Warnings: Heavy sap and moderate angst with a chance of mild gore.

Even the Strongest

by Lily Frost

Our greatest glory consists not in never falling,

but in rising every time we fall. /

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

It had been a long winter’s night, and everyone was exhausted. But sleep would not come to one elf in Imlandris, holding a lonely vigil over his twin. Elrohir’s dark hair and darker lashes contrasted starkly against his pale skin, as did the crimson stains across his cheeks, decreeing his steady fever. In a nearby room Elrond’s toil had abated to cleaning and brooding. He carefully polished his instruments, set aside soiled linens and put jars of healing balms and herbs back on their shelves. The hunting trip had gone so very wrong. He sighed.

‘Why is it,’ Elrond asked himself, ‘that my sons cannot even leave their home without getting themselves into some sort of trouble, whether it be with diplomats, orcs or wargs... like this time.’

When the group returned it had caused quite a stir. Although everyone knew full well that the times were not peaceful, no one had been prepared to see the group of elves returning in such rough shape. At least half of them were wounded, and not one had escaped with less than a good bruising and scratching. Behind them was left a trail of blood in the fresh snow, and the cheer that normally came with the first snowfall was diminished by anxiety.

The ‘mighty Balrog-slayer’ Glorfindel had not escaped unscathed, and he was resting in an infirmary bed near where Elrond worked so that the healer could monitor his condition. Substantial damage to his ribs and left arm had been done while he was blocking his face, and Elrond was still uncertain on the extent of the internal damage.

In the adjacent room Elladan maintained his weary watch, berating himself for his stupidity in charging into the battle. They were not outnumbered, but wargs this time of year were vicious and they had not counted on the snow that impeded their vision and slowed their movements. ‘How could I have been so stupid,’ Elladan mulled, ‘we could have gone back and gathered enforcements. We could have attacked them from the trees. I could have prevented this.’

Two elves were wounded almost unto death, but Elrond had worked through the day and they were now stable. And here lay his brother, ill with a warg-blood induced fever and injured extensively across his chest, throat and left leg. The leg was broken, but already set, and he would not be able to walk for days. Elrond had administered a concoction to counteract the poisonous blood that had seeped into his own during the skirmish, but it would take a few hours before that, combined with his body’s own defences, would destroy it fully. Only then would the fever end. With a sigh, Elladan leaned back in his seat, nervously twisting the edge of the bed-sheet. The night was drawing late, but sleep still eluded him.

Little known to Elrond or Elladan, another was awake in the household. Estel, the ten-year-old human child who had become a part of their family, stood outside of Elrond’s working room, looking at Glorfindel with trepidation. It alarmed him to see the normally powerful, stoic elf-lord lying pale and unmoving there.

The child stared a little harder, eventually detecting a steady rise and fall of Glorfindel’s chest. That was a relief, but he still had not accounted for every member of his family being safe. In his rush, Elrond had forgotten to wish Estel a good night, and a nursemaid had done it instead. Estel had not liked that, and he had tried to sleep. Truly, he had, but even at his age he could tell that something was amiss. He could not sleep until he knew where his brothers were. If his brothers were indeed home, why would they not tell him? They were not that careless.

Elrond was going to turn around, and Estel knew that he had to get away before he was caught up past his bedtime. With a split-second of thought, Estel dashed into the nearest room as quietly as he could. He remained undetected, for Elrond was weary and his woollen socks made no noise on the gold-brown wood floor. Undetected by Elrond that is. As soon as the boy had closed the door and leaned against it with relieved sigh, Elladan looked up, expecting to see Elrond.

Estel lifted his gaze, and was met with Elladan’s own eyes, veiled with disquiet, though his expression, one eyebrow raised, questioned the boy quietly. Then Estel stumbled upon the prone form of Elrohir and he gave a soft cry. Jumping to the bedside, Estel scanned the pale face, bloodied bandages and bruised flesh. The closed eyes were the most alarming. Estel had never seen an elf sleep with their eyes closed like that. But, like Glorfindel, he breathed still, however ragged the rhythm.

“What happened?” He asked with quiet fear, keeping his tone low so that Elrond would not hear.

“We were in a fight... with wargs.”

“You lost?” Estel asked in wonder. ‘How could they loose?’ He thought, ‘Glorfindel and my brothers are unbeatable warriors.’

“Yes. We were outmatched. I-” Elladan choked, his face hardening, “I have made a grave mistake Estel.”

Estel looked at Elladan, incredulous; “You never make mistakes... you told me yourself!”

“Even I make mistakes.” Somehow telling this, even to the child, was a reassurance. He would not judge him like at adult would, but tell him the truth: that it was his fault. Because that was what he needed to hear. “...this is the result of my mistake. This is my fault.”

“S’wasn’t your fault.” Estel rushed to defend Elladan from himself “the wargs did it.”

“I led my people into a futile battle.”

“But you didn’t know.”

“Even the strongest fall, Estel.” Estel’s alarming perceptiveness surprised Elladan. He sensed the way he was being examined, “Adults and elves can just as easily misjudge as children and mortals can.” He said, “You just do it more often.”

“Hey!”

“'Tis true.” It was bittersweet and fleeting, this moment of amusement.

The child considered this for a moment, then he stomped his foot. “Well. No one died, did they?”

“Nay.”

“Then you got everyone back safely.”

“For a moment I thought I had not... we were lucky.”

“But everyone’s alive.”

“Yes... they will all be okay.” Elladan’s hand found it’s way to Elrohir’s prone, over-warm hand and he gave it a squeeze.

“Then what are you upset about?”

“They could have died. Elrohir could have died...” Gently, he pushed the stray strands of his twin’s dark hair behind the delicate, tapered ears.

“But they didn’t. ‘Ro’s still here.”

“I suppose.” Elladan agreed quietly, watching his brother intently. Warm arms being flung round his body woke Elladan from his meditation and he looked down to see Estel wrapped around him, hugging him with all the strength a ten-year-old could muster. A smile rose upon Elladan’s lips, the lower split in battle, and he returned the hug, running a hand affectionately through Estel’s hair and muttering a soft, “Thank you.”

They pulled away, Estel seeming shy for a moment, dragging himself back onto the bed. “I still don’t know how you lost.”

Elladan gave a laugh, “Just because we are immortal does not mean that we can do anything.”

“I know.” Estel said, disappointment evident in his voice.

“But they do like to think so, especially Elladan,” voiced a mirth-laden Elrond from the door. Elrond smiled wanly. He bore a tray with four steaming mugs upon it.

“Ada!” Both cried at once, Estel’s eyes wide with alarm. He had been caught!

“I knew I heard voices.” Elrond came into the room and set the tray on the low table. Then he sat upon Elrohir’s bed, opposite Estel, and touched his son’s forehead, gauging his temperature and murmuring to himself about it. “As I thought. This needs to be broken.”

“Elrohir, awake.” He said firmly, one hand still resting on Elrohir’s fevered brow. Confidently, Elrond reached towards his son’s mind, calling him forth from his dreams with the ability of elves.

Estel watched with rapt fascination as Elrohir’s glazed eyes sluggishly opened, coming to rest on Elrond. “Ada?” He croaked.

“I am here my son. I need you to sit up for a moment, and drink something for me. It will help you rid yourself of the last of the poison by raising your temperature, but it will not last long.”

Elrohir nodded, but he was too weary to protest. Elladan helped him sit up, and held him upright while Elrond held up the mug, encouraging him to drink it. “All of it.” He amended when Elrohir turned his face away.

Reluctant, Elrohir finished the potion as he was asked before he sunk back down onto his pillow and closed his eyes again, pain apparent in his face.

“You shall be well by the morrow.” Elrond said, touching one side of his face with tenderness not often seen from him by the rest of Imlandris.

A slight nod was all the proof that he received that Elrohir had heard him, but that was enough. Elladan clasped his brother’s hand again, feeling the temperature rise already. While a slow burn had been going on for hours, now it was rising to almost a dangerous degree. But he trusted his father’s abilities enough, and he knew that the slow burn would exhaust Elrohir to the point where he could no longer fight the poison, while a sudden increase would purge it from his blood stream.

“Here.” A mug of what appeared to be tea was pressed into his hands, and Elladan looked up to see his father smiling at him and Estel holding his own mug.

Elladan raised an eyebrow; well aware of Elrond’s delight in drugging anyone he thought to be overly weary. Elrond took a sip to prove to his son that it was safe, and Estel grinned, “It is sweet.”

Convinced, Elladan drank from his own mug, one hand still in his brother’s. He nodded. The tea was, indeed, quite sweet, and it created a growing warm sensation in his chest. Moments later, he heard soft snores from Estel who had lain himself next to Elrohir.

A glare at Elrond, who was looking quite smug, was all Elladan could manage before he too laid his head next to Elrohir, and drifted into his elven dreams.

Elrond draped a thick quilt on top of each of his sons, and fetched a chair so that he could sit next to Elrohir, laving his forehead in cool water. The sweat that beaded upon it was good sign, for it meant that soon the fever would break and by morning he would indeed be on the mend.

Watching his sons with a smile, Elrond thought quietly, ‘Even the strongest need to rest sometimes too.’

fin