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TITLE: “Nothin’ Special, Chapter One” (1/10) As thunder and lightning cannonaded outside the mouth of the dank cave, an octet of creatures played mercilessly with their “toys” … a tall, blond Elf of regal bearing, and his companion, naught but a young, dark-haired mortal; a Ranger, from the look of him. They’d already “played” with him, as his bruised and bloodied face and head disclosed. A good-sized gash at his filthy hairline was just beginning to stop seeping blood. He hung from his bonds limply, exhausted with pain from his merciless beating. His muddy and sodden rags hid the bruises and welts delivered earlier by these horrid creatures as they interrogated him.
Now, the Elf clenched his teeth, refusing to give these fell beasts any satisfaction in the physical pain they heaped upon him, fighting his urge to tug once more at the bonds tightly wrapping his wrists, attached to an iron ring mortared into the stone wall above him. One of the taller beasts leaned towards him, leering as its filthy hands played with the cornsilk hair. The Elf yanked his head back, and spat in the creature’s face, his blue eyes blazing with repugnance. The orc started in surprise, then a low rumble the Elf recognized, with horror, as the beast’s attempt at laughter. Its filthy hand shot forward, gripping the Elf’s jaw painfully, holding him steady as its face crept closer to his.
“’Ere, then, my pretty,” it cooed, its breath so revolting as to nearly make the Elf gag. “It’s a cold night. I know ways you could ‘elp w’that…”
The Elf’s expression remained stony, but his heart plummeted. What unspeakable treatment awaited him and his companion? His poor friend… surely the young man could not survive another session like his last with these creatures…
“Keep your filthy paws to yerself!” spat the leader, shoving the other back a few paces. “That one there… e’s special, he is. The Master’ll want him for sure. One o’ them Elves… prolly knows a lot 'e can share w’the Master!”
“Aw, I ain’t gonna kill ‘im,” the orc muttered, continuing to eye the Elf coyly, “just warm ‘is cold ‘eart a little. And me own meat…”
The leader replied with a quick, clean slash, beheading the orc as it stood, spraying its black blood over the moss-green tunic of the Elf as it crumpled at the Elf’s feet. The blond slowly raised eyes molten with hate.
“If you maggots want a plaything, then ‘ave at that one.”
“If ‘e’s with the Elf, ain’t the Master gonna want ‘im, too?” sneered an orc, kicking at the half-conscious Ranger, forcing out a groan.
“Nah… ‘e ain’ nothin’ special,” grunted the leader, roughly gripping a handful of the blood-streaked dark hair and yanking the man’s head back, the silver eyes dazed. “Look at ‘im,” it chortled, releasing the hair and shoving the man’s head forward at the same time, flecks of blood and sweat spraying from the tortured head as the man sagged forward. “Nothin’ special there a’t’all!
~-oo0oo-~
All that is gold does not glitter, From the ashes a fire shall be woken, -- J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Fellowship of the Ring"
** to be continued **
TITLE: "Nothing Special, Chapter Two" ~-oo0oo-~ Silence, but for the now quiet breathing beside him Thank the Valar, he sleeps. Rest was hard won. A slight sound as he quietly draws up his knees, propping his elbows and resting his forehead on his bound hands. Thank Ilúvatar they allowed us to remain together. Apparently they see us, in our present condition, as little enough threat. Perhaps they are right… that last beating truly hurt him… thank the Valar the bleeding stopped. Foolish heroics… How could I have missed the clues these beasts were lying in wait?! I must be very careful, now. What I say, or do not say, will make all the difference in how he is treated. Do I continue to invite them to toy with me in order keep them occupied, to leave him alone? How long before that tactic grows old, and they turn their attention to him, all the more angry for the distraction? It would be that much worse for him… I must be so very careful. How grateful am I that they have no clue as to who he is! What havoc could be wrought upon these fell beasts were his family to know he is captured! For I know his father… his brothers; they would pulverize these mountains to naught but pebble and grit in order to find him and bring him home to safety! … Valar…. These bonds, so tight. He wriggles his hands, wincing in discomfort. His hands must be numb; I know mine are… but perhaps that’s for the best … His poor face… That eye is badly swollen; I pray no serious damage has been done. He is formidable, but a warrior with a blindside would be considered a liability, a burden… he would hate that. What if he *is* blinded? What if – *No!* Enough of such thoughts! I must come up with a way to escape, to get both of us to freedom, or at least to free *him*… A very soft, yet deep, sigh Who is this Master they serve? Clearly from the East, and clearly not mortal. I cannot see orcs serving any Valar… the darkness that spreads over these lands… I do not wish my mind to turn to such horror, but can it truly be Sauron’s herald? Does the Lord of the Black Gate return? If so… then there will be war, once again. Who will lead us? The old Alliances have been dead for an age… we have no Gil-Galad, no Elendil, no Isildur… The tortured figure silently shakes his head, and leans back against the wall, grateful for the cool stone easing the fire in his back. Wearily he rests his head against the granite and closes his eyes. And I am surely no Elendil. ** to be continued **
TITLE: Nothing Special, Chapter Three ~-oo0oo-~ The Elf slowly came back to awareness from his uncomfortable doze, though he would rather return to unconsciousness. Clamping his lips together to avoid a groan escaping, he stiffly drew himself up to a sitting position. His eye was all but swollen shut, sharp pains stabbing at the injury as he moved. “Slowly, mellon nîn,” came the soft whisper from the Man beside him. Grimacing, the Elf nodded silently and joined his companion leaning back against the stone wall. “How long?” “Perhaps four hours. Dawn is nigh.” The Man shifted painfully, and ran a hand through his filthy hair, then grimaced after raising his arm. His odor must be horribly offensive to the Elf. With his good eye, the Elf noticed the expression. “What troubles you?” Slowly the Man turned to him, arching an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile haunting his lips. The Elf chuckled painfully, pressing against his side: a broken rib, likely. “Foolish question ….” The Man shrugged carefully. “I… I wish I could bathe,” he admitted, drawing in on himself. The Elf stared at him, then struggled to keep his laughter silent. Misunderstanding, the young Man blushed uncomfortably. “I know I must offend…” “Eru, Estel!” gasped the Elf. “Here we sit, no water, no food, both of us beaten to a pulp, and you worry that you stink?!” Shaking his head, the Elf was breathless from the combination of somewhat hysterical laughter and strain. “Truly, Mortal, you are an enigma.” After a few brief chuckles, silence fell between them. “Estel… I am grieved you have been brought low by my error in judgment.” The young man didn’t discount the Elf’s statement; he’d known this conversation would come. He sighed. “Legolas… you had no way of knowing these beasts invaded so close to the court. Your father’s letter summoning you home sounded serious; were I you, I too would have made haste. Even Glorfindel did not sense danger.” “Had I remained with the party none of this would have happened,” the Elf said bitterly. “You should not have to pay such a high price for my impatience.” “And the price you pay? Is it naught to you?” the Man retorted. “I have lived more than two thousand years; you, barely twenty. You have your whole life ahead of you, Estel. If I could give my life for yours, I would. It… grieves me, that–” The Man held up a hand, angry now. “Legolas, enough! I am not dead yet, and neither are you,” he said fiercely. “There has got to be a way out of this. I refuse to give up, and neither should you!” he glared. Despite their situation, the Elf marveled at the grim determination shining from the young, bruised and battered face. Estel… truly, Elrond named you well. Estel painfully got to his feet. “If you must blame someone, Elf,” he grunted, slyly, “blame Thranduil and his Eru-forsaken letter!” Legolas stared a moment, then a tired grin crossed his face. Hope had returned. ** to be continued **
TITLE: Nothing Special, Chapter Four PROMPT: #171: Question (500 words) The mighty, blond Elf made an awesome image as he stood on the cliff: sharp wind whipped his hair around his starkly handsome face, his eyes molten sapphires, his expression deadly. His white-knuckled grip on his bow showed no sign of weakness, despite the bandaged wound on his forearm.
Aradhoron stood at the base of the small cliff, watching, guarding his father’s solitude. The prince knew the emotions churning within the Elvenking: first outrage and fury, then desperation as his outnumbered party fought bravely against ambush by a den of Orcs found deep within Mirkwood’s borders. Then surprise and gratitude as the Imladris Elves seemed to come from nowhere, providing the extra strength and good fortune needed to win the day. And then shock, hearing of Legolas’ capture…
“How do you know this to be true?!” Thranduil demanded, pushing through the throng until he was nose to nose with Elladan. Elrohir moved to intercede, but mighty Glorfindel, lord of Imladris’ forces and his superior in this foray, held him back, shaking his head almost imperceptibly: Your brother is strong. Let him be.
True to Glorfindel’s faith, Elladan held firm, his grey eyes cold and fierce, facing Thranduil head on. “Estel and Legolas left us, planning to go ahead of our party to let Mirkwood know of our coming. We found Estel’s blood-soaked satchel” -- Elladan’s voice broke then, thinking of his young brother, barely twenty –“and this.“ His bloodied fist brandished, blade down, a white-handled knife, Legolas’ name etched in the handle as well as a sentiment. Thranduil did not need to read it; he’d written it. Clamping his jaw fiercely, Thranduil held onto his temper, but the pain of seeing his child’s weapon retrieved told him the truth of the Peredhel’s words: Legolas would never have left that knife behind willingly. Never. Agony seared the Sinda, and he sagged slightly against his first-born, eyes squeezed shut in pain… I cannot lose him! I cannot lose my Greenleaf!
Firmly, yet with great tenderness, Glorfindel insinuated himself between the two. “As we have done here, let us join forces to find and aid those we love,” the ancient warrior declared gently. “Legolas is as dearly loved by Imladris as he is by Mirkwood. As is Estel, Elrond’s son.” Glorfindel put out a hand and gripped the Elvenking’s shoulder, an Elf he’d known for two ages. “Come, my friend. Rest while my patrol readies the search. You have been wounded – ”
“It is nothing,” snapped the King, surprised to find himself firmly held in place.
“You are wounded,” Glorfindel repeated sternly, “and we need you at your best to find Legolas and Estel. In your youth, there was no better tracker than Thranduil Oropherion. Put those skills to work now, my friend. But rest first.”
The words touched Thranduil, and his lips clamped together as he nodded tersely.
Now, he stood tall on the cliff, as though daring the very elements to stop him from hunting for and finding his child.
** to be continued **
TITLE: Nothing Special, Chapter Five What is it in him that allows him not to lose heart? When there is no hope, no possibility of escape? Is it some form of madness? Or is just that Elves and Men truly are that foreign from one another?
I recall angrily asking Elrohir, as we sat under a tree fashioning arrows, what Elrond could have been thinking, to try to raise a child of Men in Imladris, where, at every turn, this child could do naught but trail behind the others, never as strong, as agile, as fast…
“Perhaps not. But he possesses other gifts to help him meet the challenges ahead,” Elrohir had answered, glancing up from his work to watch the young one in question, just five summers. Estel had wandered out to the clearing by the Healing Halls. It was here Elrond allowed his ambulatory patients to take fresh air and sun.
“What good are other gifts when strength and agility are needed to keep him alive?” I demanded, irritably.
Elrohir stopped his work and studied the child, then smiled broadly. “Watch,” he directed softly.
Estel had met a challenge. Apparently the injured elf, Brithlach, was thirsty, as Estel went to the table, raised himself up on tiptoe and eyed the heavy pitcher. He hesitated, knowing he wasn’t strong enough to lift it and pour. Brithlach had badly burned both hands in a forge accident, and could offer no help himself. Estel wrinkled his brow in thought, looked around him, then smiled reassuringly at Brithlach. The child slipped a book against the heavy pitcher’s base, providing a fulcrum against which to tip and half-fill the glass. With patience beyond his years, Estel had solved one problem. Glass in hand, Estel then turned to Brithlach, advanced slowly and, smiling encouragement, carefully held the glass to Brithlach’s lips.
“Cunning and compassion,” Elrohir said softly as we watched. He glanced at me, sidelong. “And… he never gives up.”
Elrohir was correct. Even now, captured, Estel ponders escape scenarios, some wildly improbable, others calculated but requiring more in weaponry and numbers than we have, but always with one, inexorable outcome: that we will live. My injuries are already healing, despite little water and barely enough food to keep upright. His are not. He physically grows weaker with each hour, but his spirit quails not. I do not understand…
“Mellon… your eyes betray rather deep thoughts,” croaked Estel as he leaned back against the wall of the cave.
“Aye.” I slowly ease myself to my feet and turn to look at this mortal. That day in the gardens seem only yesterday, yet this child is now a man. “Estel… will you never allow despair to stop you?” I asked gently, my question startling him.
After dropping his head for a moment, he sighed, then shook his head wearily. “Nay, mellon nin,” he replied, smiling sadly. “I may know not the name of my true father… but I can at least live up to the one given me.”
** to be continued **
TITLE: Nothing Special, Chapter Six Mirkwood and Imladris Elves were positioned strategically; Thranduil's skill had tracked their quarry to these caves, deep within Mirkwood's borders. Further reconnaissance was needed before determining whether or not the two captives were alive.
The night was still but for the distant cackles of the fell beasts below. The golden warrior of Gondolin studied the King's silhouette framed against Ithil's radiance; silvery hair nearly blended into the beams spilling over the rocks and trees as silken fabric, clinging as to a body beneath it. Glorfindel sighed, seeing the proud neck sagged in despair.
Firming his lips, he walked toward the Elvenking, thus far left to his own devices. Though his men sympathized, even his oldest son and heir, in their weariness they could not find a way to commiserate with this ancient, great Elf.
But Thranduil held no fear for the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. Glorfindel almost chuckled to himself; after slaying a Balrog, and then leaving Mandos' halls, little frightened him. "Hope is not lost. You have found them."
Thranduil might not have heard Glorfindel, so still was he. But slowly his eyes raised and he met those of the Balrog Slayer. "Why ‘Hope’?"
Startled, Glorfindel tipped his head to one side, inquiring.
"Why did Elrond choose `Hope' as the adan's name?"
Glorfindel's smooth motion was fluid and graceful as he crouched beside the King. "Estel has always brought us hope, Your Majesty," he answered softly. "He returned joy and laughter to Imladris, so long bereft since Lady Celebrían's sad departure. He made my friend laugh once more, when mirth was all but dead in his study. He brought the brethren Elladan and Elrohir faith that there might be a future without hate. Estel… is hope."
Thranduil nodded. "It is the same for us. My Greenleaf… he is Greenwood's hope, as well. After the death of my beloved Lady…" Thranduil's voice faltered, and he rubbed his hands over his eyes. "My Greenleaf is my Lady, living and breathing, offering my people her love and hope once more."
In silence, Glorfindel continued to crouch beside the Elvenking. They were all weary. But Thranduil's burden seemed far heavier than worry, or even fear for his child.
"Mellon nin," Glorfindel asked softly, "what was it that called Legolas home in such haste?"
Thranduil's features winced, as though struck; Glorfindel made no move, but his eyes carefully took in the agony of the Elf before him.
"I … missed him," Thranduil whispered, turning to the Elf Lord, his lips trembling, eyes haunted. Squeezing those eyes shut and bringing his hands to his face in an agony of shame, he groaned. "My son is in the hands of those fell beasts, suffering, Lord Glorfindel, perhaps even dead… May Iluvutar forgive me, I fabricated a problem in Mirkwood, because I … missed him!"
A sob strangled in the King's throat, and Glorfindel's heart ached for him. In silence, he reached, gripping the King's shoulder in comfort as he wept in agonized silence.
**To Be Continued**
TITLE: Nothin’ Special: Chapter Seven PROMPT: #174: Girl (500 words) NOTES: Sequel to Prompt #168: Special Pain… brutal, bone-wrenching…
The young mortal sank within himself as his conscious mind started to accept a possibility he’d earlier refused to consider: he might not survive this.
He had wracked his brain for hours… even while enduring the continued torture of these fell beasts, struggling to formulate a plan of escape, for his companion if not himself. But his mind was exhausted… as empty and drained as his ideas.
Wearily, the young man, little more than a boy by the reckoning of his own people, allowed his head to droop, wincing as the sharp hurt in his arms and shoulders flared when the shackles overhead pulled on already raw skin, stretched muscles. He tried to draw in a breath, but it was more like a sob.
At his side, his own eyes damp with pity and the despair of seeing his young friend suffer so, the Elf drew in his own breath. “Estel… I pray you, do not give up. You have kept faith for us both so far – “
“For … naught… “ the young man whispered. “I… I have tried to think of a way out, but… “ the head shook in negation. “… I cannot. I will … die… here… “
Desperately, the Elf cast his mind through ideas to keep the young mortal’s spirits up. And he hit upon one. How best to couch this? he wondered. In pity? Nay, never! Asking the Valar for forgiveness, the Elf deliberately turned his voice cold and dripping with scorn. “So… this is how much you ‘love’ the Evenstar, is it?”
Silence. Even the boy’s breathing stopped in shock. Slowly his head came up, his grey eyes, though red-rimmed and bruised-looking, pierced the space between himself and Legolas. “What?” he breathed.
“You heard me, Adan,” snapped Legolas, his heart aching but his expression betraying nothing. “The most beautiful and beloved of Elf maidens… you thought yourself good enough for her?! She waits, and for what?!” he hissed. “For a cowardly, good-for-nothing Adan who… who… “
Legolas stopped as the eyes facing him were filled with shock, betrayal, and then shame. I cannot… I cannot do this… “Oh, Estel,” he groaned shaking his head, “forgive me… I cannot do it.”
Confused, deeply hurt, the young man continued to stare in silence.
“I… I thought to… “ Legolas swallowed, a flush filling his sallow face. He sighed. “I thought to use the memory of Arwen to keep you from giving up,” he admitted.
Aragorn did not know what he’d expected, but that was surely not it. Thoroughly surprised, his jaw dropped. “You… you… “ he sputtered. He rattled his shackles, eyes blazing. “I ought to – !”
Screams rent the air outside the cave. The unmistakable thwacks! of arrow hitting flesh, the whistling of broadswords through the air and the satisfying thunk! of blade meeting bone could be heard. Staring at each other in stunned confusion, both Legolas and Aragorn found themselves with a new feeling in their hearts.
Hope.
** to be continued **
TITLE: Nothin’ Special, Chapter Eight PROMPT: #175: Big (499 words) NOTES: Sequential sequel to Prompt #168: Special Even while whipping around, using the accumulated torque of his sword arm to separate an orc’s head from its body, Glorfindel’s sharp eyes took in the rest of the battle site. The twins held their own: Elladan’s sword sang as it cut down the beasts in his path with deadly accuracy; Elrohir’s short swords flew so fast they were hard to track. The rest of the Imladris guard cleared the cave mouth with brutal, vicious precision, giving room for Thranduil and his party to move ever closer to the entrance.
It had been Thranduil’s wisdom to position several archers covering nothing but the cave mouth; the last thing the rescuers needed were orcs rushing the cave to eliminate the prisoners.
It was over in a very short time. Thranduil did not wait until all was clear out front; he rushed in, prepared for almost anything. Glorfindel begged the Valar to let him not find his beloved son dead… nor Estel.
Elladan, too, entered the cave while the rest finished off their prey.
Glorfindel entered at an alarmed run when he heard sounds within of Thranduil in a rage. He skidded to a stop, wild-eyed, then smirked to see the Elvenking trying to wrench the mounted shackles out of the cave wall over the prisoners with his bare hands. Glorfindel had to wrest the King’s grip from the metal and bring him back to himself before he injured his hands, and only Glorfindel’s insistence that Legolas needed his sire to hold him upright could sway him.
Elladan supported Estel and Thranduil his son while a search was made of the orc carcasses for keys. Legolas managed to remain conscious; Estel sank into oblivion when the strong protective arms and gentle comforting words of his big brother surrounded him.
As Elladan and Elrohir labored over their young brother, Glorfindel examined Legolas and was relieved to be able to tell his father that aside from the remnants of a vicious beating, it appeared the Prince would recover.
Sadly, Estel had not fared as well. Elladan’s lips thinned as he studied the gashes in his young brother’s skin, the deep bruising on his lower back, praying there was no damage to kidneys or other organs. Miserably, while Elladan was still working, Estel regained consciousness and had to endure yet more pain and discomfort, but this time as his brothers’ hands. He was a stalwart young man, but even he could not avoid crying out as the most painful of his wounds were tended.
Glorfindel tried to distract the youngster with stories of their tracking them, planning their rescue, and then seeing Thranduil trying to take apart the cave, stone by stone. Estel smiled slightly at the memory of seeing Thranduil’s raw power and fury; it had made him appear huge in the cave’s small space.
“Truly, young Elrondion, he appeared as large as the Argonath,” finished Glorfindel, smiling fondly at the King, calmer now as he sang softly over his son dozing peacefully.
** to be continued **
TITLE: Nothin’ Special: Chapter Nine PROMPT: #176: Soft (499 words) NOTES: Sequential sequel to Prompt #168: Special The darkness of the bedroom was soft, pinpricked with lithely dancing shadows cast by the crackling fire in the hearth; a cozy place, and restful. This was evident, Glorfindel noticed with a smile, since Estel was in such deep, drug-aided slumber as to induce a soft snoring. He relaxed back in his easy chair as he contemplated the anxiety-filled days immediately following the rescue.
Elladan and Elrohir had utilized their father’s training to its utmost, coaxing the bone and sinew in their young brother’s body to knit and heal. Estel had been incoherent for much of the first two days, either through pain-killing herbs, or Elladan sending him into a healing sleep. Finally, five days past the end of their horror, the boy had awoken, his weary eyes finally holding recognition and awareness of his surroundings.
Once the young adan had turned that corner, his recovery began in earnest. He was still weak and uncomfortable enough not to cause the healers too much worry, but his brothers and Glorfindel knew keeping the boy amused and occupied during what promised to be a long recovery would be an arduous task. For the moment, the young man was content to drowse as one brother or the other read to him or sang, or Legolas visited.
Tonight, Estel had tossed in discomfort, finally swallowing his pride and asking for something for the pain. Elrohir glanced at his older twin; the pain must be substantial indeed for Estel to admit it.
The court healer saw the exchange of the twins and tut-tutted, reassuring them that Estel was healing “very well, thank you!” and that rest and sleep were the best thing to help him recover. Too much pain and discomfort would stop that from happening; he found the sensible attitude of Elrond’s youngest son “a refreshing bit of maturity!” The sleeping draught took hold quickly and Glorfindel finally shooed the twins out to get some rest themselves.
He heard the door open a while later, and he smiled, expecting Legolas. He was surprised to instead see Thranduil.
“He is … recovering?”
“He is, your Majesty,” assured Glorfindel. “Estel is sturdy; he will recover a little more slowly than an Elf, but just as completely.”
“That is well,” pronounced the Elvenking softly, so as not to disturb the young man’s rest. His expression grew wry. “We should hate to have to face the Lord of Imladris with any other news than complete recovery.” He sighed. “Particularly when the fault of the encounter was ours.”
Glorfindel chuckled at the guilty expression on the ruler’s face. “You grow soft, Thranduil,” he teased.
“We have seen the Peredhel in a temper,” replied the King, aloof, but his eyes twinkling. “We have no desire to have that visited upon our person.” He gazed on the boy and gently stroked his hair. “His spirit kept Legolas alive; such valor should be rewarded with comfort and peace.” The King looked at Glorfindel squarely. “And our… my thanks.”
Glorfindel smiled, understanding.
** to be continued ** TITLE: Nothin’ Special: Chapter Ten (10/10) Slowly Estel lifted the weighted wooden dowel. He felt the slow, uncomfortable pull of a stretch, and schooled his features into a mask of serenity. He would go further this time, he would! The muscle contracted and the uncomfortable stretching grew to a burn, and finally… pain! Estel kept his face serene and raised the weighted dowel further, breaking out in a sweat when the pain grew just as heavy to bear. “Daro!” scolded Elladan, one hand shooting out to stop the movement of is brother’s arm and the other removing the weight. “I told you, youngling! NOT to the point of pain! It will do you no good to try to heal if you wound yourself over and over again!” Scowling, Estel massaged his sore left shoulder muscles with his right hand. The dislocated shoulder and torn muscles associated with it had proven to be slow to heal… primarily because the young man pushed himself too hard too fast. In exasperation, Elladan commanded, “No exercise without either me or Elrohir in attendance since you refuse to obey!” Glaring at his older brother, Estel snapped, “You coddle me, I’ll never be full strength at this rate!” Elladan, not for the first time in this last week, leaned in, nose to nose. “You will never be full strength if you refuse to accept that your body needs more time to heal than that of Legolas, Estel!” “Ada wouldn’t – “ “Ada would, and far more sternly than I!” “I’m thirty-eight, you pompous Elf!” growled Estel, leaning back on his pillows. “And Chieftain of my people.” “Then behave as such, and no one will scold you,” smirked Elrohir, arms folded across his chest as he leaned one hip against the doorframe. Snorting a foul epithet, Estel slumped back, annoyed in the extreme. Straightening and grinning, Elrohir continued into the room. “I don’t think that’s physically possible, young one.” Elladan smiled down at the young man and placed a healing hand on his forehead; as he ran soothing energy he was pleased to see some of the pain lines recede from his younger brother’s face. “It’s wise for you to listen to your brothers, Estel,” came a new voice. Hopeful, Estel raised his eyes to the doorway and grinned as he saw Legolas. “Thank the Valar! Freedom!” “Don’t get him started,” chided Elladan as he released Estel and flopped into the chair beside the bed. “He is absolutely the most unruly patient Arda ever produced.” Legolas smiled and managed to plop with princely grace on his friend’s bed. “All I’ve heard about is what I can’t do, nothing about what I can do,” protested Estel with a great heaving sigh. “Perhaps, then, we have a solution for that.” The three Elves and human turned in surprise to see King Thranduil and Glorfindel at the doorway. The twins rose to respectful attention, and Legolas, too, smoothly rose to show his respect. Estel struggled to sit up, too. “Nay, Aragorn! Sit.” Thranduil strode to the young man’s bedside and looked earnestly into his eyes. “You wish to do something, my young friend?” “You are in need, your Majesty?” asked Estel, eagerly. “If it is in my power, I will do it.” “Good. We wish first to thank you for helping our Prince remain alive,” said Thranduil quietly, gazing gratefully into Estel’s eyes. The boy’s eyes warmed in compassion, then grew puzzled as Thranduil’s dropped. “And we beg you to accept our apology as well.” As Thranduil haltingly explained, both to a shocked Estel and Legolas, about his loving deception, the twins sidled to Glofindel. “Why? He could have said nothing,” whispered Elladan. “His Majesty has been fighting off an attack far worse than orcs, Elrondion,” responded the golden warrior very softly. Both twins eyed their Captain, questioning. Glorfindel raised one eloquent eyebrow. “Guilt.” THE END |
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