THE KNAVE
Overall rating: yellow/orange
Category: slash (two male Elves in love), romance, drama, ANGST, h/c, humour.
Pairings: Orophin/Elladan, Erestor/Glorfindel, Haldir/Rabbit - and some surprises
Warnings: mpreg, ANGST
Beta: Miss Eveiya
Summary: this is the story of Orophin and Elladan, and how they finally found happiness. Some ties not even death can cut - and life is a never ending gamble. It is also the story of Erestor and Glorfindel, and how they cope with their little Elfling, Estorel.
Author's notes: Welcome to Tíngel Forest - enjoy your holidays...
Very special thanks go to Eveiya, the coma-terminator, for her excellent beta-ing and valuable comments which I mostly followed. :-)
CHAPTER 6
"It's been a bad day, please don't take my picture,
It's been a bad day, please
It's been a bad day, please don't take my picture,
It's been a bad day, please"
REM, "Bad Day"
~°~
From a healer's point of view, sitting by a river in wintertime and freezing one's backside off was not exactly a recommendable thing, but the depressing sight of the black, roaring waters of the Bruinen suited Elladan's mood, so he was not complaining.
Two weeks had passed since one of the stable grooms had found him, lying bound in the straw. It must have been one of the most embarrassing moments in his life, and he was sure that, by now, every Elf in Rivendell, if not also every Hobbit in the Shire, knew what a pathetic figure the heir of Imladris was, and without a doubt, they were all laughing behind his back.
'Heir of Imladris', Elladan thought, 'if that is not a joke, then I do not know what is.' Not a joke, no – a yoke. A yoke which rested on his neck like a sack of flour and grew heavier every day.
Just like his heart.
At first, he had been furious with Orophin for catching him out like this, for leaving him behind – for leaving him at all. Then pain had won out over anger, and on the second day, Elladan had been filled with an all-consuming sadness. If he had not been the oldest son of Elrond, he wouldn't have hesitated to saddle the next best horse and ride out, after Orophin, to stand and fight by his side. But as it was, he had a duty to stay here. There was nobody he could talk to, for nobody knew about his love for Orophin – well, Glorfindel did, but he was still out on patrol with Rúmil, most probably very busy making the Galadhrim's life as uncomfortable as possible.
"Elladan, penneth – I am pleased to see you are interested in nature's beauty, but maybe you should postpone further studies of the Bruinen's flow till spring time. Unless you sit here in the snow to keep your backside fresh, of course."
Elladan's head snapped up, and he was surprised to see Erestor standing close by. The advisor was, as usual, dressed in black, a heavy cloak of the same colour covering his frame, and he carried Estorel in a length of soft cloth, tied around his torso. The baby was wrapped up in so many clothes, blankets and covers that nothing could be seen of him save the tip of a tiny, pointed ear. Glorfunkle was hovering above the tall Elf, his black eyes watching Elladan.
"I was seeking solitude, Master Erestor," Elladan muttered, hoping that his father's chief advisor would get the hint and leave. He felt no need for company.
"It certainly looks to me like you have found it. So, with this task completed, I would be most grateful if you would accompany me back to my chambers. It is very cold out here, I am tired, and I hope you will spare me the effort to carry you and follow me of your own free will."
Elladan knew this tone. It was the 'do not even consider refusing' one; nobody could wrap up thorns quite as nicely as Erestor, and the more carefully chosen his words, the more was hidden behind them.
"I suppose you will not take a 'no' for an answer, will you," Elladan asked, already preparing to get up.
"Your supposition is, as always, correct," Erestor answered with a sly smile, watching the older twin brush the snow from his breeches, while Glorfunkle landed on Erestor’s shoulder and started to peck at his braids. The advisor was tenderly stroking the ear of the baby resting against his chest, while Estorel purred.
"He seems to like that," Elladan remarked, giving the baby a warm smile.
"Do we not all?" Erestor answered, then he turned around, and Elladan followed him back through the snow to the Last Homely House, up the stairs, and finally into the chambers of Erestor and Glorfindel.
* * *
Lothlórien was endless, both in size and age. There were parts of the Golden Wood no Galadhrim's foot had touched for many millennia, and nature had taken over, grown wild and dangerous. Here, the branches of the trees were interwoven like the fingers of two hands, and no sunlight touched the moss-covered ground, the shadows grew longer and longer, and finally, darkness spread over this part like a shroud.
This was Tíngel Forest – a place which had become a hiding ground for Evil, be it Orcs or spiders, and Celeborn had suspected more than once that this was where the forces of darkness were concentrating, preparing for one last, final attack on all things fair and good. There were no animals in this forest, no birds singing, only the barking of the Wargs could be heard, or the occasional hissing of poisonous spiders which made their Mirkwood kin look like fluffy toys.
To top this all, it was constantly raining in Tíngel, and so Orophin, who held watch, was soaked to the bones and cold. The atmosphere of this place weakened his defences. The chill he felt was not so much from the temperature and the wet, but a chill in his heart. Fear was lurking in these woods, and the presence of evil could be felt at all times. Hundreds if not thousands of invisible eyes were watching him. The enemy was close, and sensing but not seeing that presence - never having the chance to subdue - was more nerve-wracking than any battle could have been.
"Galadriel should have followed Lord Celeborn's advice," Turmil, one of the longest-serving Galadhrim here had told Orophin on the day of his arrival, "to send strong forces here and clear this place of the vermin once and for all, but no, Madame didn't want to part with her personal guard, so here we are, trying to combat evil with no chance of success, while Madame organises pretty parades in Lothlórien and worries whether pink uniforms might suit the Galadhrim better than grey ones."
Turmil was a battle-experienced warrior, a huge scar from an Orc blade ran all the way from his left brow to his cheek. He had been sent here after a row with his commanding captain which had ended in a fight, and under normal circumstances, Orophin would have protested the other Elf's criticism of the Lady Galadriel, but as she was the reason he sat here in the first place, his motivation to speak for her was at an all-time low.
Since his arrival, three of his comrades had already died. One had been sucked dry by a spider while on watch, one had been maimed by a Warg, and the third – well, his fate was difficult to tell, as the few remains found on the morrow yielded insufficient information.
They ran into Orcs almost every day, and it had become clear to Orophin that Tíngel Forest was not as bad as its reputation, but worse. It was said that only one in ten Elves would leave this place alive, but this was a lie – one in thirty, maybe.
Galadriel had sent him to almost certain death – this was the most confusing thing about it. It was not like her to do such a thing. Certainly, he had not expected her to break out in song and dance upon hearing the news of her grandson's involvement with a mere Galadhrim, but in times past, she would have called Orophin in front of her, demanding to hear the full story, and finally, she would have made a fair judgement, even if she disapproved. But this? Something was wrong in Lothlórien, Orophin knew it, and he wished he was not trapped here so he could investigate.
And he really, really wished he could see Elladan again – just once. Orophin felt awful about the way he had left him, but at the time, he had seen no other way of stopping the young Elf from riding after him. The nagging little voice in the back of his head kept insinuating that the son of Elrond certainly would not have risked his neck to ride after a simple guardian, anyway. But Orophin would have followed Elladan to Mordor and back – why should it be different for the younger Elf? 'Because he knows where his priorities are, you fool', the little voice answered, and Orophin shook his head.
Elladan. Every time he thought of the young one, his heart skipped a beat, and he missed him painfully, but at the same time, the memories of his touch, his scent, his laughter, his kisses were like a light, warming Orophin and shining upon his troubled soul, and when he was close to despair on the dark, rainy, moonless nights on watch, it was the memory of Elladan that kept him going. He would survive – he wanted to see Elladan again. And the Orc or spider or Warg was not yet born that would keep him from doing this.
Orophin pulled the hood of his cloak further down his face and walked over to Turmil, who lay sleeping in his bedroll under the protecting roof of a makeshift tent. Orophin frowned when he heard the rattling breath of the other Elf – colds had been unheard off among the Firstborn, except for Elrond, the twins or Arwen, 'thanks' to their human heritage, but here, the normal rules seemed not to apply, everybody suffered from this strange illness which hurt the lungs and made breathing difficult, and Orophin was also feeling the first treacherous stings in his chest.
He crouched down, gently touching Turmil's shoulder and shaking him - it was two hours before sunrise, time for the changing of the guard.
* * *
The sudden heat made Elladan's skin tingle and nose run, and he desperately wished he had something to blow his nose on – using his sleeve was absolutely no option.
Erestor, ever the observant Elf, passed him one of Fin's hankies without comment.
"Thank you," Elladan said, then dropped into one of the two comfy chairs which were gathered around a small side table in front of the fireplace. A game of chess, half played only, was laid out on it, awaiting Fin's return.
Erestor peeled the baby out of the many layers of cloth, and disappeared into the adjoining nursery, followed by his crow, to change Estorel's nappies and clothing. Fifteen minutes later, he was back, the baby on his arm and a bottle of warm milk peeking out of the pocket of his robe.
"So, now that I finally have you here where I wanted you, I shall not neglect my duties as a host any longer," Erestor said, and rang the bell. Soon after, a servant knocked on the door, asking the advisor's wishes.
"Two Fried Balrogs, mine low on the alcohol, please," Erestor ordered; the servant bowed and made an exit, promising he would bring the desired beverage immediately.
"'Fried Balrog'? What is this? I have never heard of such a beverage."
Erestor gave the young lord a small smile.
"It is a draught which was most probably created by the Valar, or at least by Glorfindel's grandmother, who, so he claims, used it to charm his grandfather. Like most stories of my beloved mate, this one should be encountered with a healthy dose of doubt, but it is delightful, hot, and just the thing you need, my friend."
With that, he settled down in the chair opposite Elladan, and started to feed Estorel.
For a while, two Elves sat in silence while the third drank noisily, then the servant knocked again, bringing two mugs with a steaming, delicious-smelling liquid. He placed a mug in front of Elladan, then served Erestor – strictly following the protocol to serve the one of higher rank first.
Elladan took a small sip of the hot liquid, then made a delighted noise.
"By the Valar – this tastes divine! What is it?"
"Let me see – hot milk, chocolate, Shire Brandy with cream – a LOT of Shire Brandy - and whipped cream on top. It will warm your belly."
Both indulged on the 'Fried Balrog', then Erestor placed his mug on the table, careful not to move the chess pieces, and returned to give the bottle to Estorel, while Elladan kept his mug held closely in his hands, as if to warm them.
"It does warm your belly, my friend, but I wish I knew how to warm your heart, for it seems rather frozen to me."
Elladan looked up, directing an appraising glance at Erestor.
"I do not know what you mean, Master Erestor," he answered briskly, staring down into the brown, sweet liquid.
"Elladan – I am your friend. I see that you are sad, and I want to help you. Confide in me – if there is anything I can do to help you, I will, even if it is only to lend you my ear."
The young Elf turned the mug in his hands, not answering. Erestor watched him for a while, then, after Estorel had finished his bottle and burped, he wiped the baby's mouth clean, kissed him and put him carefully back in the cradle which was close by. Glorfunkle sat on his usual place on the headboard, watching over the Elfling.
Erestor started to rock the cradle gently, humming an ancient Noldorian lullaby. The whole scene was so peaceful and loving that Elladan felt all the more miserable.
"It is about Orophin, is it not," Erestor finally said, without taking his eyes from the now sleeping Elfling.
Elladan stared at him, almost shocked. It had not been a question, it had been a statement, and it was now clear that avoiding the matter or denying anything would not help – Erestor knew.
The older twin hung his head, hiding his face behind his long hair.
"Ai," he said, and now he felt Erestor's eyes on him.
"Do not be surprised, Elladan – I have been the chief advisor of your father for many millennia. I think I fulfil my duties rather well, and one of the reasons I can do so is that I know everything. If a flea on Thrandúil's dog is coughing, I know it. And you are certainly dearer to my heart than Mirkwood's fleas, Elladan. So tell me - what is troubling you."
Elladan considered Erestor's words for a moment, then he started to talk. He told the advisor everything – how he had realized Orophin liked him, his doubts, his fears, and how they finally had told each other about their feelings, how Orophin had hit him in the stable and left behind, and how very much he wished to strangle his grandmother, which was certainly unworthy of the Heir of Imladris, but that was the way he felt, and he couldn't help it.
"So your beloved has left you, you fear for his life and you do not even have the comfort of mourning his departure, as nobody shall know about your love and pain. Indeed, Elladan, this is not a pleasant situation."
Erestor got up, and stepped to the window, looking outside into the darkness. Snowflakes were dancing in the air, fragile artworks, created to exist but a moment, like all beauty, fading far too fast. Fin was out there, somewhere, hopefully safe.
"Elladan – why have you not followed him?" Erestor asked, continuing to watching the snow fall.
"Follow him? But – how? I cannot…" Elladan stuttered, surprised by Erestor's question.
"How? Well, it seems to me you can handle a horse quite masterfully, Elladan. Do you doubt your riding abilities?"
Erestor finally turned around, crossing his hands behind his back and looking down at the flustered young Elf with compassion.
"Elladan – there is one thing you must understand, and I blame myself for neglecting this lesson when you were still my pupil. You are the Heir of Imladris, this is true. You have duties towards this realm, the Elves who live here, your family. I do not deny this. But," and with this, he crouched down in front of Elladan, taking the younger Elf's large hands in his own, long-fingered ones, rubbing the knuckles tenderly with his thumbs, "you are not only Elrond's son, Elrohir's brother or the Heir of Imladris – before anything else, you are Elladan. You are a living, feeling, breathing being, with a right to love and compassion, to a life of your own, and to happiness. How could you rule this realm wisely if you were unhappy? How could you support your father when you are sad? It is about time you grew up, Elladan – you are a noble Elf, you are a warrior, and you love Orophin. Go after him."
Elladan stared at Erestor – of all the Elves in Imladris, he had never, ever expected to hear such rebellious words from the no-nonsense, black-haired advisor. Glorfindel, maybe, and even the Balrog-slayer would hardly put personal happiness in front of his duty to Imladris.
Erestor's words had lit a small flame in Elladan's heart, a flame that grew, steadily, and would eventually become a fire, strong and burning, and it was this day that Elrond's oldest son finally grew up.
Elladan slung his arms around Erestor's neck, buried his face in the soft, black hair and hugged the advisor tight.
"Thank you, Erestor, so much. I never expected to get such advice from you."
Erestor returned the hug, rubbing Elladan's back soothingly.
"I lost myself in duties for much too long, Elladan. I had become part of the furniture. So I am very grateful that I have found out who I really am, after all this time."
Elladan let go of the older Elf, and looked at him questioningly.
"And who are you, then?"
Erestor laughed – a deep, hearty laughter Elladan had never heard from him before, which transformed the stern, serious advisor into a giggling Elfling.
"Me? I am Mrs. Glorfindel, of course!"
* * *
Maybe it would have been appropriate if Celeborn had felt as if he was having a bad dream, considering he was escorted to his own Talan by two of his wife's guards, a sulking Firinwë in tow, but strangely enough, he felt more awake than usual. For the first time in decades, he had a real, good look around his realm, and the reality hit him like a hammer.
The Golden Wood had changed. Once this had been a place of laughter and silliness, and he and Galadriel had contributed their fair share to this. Now, there was serenity and dignity, no frivolous songs were heard anymore, but hymns and laments, and Celeborn couldn't remember when he had heard the last healthy laughter in these woods. The Galadhrim had become as grey as their uniforms, and Celeborn wondered how this had happened without him noticing.
'You have been too busy drinking, gambling and whoring', his conscience answered the unspoken question, and as much as Celeborn wished he could brush this off, he had to admit that it was the truth: he had been neglecting his duties as a Lord, happy to leave all responsibility and work to Galadriel and live a merry life.
Merry – Celeborn almost laughed, alas without humour. It was not greed for entertainment and distraction that had driven him out of the woods and into other beds and taverns so often. He just couldn't bear to live in a place anymore where everything reminded him on the precious daughter he had lost, where every tree seemed to whisper her name and he couldn't look at a flower without thinking that Celebrían would never smell its sweet scent again.
Could he really blame Galadriel for escaping in the la-la-land her mirror created for her? Had he not tried to escape his pain as well?
Be that as it may, it was inexcusable for him to be led in front of his wife like a common thief, he was the Lord of the Golden Wood, and as such an equal to the Lady – there could be no doubt that another row was in the air, and he mentally prepared for a painful confrontation.
Firinwë, who was walking close behind him, trying to keep up with the long strides of both Celeborn and the guards, felt her heart sink more and more the closer they got to the royal talan. This was not going quite the way she had planned. Not only had Celeborn not fallen for her little scheme, no, Galadriel had also refused to pack her bags and leave the Golden Wood broken hearted. Being frog-marched in front of her royal bitchiness had not been on Firinwë's schedule in overtaking the Golden Wood, and now she felt increasingly uncomfortable. Galadriel could be horrible in her wrath, and being on the receiving end of it was not a delightful prospect.
She shrugged, and wrapped Celeborn's cloak closer around her shoulders. Getting nervous wouldn't lead anywhere, she chided herself, she needed to keep a cool head and if all things failed, she could still blame everything on Celeborn. Yes, this she would do. It was enough if one of them got in trouble, and why should she be the one?
* * *
Galadriel could hardly tear her gaze from the smooth surface of the mirror – for hours, she had stood there, motionless, watching and studying, had seen familiar and unknown faces, pain and laughter. Elrond had again tried to far speak with her, but she had blocked him – he couldn't be trusted anymore, not after what she had seen in the mirror.
Had the world gone mad? Were there no trustworthy friends anymore? Even her family seemed to try to bring her to a fall, it seemed – at least Elladan was safe, now that Orophin was gone. Had she not warned her husband against bringing the stray to the Golden Wood? Had she not told him that he was of bad blood? But Celeborn had always spoken for him. Alas, in the end, she had been right – he had hit Elladan, and bound him, after a cruel battle which she had followed in the mirror. By now, she knew that Elladan had recovered, but the Valar knew what might have happened if she hadn't removed this assassin from Elladan's side! Why did he try to harm her grandson? She had always thought Orophin to be reliable, he had been among her guards for many centuries, and now this.
Galadriel was confused. Sometimes, the mirror would call her in the middle of the night, showing her horrible pictures, her loved ones dead, torturing her with images of her daughter, battered, bruised, fading, and in the end, it all came back to Celeborn, who didn't seem to care, and whose love she seemed to have lost long ago. Over the years, she had learned to tolerate his extra matrimonial excursions, but when the mirror had shown her last night the passionate embrace of Firinwë and her husband, something had snapped deep within her.
Dancers and whores she had accepted, as they were no threat to her status – but Firinwë, who was of noble blood, in fact kin of hers – this she could not tolerate. And Celeborn would pay dearly for this treachery.
* * *
Glorfindel had endured two of the most unpleasant weeks in his life. Not only had he been ordered by Elrond to lead this rotten patrol though the Lord of Imladris knew very well that Fin wanted to stay at home and look after Erestor and the baby, no, he had also sent Rúmil along, 'to learn more about our realm', as Elrond had put it. Rejoice, oh Rivendell!
Fin had no idea if Rúmil learned more about Imladris, and he certainly didn't care, for he hardly exchanged a word with him. He simply couldn't stomach the fact that the Galadhrim had kissed HIS advisor, and Rúmil, on the other hand, would probably need another millennia or so to forgive the Balrog-slayer for breaking his nose. Rúmil was not a vain Elf, but for two weeks, his nose had looked like a cooked potato and hurt like Mordor, and this had interfered with his weekly amorous adventures. The two couldn't stand each other, and another kin slaying was looming.
The guards had a field day watching the two, and bets were placed on who would jump the other's throat first. Most bets were on Glorfindel, who was known for both his quick temper and his devotion to Erestor, the later being a fact many did not really understand.
"I really don't see what is supposed to be so special about Elrond's bat. He always looks like he just chewed on a lemon," one guard remarked, "and he is too skinny for my taste, anyway."
Another Galadhrim elbowed him in the side.
"Shht… be careful what you say, you fool – he could hear it!"
The first guard shrugged.
"Oh, come on – are you trying to scare me off with 'ye mighty Balrog-slayer' again? Look – sure, he used to be a big shot around Gondolin, many millennia ago. And yes, he killed a Balrog. But look at him today – he is changing nappies and warming the bottle. If you ask me, his time is over, and he had best retire, leaving the field to the young and strong."
Before the second guard could answer this insult, an arrow came flying, splitting the wood of the bench the Elf sat on – right between his legs. In fact, the arrow was only half an inch away from his most vital bits and pieces, and he paled visibly.
"Oh, I am so sorry," a humble voice could be heard from somewhere in the dark, "my apologies, young one. You must forgive me – elderly, crippled and weak ones like me ever so often lose control of both their bladders and their arrows, and incidents happen."
The Elf thought he would faint any second, especially when Glorfindel stepped into the light, a wolfish grin on his face.
"I hope you were not hurt," he asked in a most worried tone, batting his lashes, "if you were, I am most afraid that you will have to wait for treatment of your wounds till tomorrow, when we will be back in Rivendell. But a young, strong warrior like you surely can bear a couple of bruises. You should lie down and get some sleep, my friend – you will need your strength once we are back in Rivendell. The stables have not been cleaned in weeks, and you seem to be just the healthy young Elf it takes to tackle this task."
With that, he disappeared into the woods again, whistling a happy tune.
The Elves gathered around the fire giggled and snickered, and the chided archer blushed fervently. Rúmil, who sat a little off to the side, remarked: "His hearing, in any case, still seems to be immaculate."
The Elves laughed, and soon afterwards, they settled for sleep, save Rúmil and one other guard who were supposed to keep watch. Glorfindel was invisible, but Rúmil knew he was always close by, scouting the surroundings.
* * *
It was very early in the morning when the Orcs attacked. Rúmil knew that they had been following the patrol for at least two days, but none of them had thought the Orcs were dumb enough to attack this close to Imladris. Alas, this had been a misconception, and within seconds, the patrol found themselves involved in a heavy fight. The Orcs outnumbered them by far, but the Elves were not willing to flee, with the Orcs so close to Imladris. It was their duty to protect the realm, and this was what they would do.
After what seemed like an eternity, the Elves finally got the upper hand, and the Orcs started to retreat, save one, their leader, who had cornered Glorfindel. Fin cried out when the blade of his enemy sliced his shoulder open, and stumbled, falling to the ground. The Orc roared in victory and raised his sword ready to deliver the final blow when he was attacked by Rúmil. The Galadhrim dragged him to the ground, and they wrestled; the Orc was clawing at Rúmil's chest, drawing blood, and now he tried for his throat. Rúmil gasped, he was weaker than the beast, but faster and more nimble, and he wriggled away from the deadly fangs. Finally, he managed to bury his dagger up to the hilt in the beast's side.
The Orc roared, bucking, and Rúmil stabbed him again, and again, till he finally lay dead.
Rúmil panted heavily, the wounds on his chest hurting like Mordor, but overall, he had been lucky. He rolled the corpse off of him, then he sat for a while, recovering and catching his breath; in the meantime, the other Elves had hurried to Glorfindel's side.
The Elven lord lay still in the snow which coloured slowly dark red, and for a moment, Rúmil feared that he had come too late. But then he heard swear words that would have made a Gondorian soldier blush, and he knew that things were maybe not well, but definitely not hopeless.
"Carry him to the fire," the captain ordered, and while three Elves helped Fin back to the camp, another hurried to Rúmil's side, asking if he needed help.
"No, thank you. 't is nothing, just a scratch."
This was an understatement if ever there was one, but Rúmil was made of rough and tough material - it took more than an Orc to make him ask for help, and he felt that Glorfindel was more in need of medical assistance than he was.
They laid Fin in the tent, on bedrolls and blankets, covering him with a fur rug, and Rúmil towered above him.
"These wounds need to be cleaned and treated, my lord," he said.
"Nonsense", Fin growled, but his face contracted with pain when he spoke. The wound was deep and bleeding, and he didn't know if the blade had been poisoned.
"I shall see to your wounds now, Lord Glorfindel."
This commanding tone made Fin's hair rise, and he barked: "You? I would rather have the cook look after me, my chances of survival would be greater. Leave me be, you Lothlórien nuisance!"
Rúmil rolled his eyes, then he turned to the Elves who tried to hide their grins - despite their fear for Fin, they also enjoyed the banter very much, and couldn't wait to see who would yield in the end.
"Please have the courtesy to leave me alone with my patient. It might be necessary to use force, and I do not need on-lookers. Should any of you have a pair of shackles with you, though, I would be grateful to borrow them for the time being."
The guards snickered, then left the tent, while Fin was roaring and trying to get up. Alas, he didn't get too far, as the pain cut off his breath.
Rúmil shook his head, then, without further ado, he sat down in front of Fin, right on his legs, trapping him effectively to the floor.
"Ouch! What do you think you are doing here, you spawn of Mordor?" Fin howled, but Rúmil simply ignored him, fishing in the bag on his belt for some herbs. He found what he had been looking for, took some leaves in his mouth and started to chew them into mush, which was easier to apply. While he chewed, he peeled the protesting Fin out of his tunic.
"Do not pretend you know even the slightest thing about healing," Fin said, eyeing Rúmil with more than just suspicion. "I know very well that you are only trying to get me back for the broken nose, you quack."
Rúmil spat the chewed herbs on his hand, and carefully covered Fin's wound with them. The Elf lord immediately felt the pain fading, and a cooling, tingling sensation spread over the affected area.
The Galadhrim bandaged the wound carefully with strips of Fin's tunic, then, finished with his work, he crossed his arms.
"I am not Lord Elrond, but what I know is enough to get an old mare like you battle ready again, and now stay put and lie down, or I shall bind and gag you."
"You and what army..." Fin growled, alas with less conviction. After all, he owed Rúmil his life.
"And thank you, by the way." he muttered, but Rúmil had heard him well.
"Lord Glorfindel - do you not think it is about time you got over your grudge?"
Fin frowned, and chewed on his lip.
"You kissed my advisor." he finally said, and pouted.
"At that time, he was not yet your advisor. I was free to try my luck, and now be honest, my lord: is this so hard to understand?"
Fin shrugged.
"My lord - it was only a kiss."
Fin fiddled with his bandage, and Rúmil, still sitting on his legs to ensure he couldn't escape, grinned. Fin looked up, then he folded his arms defiantly over his chest, wincing in the process when his shoulder protested.
"He said you were an expert."
Rúmil laughed, loud and roaring.
"He did? Well, I am amazed - his participation was far from enthusiastic, if I remember the incident correctly. But then again - my memory is darkened by the ruthless act of needless violence which followed."
Now it was Fin's turn to roll his eyes.
"Fine - I apologise. Maybe I was overreacting. But seeing you kissing him was - well, I did not approve of it."
"You did not approve of me kissing him, or you did not approve that you were not?"
"What? Kissing him?"
Rúmil grinned, shaking his head.
"Of course him - I doubt you regretted not kissing me, my lord, though I dare say you missed out on a memorable experience."
"Now this I doubt!" Fin snorted, trying to wriggle away.
"Now really, do you..." Rúmil purred, a wicked smile on his lips. He had his mind set on finally getting the upper hand over the most splendid Glorfindel of Gondolin, so he traced the outline of the Elf lord's ear with his finger.
"Not only a memorable experience, but also a most pleasant one, my lord."
With that, he wove his fingers into Fin's hair, and closed in to kiss him.
Fin had lived long enough to tell a serious kiss from a teasing one. Rúmil did not desire him, nor did he desire the Galadhrim - it was a game, nothing else. However, he had to admit that Rúmil knew his business, so he yielded to the demanding guardian. After a good while, they parted, and Rúmil had a very smug grin on his face.
"Well - what was I like?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"Not bad - good technique. But you do not stand a chance in comparison with Erestor."
Rúmil nodded.
"This might be true, and though I really liked that little twist you did with your tongue, I must say that I've had better kisses in the past. Overall, I would give you seven of ten possible points. Could you agree on that?"
Fin considered this for a moment, then he nodded.
"Seven out of ten is fine, I guess. I shall be honest and give you eight, so you can feel you have won this contest and will hopefully get your lazy butt of my legs at last, for they have fallen asleep."
Rúmil laughed again, then he got up, but before he left, he made sure Fin was tucked in neatly under the fur rug.
"Sleep well, my lord." he said.
"You too, you master kisser."
All in all, Fin mused, the day hadn't been too bad, despite the Orcs.
His eyes glazed over in reverie, and he dreamt of Erestor.
* * *
"No, no, no!" Haldir barked, throwing his hands in the air.
"Have you forgotten everything I taught you? This is not a toothpick, it is an arrow. And you are not supposed to shoot at sparrows, but at the target! This was the lousiest shot I have ever seen! Try again, and try harder this time!"
The young Rivendell archer winced, and hurried to comply with Haldir's orders. My, but the Galadhrim was his most charming self today! Today? For weeks already! They all tried to steer clear of him, hoping his foul mood would eventually brighten up, but so far, their hopes had been disappointed. Even Lord Elrond tried to avoid any confrontation with Haldir, and that was pretty telling.
While the archer continued his exercises, Haldir inwardly kicked himself. Why had he lashed out like this? The young one was not at fault, was not responsible for Haldir’s foul mood.
He sighed. For weeks, his thoughts had run in circles. He knew Rabbit well enough to trust his words, and if his mate's revelation had been the truth, Orophin was really of his kin, and he - was only a half-elf. His stomach cramped again, even at the thought of it. Again and again Haldir had replayed all he knew about his youth, but couldn't find even the slightest indication about his family background. He had contemplated his fate, had tried to clear his thoughts while he took long walks in the woods, but there was nothing, nothing unelven in him. He felt no connection with mortals, never had; at best, he had come to respect some of them, like Estel, for example, but in general, he thought them to be rather rude and uncivilized. And now he was supposed to be one of them? At least in part? This couldn't be.
Haldir wished he could talk about this to somebody, but Orophin's departure had cut all discussion off, Rabbit couldn't or wouldn't tell him more than he already had, Celeborn was far away in the Golden Wood, and Rúmil - well, something kept Haldir from telling Rúmil of this. He didn't know how his older brother would react, and Haldir felt he couldn't deal right now with anybody's distress, by the Valar, he couldn't even deal with his own.
Was Orophin really his brother? Or a cousin? And who was his father then? And his mother? And how come an Elf had bedded a mortal? Questions over questions, and no answer in sight. Haldir was tense like a strung bow, and he also felt increasing anger with the Lady Galadriel for sending Orophin off like this. He knew the situation in Tíngel Forest, and he had no idea why, of all the Galadhrim in Lórien, Galadriel had sent Orophin, who was assigned guardian for Estorel, to join the forces, a dangerous task, this Haldir knew. It made no sense.
Something was wrong, and Haldir decided it was about time to find out what. Once Rúmil returned from the patrol with Glorfindel, he would accompany him back to the Golden Wood and talk to Celeborn. And while he was there, he would also tell Galadriel where she could stick her orders.
"That was a good shot," he complimented the archer, who gave him a relieved smile.
It had been a lousy shot, missing its aim by several feet, but at least the youngster hadn't killed some innocent squirrel.
* * *
Erestor knew immediately that something was wrong when he saw the patrol return. Fin was more hanging in his saddle than sitting in it, he was swaying and having a hard time staying on the horse, and there was a makeshift bandage around his shoulder.
He held Estorel close to his chest and ran down the flight of stairs as fast as the baby and his robes allowed; those were the moments he feared most, to get Fin back injured, and maybe, one day, not at all. When he arrived in the court yard, servants had already helped the badly battered guardians out of their saddles, the wounded were brought to the Healing House, and Elrond and Elladan were helping Fin to walk there, for the warrior had insisted on walking, refusing to be carried, barking insults and demanding not to be fussed over.
Erestor handed the baby over to Mauburz, who gave the Elfling a terrified look. "You make me wet, I bite off tip of ears!" she growled, and Estorel giggled, grabbing for one of her braids and tugging. "You are cheeky Elfling, bad manners, but you got nice red hair."
"My son does not have red hair! For the last time! Colour-blind Orc!" Fin howled his protest from the examination table, and Erestor felt a wave of relief wash over him – if the warrior could swear, he was alive. The advisor rushed to Fin's side, taking his hand, and stroking his face.
"You just can't keep out of trouble, can you," he said, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat at the sight of his injured mate.
"If I could, would I bind myself to you?" Fin growled, then hissed as Elrond cut away the makeshift bandage.
"You have been lucky, Glorfindel. This could have become inflamed, good to see somebody had the wits to treat the wound."
Fin gave Elrond a frown.
"Rúmil did it." he explained briskly, then he turned his attention back to Erestor.
Elrond cocked an eyebrow.
"Rúmil? He got within reach of you and you did not kill him? My, my, dear old friend, are we getting soft with old age?" the Lord of Imladris remarked, and the guards present snickered.
"Quiet! And you back there, you can all go count Orcs in Mirkwood for the next millennia or two!" Fin barked, and the archers broke out in laughter. After the battle and the tiring last days, this laughter did more towards healing than any of Elrond's salves or tinctures, and Fin was well aware of this, so he played along.
Elrond turned to Rúmil, who sat on the next table and whose chest-wound was being treated by Elladan.
"You have done this well, Rúmil. I did not know you had knowledge of herb-lore and healing."
Rúmil shrugged.
"We are away on patrol for many months at times, and you learn to care for your wounds yourself, as there is not always a healer close by. I don't know much, just the essentials."
"But still," Elrond complimented, "you have done very well. Thank you."
Rúmil bowed his head, then he returned his attention to Elladan, who was applying a salve to his wound.
Nobody had noticed how Elladan had tensed when Elrond complimented Rúmil on his healing skills – nobody but Erestor, who saw how the young Elf clenched his jaw. While Fin argued with Elrond, Erestor, who still held Fin's hand, studied Elladan.
'You have grown up, penneth', he thought, 'but you don't know it yet'. Elladan was over 3000 years old, but there had always been something immature, insecure and child-like about him. Elrohir, on the other hand, had acted responsibly and like a young lord even from an early age, so it was no surprise that those who didn't know the twins thought Elrohir to be the older.
And another thing Erestor noticed: Elladan was very fair of face – over the last years, he had matured, and his almost mortal build and sharp features were now in harmony, his face was not of a timeless beauty like Elrohir's, but there was an expression in his eyes which made you look twice.
Erestor wondered about this change, and he also wondered why he had never noticed before. 'What triggered this change?' Erestor mused, 'Was it Orophin? Did the Galadhrim see something in Elladan that was there all along, while we were too preoccupied with other things to notice?'
Elladan was not inexperienced, Erestor had seen quite a few lovers of his over the years, but never had he seen such passion and pain in Elladan's face. Erestor had watched him, seen the glances the two had exchanged, the shy, almost accidental touching of hands, and then there had been the peculiar circumstances of Orophin's departure.
Elladan, this was clear to see, cared deeply for the Galadhrim, and as unexpected as this attraction was, it was obviously mutual. Looking at Elladan's red-rimmed eyes – the young one had obviously cried – the coal-haired advisor felt a deep resentment towards Galadriel and her actions rising in his chest.
Like everybody else, Erestor had been surprised when she had sent Orophin to Tíngel Forest, of all places, and he mused about her reasons. Erestor had never been too fond of Galadriel, her often-expressed stance that the Lórien Elves were of higher culture than any other – expressed in actions rather than words – had not made her dearer to his heart, and he never felt quite comfortable in the Golden Wood.
Celeborn, despite being a rogue, having temper tantrums and being a notorious flirt, was far easier to deal with.
"Is that it now? Are you finished fussing over me like an old maiden, Elrond?" Fin complained, interrupting Erestor's musings.
"I am."
Elrond turned to Elladan.
"Elladan, we will keep Rúmil here for the night. Please stay with him, I want to make sure there will be no complications."
Elladan nodded, and Rúmil pulled a face; luckily, Elrond didn't notice, for he was now addressing Erestor, ignoring the protesting warrior in front of him.
"Take him home, put him to bed and make sure he does not leave it for at least three days. The wound is deep, and it could still become infected, despite my efforts. Under no circumstances do I wish to see his face within the next two days anywhere outside of his room. Have I made myself clear?"
"Aye, my lord. Perfectly. I shall see to it personally," Erestor replied.
"Would you two stop talking about me as if I was not present?" Fin complained, looking up at his mate and his lord with a seriously hurt expression on his face.
"Is nobody here asking what I want?" he then barked, and Erestor and Elrond replied in unison: "No!"
The guards giggled again, and Glorfindel flopped back on the bed.
What a rotten day.
* * *
It had been a long, bad day, and when Elrond fell into bed after a hot bath, his eyes fogged in reverie almost immediately. It was no peaceful sleep, though - he dreamt of Lothlórien, and of his wife, who tried to tell him something, something important, but he didn't understand, and then she was running away from him; he followed her, but to no avail. She disappeared into a small house and locked the door behind her, and he was banging at the front door, begging her to open it...
"My lord? Lord Elrond? Please - can you answer the door? 't is I, Melpomaen." Further knocks on the door.
Slowly, Elrond came to awareness. He rubbed his eyes, sat up, slowly, for every muscle ached.
There was another knock, louder this time.
"Stop tearing down the house, I am coming," Elrond growled, and quickly slipped into a robe. He shuffled to the door, opened it abruptly and was just about to start his lecture on the many reasons why one should not wake the Lord of Rivendell three hours before sunrise when his eyes wandered from his young advisor to the Elf who stood beside him. He was dirty, wet and looked very, very tired.
"Celeborn!" Elrond called out, and opened the door wide.
"For the Valar's sake! What has happened? Come in!"
The Lord of the Golden Wood stepped into Elrond's chambers, slowly, as if he was in pain, and without saying a word. He looked so different from his usual merry self that Elrond was most worried.
"Melpomaen - have a bath arranged for Lord Celeborn, and make sure we get something to eat and hot beverages. Also bring fresh clothes. Celeborn - sit down here in front of the fire."
Celeborn didn't say a word, but obeyed, and Melpomaen lifted his robes and ran as fast as his skinny legs allowed - not only to do as he was told, but to spread the news of Celeborn's arrival all over Rivendell.
Elrond closed the door behind the young Elf and walked over to the fire, putting on some wood, then turned to Celeborn.
Pitiful - this was the only word he could think of.
"Celeborn - what has happened? Why are you here? Is anything wrong?"
The Lord of the Golden Woods shrugged out of his cloak, and dropped it carelessly to the floor. His head fell forward, and he buried his face in his hands. Elrond, alarmed and shocked, never having seen his father in law in such a state, poured some wine in a glass, offering it to Celeborn, who shook his head and pushed it away. Elrond knelt down beside him, and rested a hand on his arm.
"For Elbereth's sake, Celeborn - tell me what happened!"
Celeborn looked up.
"Galadriel..." he started, then he hid his face again.
"Galadriel? Has something happened to her?"
Celeborn shook his head.
"Can I stay in Rivendell for the time being, Elrond? I have no other place to go."
Elrond stared at Celeborn, completely confused.
"Why ... but of course, you can stay here as long as you want, but what do you mean by saying you have no other place to go? Can you not return to Lothlórien?"
The Elf in the chair laughed - it was a humourless laughter, and it scared Elrond thoroughly.
"No, my dear, dear Elrond. I cannot return to Lothlórien."
"And why not?" Elrond asked.
"Because," Celeborn replied, covering Elrond's hand with his, "because Galadriel has banned me from the Golden Wood on penalty of death should I ever set foot on my... her realm again."
The glass Elrond had been holding fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.
'Just like my life', Celeborn thought, then he buried his face in his hands again and wept.
* * *
Author's notes: if you'd like to try the 'Fried Balrog' - here's the blue peter:
Prepare hot chocolate (best results with Swiss chocolate, of course. My personal preference: Caotina). Hot chocolate is prepared with milk, by the way. I am aware there are people who make hot chocolate with water. There are also people who put ice cubes in red wine. And ask for ketchup at a three star restaurant. Blech!!!
Add 2 units of Bailey's Irish Cream.
Top with whipped cream (real, full fat whipped cream, self-whipped. NOT out of the tin! Blech! Blech! Eeek!)
Decorate with chocolate powder.
Serve in mug and enjoy. It is good for Master Erestor of Rivendell, so it can't be bad for you.