed of something he longed with all of his being to forget…

Elladan firmly believed the Valar were aiding him in his flight to Imladris. The horses seemed to have more energy within them and did not need to be rested as often as he had thought. One of the men Aragost had sent with him had some measure of healing skills and thus was able to aid him in keeping Elrohir’s wounds cleaned and bound.

Few did the group pass as they took the road. When it appeared they might come upon someone, they sought to go around through the forests that surrounded them, but there were still times when they roared past groups of children playing in the dirt who still watched them in amazement and confusion.

Elrohir’s moaning cries for their naneth lasted for much of the journey, accompanied by calls for their father and for Arwen. Much to his own shame, Elladan learned to become accustomed to the sounds that came from his wounded twin and blocked them from his conscious mind.

It was not until the group had almost reached the Bruinen that the moans stopped and true terror engulfed him.

They had stopped briefly to rest the horses and again change the bandages on Elrohir’s wounds. Baran, the man who assisted him in this task, stopped midway through binding the wound on his left side to stare down at the wounded Peredhel.

“What is it,” Elladan asked distractedly as he continued to bind his brother’s other wound. “We must move on soon. We-”

“Elladan, Elrohir makes no sound. He has fallen silent and his skin grows more pale than the moon above us. His eyes have closed.”

Elladan’s grey eyes riveted onto his twin’s face and saw the Man was correct. A thin sheen of sweat covered Elrohir’s face, even on his closed eyelids. The only indication of life within him was how his lips were parted slightly to draw air into his lungs. But that in itself was not much comfort, for his breaths had grown shorter and shallower as time passed them by.

“Finish with his wound,” he ordered grimly. “We must continue on.”

The band continued on in silence, but with an additional urgency. The reality that the younger son of Elrond was truly dying spurred them on with all the more energy.

Just as they reached the Fords of Bruinen, Elladan shouted loudly in Elvish, identifying himself and those who road with them. He was not entirely sure if he heard the returning call, but he cared little. He did not pause as their horses smashed into the water.

As they entered the lands controlled by his father, Elladan began to feel some measure of relief. The moment they had crossed the river, Elrond had undoubtedly sensed their impending arrival with one who had been wounded. Elladan did not know if he would know it was his own son who was being brought in to be healed, but he knew his father would be ready for their arrival.

The Last Homely House had been consumed, in a matter of minutes, by utter chaos.

Elrond had been in his study, intending to work on several administrative matters, but had nodded off into a light sleep instead, much to his own chagrin. But his sleep had not been a restful one. In his dreams he had seen many unpleasant things. Images of two figures riding a horse at near break-neck speed, a group of other riders surrounding them protectively.

And there were the feelings of pain. Pain of the physical body, pain of the soul and heart. Pain ripped through his senses as he dreamed of the riders.

The dreams were only ended when the sudden arrival of several people into the lands of Imladris. Awareness shooting through his body, Elrond hurtled himself from his chair and away from his desk. Running out of the study, he began shouting orders at his aide, Nolwë.

“Ready the Healer’s Hall. Wounded are being brought to the house and will arrive within the hour. Have rooms for at least half a dozen men prepared as well.”

Fortunately, Nolwë was acquainted with his lord’s sometimes unusual way of going about matters, and thus did not hesitate in carrying out the orders he had been given. He rushed away from Elrond, calling out to various Elves and assigning them various tasks.

Elrond barely took notice of the flurry of activity. His eyes drifted towards a nearby terrace that faced towards the Bruinen. He stepped out and looked out over the valley, his hearing filled with the sounds of the roaring waterfalls nearby.

He closed his grey eyes and concentrated Vilya’s power, seeking for the company that was riding towards the house with all speed. After only a few moments, Elrond’s senses were filled with both the presence of his eldest son and a feeling of pain that quite nearly sent him to the marble floor.

As he shook his himself, Elrond felt Elladan reach back.

--

The time from then until the company arrived seemed to pass Elrond by in a blur. Several healers waited with him in the courtyard, holding a stretcher as well as a hastily-made concoction to give to Elrohir for any pain he might be in.

When they appeared through the entrance, their horses slick with sweat and breathing heavily, Elrond’s eyes immediately sought out his sons. There, in the front of the pack. Elladan held his brother tightly in front of him, keeping him from sliding limply to the hard ground, but still Elrohir’s dark head lolled lifelessly from side to side with every step the horse took.

As Elladan quickly slid from his horse and brought Elrohir down with him, Elrond and the healers immediately converged on them. Two of the healers placed him on the stretcher while Elrond himself sank to his knees beside his son’s form and began unwrapping the bandages that covered his wounds.

Sensing Elladan hovering worriedly nearby, Elrond asked quietly, “Has there been any sign of infection since they were inflicted?”

“Some,” he replied wearily. “Baran and I used what little brandy or alcohol we had with us to clean the wounds, but still the infections persist.”

“Not surprising,” one of the healers murmured. “The poison of an Orc blade needs more than alcohol to eradicate it.”

“Indeed,” Elrond agreed, nodding slightly. Finished with his light examination, he stood. “Bring him into the healing rooms, quickly. The infection is not as bad as it could have been, but we must move quickly.”

After that, Elrond began to lose all sense of the passing of time. His senses were concentrated fully on his son, who barely even flinched in his sleep when he began pouring in the acids used to destroy the poisons that coursed through his body.

Elrohir’s lack of response, in all seriousness, worried Elrond far more than the wounds themselves. Elladan and the Man Baran had done as best their circumstances had allowed them, and had indeed done a great deal to aid in the healing of the wounds. But despite the physical improvements, Elrohir still remained unresponsive and showed no signs of waking.

He had waited over a day, hoping it to be merely exhaustion that kept his son from returning to the land of waking. But when he did not so much as twitch during all that time, Elrond’s concern continued to grow. Something was wrong, something beyond Elrohir’s wounds sustained in the battle.

Elladan had agreed with him. Elrond’s eldest son had been in and out of the room ever since the healers had permitted him to enter. He had gazed down at his twin in the manner of one who is witness to a terrible atrocity, but is helpless to prevent it.

Why Elrohir would pull away from his brother greatly confused the Lord of Imladris. Elrohir knew his connection with his twin would be an aid to pull him back from the precipice. Why would he shut that out?

There was only one course to take if he wished to find out, but it was one he was greatly loathe to take. To enter into the very recesses of Elrohir’s mind without permission left him with a slightly sick feeling. He rather despised the ability, to be candid. There were undoubtedly things within his son’s mind that he wished to keep private and now he would run the risk of his own father seeing his very soul laid bare.

But what choice did Elrond have? His son was letting go of his brother, an act which could very well kill them both. No one had the desire to lose either one of them, much less both. There was no choice.

Sighing softly in determination, Elrond stood up from his nearby chair and moved towards the bed that contained his youngest son. He seated himself, then looked down at Vilya which rested innocently on his finger, twinkling faintly in the light. It would aid him, he knew, but never did he relish using the chief of the Three. Too raw were the wounds it had inflicted, directly or indirectly. He still recalled the day Gil-galad had entrusted him with it, and how he had died even as Elrond had exhaustedly commanded it to save him. He remembered how it had failed to heal Celebrían’s fear of the world around her.

Elrond shook his head violently, dispelling his thoughts. He could not afford such distractions. He had to focus on Elrohir, or he would be lost and Elladan with him.

Closing his eyes, Elrond placed the palm of his hand on Elrohir’s pale forehead. When he opened his mind, he was almost instantly assaulted with images and emotions.

“Ada! Wake, Ada! What is happening?!”

Elrond’s eyes snapped open to see the face of Elladan but inches from his, his grey eyes full of trepidation. Vaguely, he also felt Elladan’s hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly.

“I’m… I’m alright,” Elrond gasped, surprised that his voice sounded so dry and faded. What had happened? After taking the glass of water offered by one of the healers who now stood next to Elladan, he asked as much.

“We heard sounds of distress, my lord,” the healer explained, her eyes taking him in critically. “We feared something else had happened to Lord Elrohir, so we entered. We found you slumped by the bed, crying out in suffering. Do you recall anything that could be the cause?”

For several moments, Elrond did not answer. His eyes turned back the Elrohir and saw that he had not appeared to move at all. The only change was he seemed to have grown paler, if that was even possible.

“Yes,” he murmured. “He is dying. His grief is pushing him away from his body. He is longing for Mandos.”

Briefly, silence reigned in the room. Then, the only sound to interrupt it was the half wail, half moan that escaped Elladan’s lips as he collapsed to his knees beside his brother’s bed.

Almost immediately after Elladan collapsed from his grief, he was carted off to a nearby bed where he could rest. Elrond, after seeing to the comfort of his firstborn, slowly sank down next to Elrohir. In the aftermath of what had occurred, he had perhaps grown even more wan. Barely did he even draw breath anymore.

He closed his eyes. No, my son, no, he whispered silently, his heartache engulfing him. Do not leave us… To lose you… Elrohir, no…

When Elrond opened his eyes again, he found his cheeks covered in anguished tears. The agony in his soul was unbearable. Everything inside of him twisted in denial at the thought of Elrohir forsaking life for Námo’s Halls. How could anyone bear such pain? Only once before…

A small sob escaped his lips as the thought, only half-formed, filled his mind. Celebrían. Only her loss had caused something like this in him. And now his decision to allow Galadriel to mute her memory had been for naught. He now faced the pain in spite of his attempts to avoid it.

Agony ripped through him. His wife was gone, perhaps until the world was remade, and now he stood to lose his sons as well. Elrond had no illusions now. He was certain if Elrohir died, Elladan would not linger long. Nothing could keep him here if his brother was gone.

Elrond violently pushed himself up, away from Elrohir’s still form and towards the balcony. He needed fresh air. He had to get out, away from the oppressiveness of death that lingered in the room.

Staggering through the doors, he managed to catch himself on the railing. Clenching it tightly, Elrond sought desperately to regain control of his emotions. As he battled, he raised his eyes up towards the sky, towards the stars that now lit the inky black night.

But the Evening Star did not send deign to send him any sign that he had been heard. Elrond bowed his head, defeat seeping into his weary body. He had done all he could to assure his sons they were not responsible for their mother’s plight, but still guilt tormented their souls. What more could he do? He had done his best to comfort them, holding them in the after days of Celebrían’s departure as they wept. He had allowed them to cry and rave against the world, just providing a gentle, comforting presence. What else was there to be attempted?

Elrond looked up again at his father’s star. Both Eärendil and Elwing were but distant, shadowed figures in his mind. Little did he remember of either of them, aside from that his mother had been a warm, safe presence, and his father a stern, but no less loving, figure. Círdan had oft told him that his father had been a disciplined man and had sought to instill that in both of his sons in the short time he had with them. When either he or Elros had done wrong, not even Elwing would stand in the way of their father’s punishments, which were always just. He…

Elrond’s eyes widened as the thought came upon him. He had never truly taken Círdan’s words as anything more than an attempt to give Elrond insight to his parents. Could they also hold another method…

He straightened up, pondering. If he did what he was thinking, he would be taking a gamble. It might bring Elrohir back to them, but he was so weak now, it could very well be the final push he needed to enter the Halls of Waiting. And his brother would follow. It was all or nothing.

But what choice did he have? Elrohir was not responding nor listening to the kind, gentle, and pleading words of his father and brother. Elrond doubted even Arwen could pull him back at this point. There had to be another way.

There was no choice, really. Glancing up one last time, Elrond whispered a few words of thanks to his father before entering Elrohir’s room. His father could have very well indeed assisted in saving the lives of his grandsons.

But Elrond had to hurry. Little time remained.