Chapter 4: The Lord of Abomination Part II

They traveled without rest until they were out of the pass, then stopped only briefly to water their horses.  Elrohir had used the water in his waterskin to loosen the fabric of his cloak from the wounds on his mother’s body, and Elladan forced him to drink from his own when he began to pour that water on to her as well.  “I will refill it after you drink, so you can tend Naneth,” he promised softly. Elrohir dutifully downed the water, then wet Celebrían’s lips and finally roused her enough to swallow some liquid. As soon as she was lucid however, pain from her wounds assailed her and terror filled her eyes, and she struggled against the arms that held her. 

“Naneth, it is me, you are safe,” crooned Elrohir, trying to keep his hold firm without causing her further harm.  His greater strength won out, and after several moments of trying to convince her the orcs were gone, she slid back into unconsciousness.

“Come,” commanded Haldir.  “We cannot rest here.”

Elladan bristled at the commanding tone of the Lorien marchwarden, yet he could not disagree.  Also, he had heard his grandfather giving orders to this elf that gave him charge of the escort. Clearly, his grandfather meant for the Lorien elves to lead and protect him and his brother too. Anger simmered in him at the lack of trust implied, trust he no longer deserved given what he had allowed to happen.  He mounted his horse stiffly.

They continued with only stops to water the horses through that day and night, and only when Elrohir nearly fell from his horse did Haldir call for a rest.  He dismounted and was at Elrohir’s side before Elladan could move, and when Elrohir would not give up his mother, he carefully helped Elrohir dismount with her in his arms. 

“I must care for her injuries now,” implored Elrohir wearily. “They begin to fester.”

Haldir looked with pity upon the broken form of Celebrían, then rested his arm comfortingly on Elrohir’s shoulder.  “Orcs have been tracking us; we could not stop until now. I will send the healer to you, but we can stay only an hour.”

Elrohir looked bleakly upon the elf, but when Haldir laid a thick blanket upon the ground, Elrohir laid Celebrían out upon it.   Supplies were brought to them, for most of their own were lost, and Elladan helped his brother tend their mother.  The cloak had to be carefully moistened and pulled gently away from her wounds, which they cleaned and bandaged as best they could.  Some needed far more help than they could provide, especially the deep gash to her hip.  Her right side was inflamed and tender from the top of her ribs to her thigh, and the slightest touch near the stab wound caused her to flinch. The long scratches inflicted by the orc across her belly and chest festered, the filth of his nails infecting the lacerations.  Elrohir’s tears wet the powders and herbs he packed on to the marks, but they did not have enough bandages to cover all the wounds, for little of her flesh was unmarked. 

“Her shoulder is dislocated,” murmured Elladan.

“I was able to push the left one into place, but the right would not go easily. I dare not try again now,” replied Elrohir softly.  “Adar will need to work the muscles and tissues to allow for it.”

They had done what little they could when Haldir appeared next to them. Beneath his stern demeanor his eyes were gentle, and Elladan realized that his pity extended to them. “We must go,” he said.

Elrohir nodded, then carefully wrapped their mother in his cloak again.   He managed to mount his horse, though it appeared to be more from the stallion’s efforts than his own.  Haldir lifted Celebrían before Elladan could, and settled her in Elrohir’s arms.

“He cannot carry her much longer,” said Elladan tiredly.

Haldir glanced at him. “His hands will need to be treated lest they scar. Will you allow me to tend your head?”

Elladan blinked and looked stupidly at the elf.  He lifted his hand to his head and felt the blood caked into his hair, and the lump on his skull.  He shook his head, then climbed on to his horse.

Haldir arranged his guard to surround the four from Imladris and then continued on. At nightfall, he conferred with his own scouts and then announced, “We will make camp for the night.”

Elladan felt a hand on the reins of his horse, and when he focused his eyes he realized it was Haldir.  “I said we will camp here,” he repeated himself.

“I heard,” he answered numbly, but made no move to dismount. He watched as two Lorien elves helped Elrohir, one finally taking Celebrían from him, while the other aided Elrohir to the site where camp was being made.  A soft bed of pine boughs and blankets was made for Celebrían, and when Elrohir finally nodded, they placed her on it.

“You will let the healer aid you now,” stated Haldir.

Elladan slid down from his horse and walked to the camp, grateful when one of the Lorien elves led his horse away to be fed and cared for. He sat down beside Elrohir, and then recalled Haldir’s words about his brother’s hands.  Elrohir had his arms crossed, with his hands tucked into the sleeves of the opposite arms.  He did not resist when Elladan pulled an arm free and looked at the hand.

Elladan was aghast.  The palms of his hands were raw flesh, the burnt skin ripped loose in their climb up the cliff and down the passage into the orcs’ den.   The healer appeared, and Elrohir did not make a sound as the elf cleaned the dead and infected tissue from the wounds, but when the elf produced lengths of linen to bind his hands, Elrohir protested, “No, for then I cannot tend my naneth.”

“You will not tend your naneth with open sores on your hands,” replied the healer stolidly.  When Elrohir would have pulled away, Elladan tightened his grasp on his twin’s arm. Yet despite his adamant actions that Elrohir be treated, he clenched his fists in frustration when the healer began examining the wound on his head.

“You need to bathe first,” pronounced the healer, and Elladan shrugged out from under his hands in annoyance. When the healer stood firm, Elladan rose to his feet and allowed himself to be led to the stream.  He washed his hair and scrubbed the blood from his scalp, the pain welcome.  Thankfully, the healer only rubbed some sort of healing balm over the gash and then left him alone.

When he returned, Elrohir was coaxing their mother to drink, but she did not come to full awareness this time.  Elrohir allowed the healer to change the dressings and bathe the wounds as he watched, helping where he could. “Now you both must sleep,” said the elf in a tone that would not be dissuaded. 

Elladan did not think he could sleep until Celebrían was home.

* * *

“Elladan, wake up.”

Elladan focused his eyes to see Haldir looking down upon him, and realized that the elf’s hand covered his own on the hilt of his sword. “A party from Imladris approaches.”

A feeling of overwhelming relief flooded through him, and he sat up. His father had come.  He gently touched his mother’s forehead, and the heat that radiated through to him caused him to draw his hand back in surprise.  Pulling the cloak back, he could see where her angry wounds were reddened and swollen, and he lightly touched the edge of one, and again felt that heat.  His father had come none too soon.

Lorien elves led the Imladris elves into the camp a moment later.  Elladan saw Glorfindel first, and the elf walked straight to him.  Behind him were others of the guard, but his father was nowhere in sight.

“Where is adar?” was his only greeting to his commander.

Glorfindel looked at him soberly.  “Elrond was in no shape to travel,” he replied, then knelt down by Elrohir at Celebrían’s side.

Elrohir had also just realized also that their mother’s condition was worse, though his bandages prevented him from feeling the heat radiating from her skin.  “We must get her to adar,” he told Glorfindel desperately.

Glorfindel pulled back the cloak, but he did not examine the wounds as Elladan might have expected.  He touched Celebrían’s head and looked on the ghastly wounds, then covered her back up and stood.  He looked at his guard, who had just finished entering the camp.  “We return immediately to Imladris,” he commanded.  At the surprised looks from the elves of both realms, he continued, “Her wounds are beyond the skill of any among us. We will ride straight through.”

Elladan mounted and found himself watched again by Haldir.  Some of the Lorien guard were returning to meet Celeborn and Galadriel, but the healer, Haldir and a few others were continuing to Imladris.  Glorfindel had purposefully paired him with Haldir for the ride home, and he would not argue with own captain. Glorfindel did not even allow Elrohir to ride by himself after watching him try to mount with his bandaged hands, and Elrohir’s arguments that he did not need his hands once on the horse did not sway the captain in the least.  Elrohir was seated before Athrenen, Glorfindel’s second in Imladris, an elf who had known him from birth. Elrohir’s better sense did not prevail, however, when Glorfindel had Haldir place Celebrían in his arms for the ride, and he struggled to dismount and go to her.  To Elladan’s relief, Athranen held Elrohir tightly and turned his horse to go. When Elladan caught up to them a while later, he found his twin asleep on the horse, his eyes reddened.

“He has carried her since he removed her from the chains she was hung from,” he explained, hoping the elf would understand.

Athranen nodded grimly. “I understand,” he replied, studying Elladan’s face in the moonlight for a moment.  His eyes suddenly reflected some understanding, and he continued, “You and Elrohir are not part of this patrol, Elladan, you are part of our mission. Do not fear that words or actions will lead to reprimand.”

Elladan swallowed hard, his mind swirling. Were they no longer fit to be warriors? He brushed the thought away.  It was unimportant when his real fear was that his mother might die, might forsake her damaged body, and her feä flee to the Halls of Waiting.  Slumping in his saddle, he fell in behind Athrenen and did not complain when Haldir drew near to him. 

* * *

The pace Glorfindel set pushed elves and horses to the brink of exhaustion.  Several times Elladan nearly fell asleep on his horse, and he scowled at how close a watch Haldir kept on him.  He fixed his eyes on Glorfindel’s back, noting how straight the elf still sat despite carrying Celebrían for hours on end.  He would not let Elladan or Elrohir carry her, and even kept some distance from them, and Elladan knew he did not want them to see how bad her wounds had become or hear her in her delirium. He knew anyway.  Elrohir had tried to argue one more time, but Glorfindel had curtly told him he could not hold himself up, much less another person.  Elrohir’s face had reflected his despair at that comment, and he had been silent ever since. Elladan looked over his shoulder at Elrohir, and felt a rush of scorn at how Elrohir seemed to have fallen apart. If Athranen did not keep a tight hold him, he would fall from the horse.  He clenched the reins in his hands, fighting down the anger inside. His twin was stronger than this.

“Water!” called Glorfindel, as they approached a small stream. He slid his leg over his horse, sliding to the ground without disturbing Celebrían, whom he held gently against his chest.  Elladan dismounted behind him, patting his horse’s flank and sending him to drink, while he moved to where Glorfindel was placing Celebrían in the shade.

“Elrohir, what is this?” came Athranen’s stern voice.  “Take off your tunic.”

Elladan turned to see Elrohir stumble to the ground, his bandaged hands making it nearly impossible to comply with the order, though when Elladan saw him stand still with his head bowed he knew that he did not intend to try. Fury rose in him, and he strode to where his brother stood.

Athranen steadied Elrohir. “Are you injured? What is this from?” he asked as he wiped something from his hand on to his trouser.

Elladan reached his twin, and without asking for permission, he pulled the tunic up and over Elrohir’s head.  Elrohir stiffened and a slight moan escaped him as the fabric tugged loose from his skin, and if Athrenen had not caught him he would have fallen to the ground.

“Elladan!” hissed Athranen, trying to stop him from ripping the tunic loose.

Elladan’s fury rose as he uncovered the wounds to his brother’s side. He yanked the tunic free, ripping the festering flesh further, then grabbed Elrohir by the arms and shook him violently. “Elrohir!  What were you thinking?  Are you trying to kill yourself?  Are Naneth’s wounds not enough for us to worry about?”

Haldir pulled him off his brother, restraining both arms behind him and pulling him away to the shade of a nearby tree.  Elladan did not resist as he was pushed to the ground. His keeper kept a firm grip on his arm, and though he wished to shake the elf off and remove him from his presence, he forced a calm over himself that he did not feel and relaxed. Haldir released him and thrust a waterskin into his hands.

Elladan drank, the motions rote, as he watched Glorfindel and one of the Imladris healers tend his mother and Athranen and a Lorien healer see to his brother.  He heard Glorfindel soothing his mother as she cried out in delirium, and then looked to see Elrohir lying on his uninjured side, his face buried in his arm, as his poisoned and festering wounds were tended. Elladan clenched and unclenched his fists in anger, anger at the orcs, anger at Elrohir, and anger at himself most of all.

Haldir had brought water to the Lorien healer, and he now returned to sit next to Elladan. “The wounds were poisoned. They were probably trivial when he got them, and he pushed them from his thought in fear for your naneth,” he explained.

“He knows better than to ignore battle wounds. It is not as if we did have healers among us who could care for them,” replied Elladan stubbornly.  “He jeopardizes getting Celebrían home quickly.”

Haldir raised a brow at him, disbelief on his face. Elladan could not long meet his gaze and looked away. “I did not know he was injured,” he finally whispered, but when Haldir laid a sympathetic hand on his arm, he jerked it away.

Haldir sighed deeply. “Elladan, we are still very close to this, but soon you will need to stand back and look objectively at what happened.” He raised his hand to cut off Elladan’s objection. “I have led many missions and seen many an elf die under my command. There is appropriate responsibility to take in such cases, but traveling in Middle-earth is not safe.  You cannot protect all your people, you cannot predict every action the enemy will take, and you cannot carry such anger and guilt without it destroying you.”

Elladan tried to speak, but Haldir held up his hand again. “I am speaking and you are listening, Elrondion.  I give you this advice: do not add to the grief of those around you.”

Anger warred with shame at the chastisement, for Elladan could see some truth in the words. A low cry caught his attention and he began to rise to go to his mother, but Haldir caught his arm.  “Stay clear of them until you have your anger under control,” he warned.

Elladan struggled briefly under that iron grip. “Elladan,” interrupted Glorfindel.

He went still, turning to meet his captain’s gaze. Glorfindel’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I want to reach Imladris by tonight.  Can you keep up this pace?” Before he could answer, Glorfindel waved him off. He stood and was surprised when Glorfindel stepped close to him. “Leave off Elrohir.  Mount up.”

Elladan did as instructed and remained silent when Haldir brought his horse up close to him.  He watched Glorfindel, who held Celebrían with a look of worry that chilled his heart.  He looked back at Elrohir, who sat before Athranen again, his eyes and heart closed to Elladan. When Elladan tried to draw his attention, Elrohir bowed his head. Frustrated and full of fear, Elladan let Haldir guide him back on to their trail.

They had just entered the rolling hills that hid Imladris so effectively from the enemy, their pace a slow walk as they carefully maneuvered the many hidden clefts and valleys that appeared at the step of a foot, when a screech over head broke the quiet. Elladan looked up to see one of the great eagles soaring high above them. It circled around them, dropping down with each turn, and then decided to land not far from them.  The huge bird looked at them all curiously, but his eyes rested on Elladan. Elladan dismounted and walked to meet him, bowing when he stood before the massive talons.

“Elladan son of Elrond,” identified the eagle when Elladan rose.  “Your father sent word of great need, asking if we would see what was amiss.  For Elrond we have looked; in payment of debt to you I offer my strength.”

Sudden realization dawned on Elladan as to who this eagle was, and the eagle bowed his head in acknowledgement.  He had rescued a fallen eaglet many years earlier, climbing to the eyrie and placing him back in his nest.  The mother eagle had returned soon after, at first filled with fury that her nest had been disturbed, but turning to gratefulness when her child told of his first failed attempt to fly. Tears filled his eye and he quickly blinked them away.  He nodded to where Glorfindel held Celebrían.  “That is my mother, poisoned and tortured by orcs. I must get her to my father as soon as possible.”

“I will bear you to Imladris,” offered the eagle, and he lowered himself to the ground so that Elladan could climb to sit on his back between his wings.  Elladan turned to Glorfindel, holding his arms out in desperation.  Glorfindel held Celebrían close for a moment, his eyes boring into the eagle, but he finally dismounted and carried Celebrían to them.  Elladan whispered his thanks to the eagle as he climbed on to his back, then took his mother from Glorfindel and held her tightly “I will not let you fall,” promised the eagle.

Elladan squeezed his knees about the eagle’s body, holding on to his neck with one hand while he pressed his mother to him, as the eagle ran smoothly forward, launching himself into the sky.  It was an event he had dreamed of his whole life, to soar with the eagles, and he allowed himself to feel the joy along with the hope of placing his mother into the healing hands of his father that much sooner.

* * *

Elrond would never forget the horror of seeing Celebrían when she was carried into Imladris. He had paced with worry for those last days, knowing she was unconscious or drugged, and all he could do was support her spirit. Several times he had tried to ride out, but Erestor had stood firm. Then, in the late afternoon, he had heard the cry of a great eagle and seen the bird circling to land in the courtyard of the house. He had rushed out to meet them, taking Celebrían from Elladan’s arms when the Eagle flattened himself to the ground so that he could easily reach her. 

“Thank you,” he said to the Eagle as he took his wife in his arms.  He pulled the cloak from her face. “Ai, Celebrían!” he cried softly as he looked upon her battered form. Nothing he had imagined was as bad as what had been done to her. He strode quickly to the Healing rooms, Elladan stumbling after him.  Elrond laid her upon a soft bed and removed the cloak from around her, and felt bile rise in his throat at the horrific sight before him.  She lived, but he did not know how.

For a fleeting moment he thought he could not treat her. He ghosted his hand over the bald patches on her head where her hair had been violently torn out, and the scratches that tore into the most delicate and sensitive flesh on her abdomen and chest.  The orcs’ cruelty had been designed to cause the most pain and humiliation possible.  Her right shoulder was still grossly dislocated, and now so stiff that putting it back in place would be difficult and painful. A sudden vision of Celebrían hung by her hands from chains flashed in his mind, and he saw the orcs surrounding her, abusing her and mocking her cries. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, his hands trembling.  Please, Elbereth, he pleaded, as he had many times over these last days.  But where he had been pleading for her life to be spared, he now begged for the strength and ability to heal her. He felt a presence behind him, and looked into the face of utter exhaustion.  Elladan did not speak, but his eyes spoke volumes.  Elrond was Celebrían’s only hope this side of the Halls of Waiting. He drew in a deep breath, steeling himself, and began issuing orders to the healers who surrounded him, and they began the tedious and painful task of treating her wounds.   The worst of them all was the hideous stab wound to her hip. The site of the wound was ulcerated and festering, and heat, swelling and redness radiated from it to cover most of her side.

“I do not know of any poisons that cause such an effect,” murmured Elrond, mostly to himself, but the healers around him nodded in agreement.

He lost track of the hours they worked, cleaning wounds and treating them with various remedies. A number of elves had their hands laid upon Celebrían, singing softly and surrounding her with melodies of healing and peace.  Ithil had risen when Elrond drew a sheet over Celebrían. “I do not want her left alone at any time,” he instructed the healers. “I have been into her mind, and what haunts her must be driven away with touch and song, where we can.”

As much as he wanted to just sit next to Celebrían and hold her hand and chase away her fears, he had other responsibilities that he knew must be tended as well. He had spoken only briefly with Elladan, but he knew that some of the elves in the escort had died.   Despite the exhaustion weighing heavily on him from the healing energy he had poured into Celebrían, he went to Erestor’s office, for he knew the elf would already know what there was to know.

Erestor looked up when he entered, but did not speak a word. Instead he rose and poured Elrond a cup of miruvor, and pressed it into his hand as Elrond sat. “Tell me what you know,” Elrond said tiredly.

“Four of the escort are dead. The Lorien elves saw to their funeral pyres and will send any personal effects with Celeborn and Galadriel’s escort.  They should arrive within the week.  Arwen will be with them.” At Elrond’s look of protest, Erestor continued, “They will have flushed out any remaining orcs.  Arwen will be safe.”

“Have the others arrived?”

“Elladan is speaking to the families of those killed now. The rest of the party will arrive soon. I have sent out fresh horses to meet them.  There are injured among them.”

Elrond struggled to form the words to ask his remaining question. “What happened?”

Erestor sighed.  “Celebrían’s guard scouted the pass, as they always do, but found it clear.  The orcs in their tunneling had tunneled out over the pass.  They had multiple openings, perfect for an ambush.  They attacked them from above, rappelling down the side of the cliff.  The guards were scattered and separated, two driven back from the others.  One was killed and the other left for dead; of the remaining party, all were killed or thought dead when the orcs took Celebrían.  Elrohir had been the lead scout and came back to find his brother unconscious beneath Nathrion, with a nasty wound to the head.”

Elrond found the lump in his throat too great to allow him to swallow; indeed, it was almost too large for him to breathe.  He had not only nearly lost Celebrían, but his sons as well.  Four dead, he mourned. Many centuries had passed since Imladris had lost so many warriors at once.

“Elladan and Elrohir climbed the cliff and went down into the orcs den.  The orcs were distracted by elves coming from the east. The Lorien escort had come forward when Celebrían did not arrive, and then Celeborn arrived himself with a large war party.  The twins were able to kill the remaining orcs and escape with Celebrían,” finished Erestor.  He paused, studying Elrond.

Elrond could only nod as he considered the horror his sons and wife had lived through.   And Celebrían is barely living.  He had to push the horror she had endured from his mind, or it would overwhelm him.   He slowly rose. “Let me know when the others arrive.”

Erestor stood, moving to the balcony at a sound in the courtyard. “They are arriving now.”

The met the patrol as it entered the ground, Elrond’s eye drawn immediately to the injured. Hador was being lifted down by the healer who had ridden with him. He found Elrohir next, seated in front of Athranen, looking pale and weary.  He stepped forward to meet his son, and Elrohir stepped into his embrace with his head bowed.

“Elrohir,” he greeted him softly, his hands quickly finding the injuries to Elrohir’s side, back and hands as he pulled his son to him.

“I am sorry, Adar,” whispered Elrohir hoarsely.

“Your naneth is resting,” answered Elrond.  “Come and let me see to you.”

“Take care of Naneth,” argued Elrohir tiredly. “I will be all right.” He would have pulled away from Elrond, but Elrond would not let him go.  He turned, keeping one arm around Elrohir, and was leading him to the house when Elladan appeared. To Elrond’s surprise, Elrohir stopped and stiffened.

“How is Naneth, Adar?” asked Elladan, ignoring his twin.

“She is resting,” replied Elrond, looking from one son to the other.  Unsure of what had happened between them, he made a decision. “Elrohir, I wish to tend your wounds. Come with me.”

Elladan’s face contorted with anger.  “Take care of Naneth, Adar. I will see Elrohir to a healer.”

Elrohir shrugged his father’s arm off. “I am fine, Adar. Please, spend your energy on Naneth.”

Elrond felt as if a shadow settled over him at the moment. He did not wish to argue with his sons, had not done so in many years, and yet he would not be gainsaid in this matter.

“Elladan, please come with me,” broke in Erestor, who had watched the proceedings.  “I need some information from you.”

Elrond watched as Erestor stepped between the twins, and Elladan finally allowed himself to be led away.  Elrond took Elrohir’s arm again. “Adar, please,” beseeched Elrohir.

“Elrohir, do not argue with me,” replied Elrond firmly. “I have said I wish to see to your injuries and you will allow me to do so.”  He took Elrohir’s arm with a little more force than he had planned and led him to the healing rooms.  As soon as they entered, Elrohir looked for and found his mother.  Rushing to her bedside, he knelt down beside her, covering her hand with his own, and Elrond saw the tears flowing down his cheeks.

Elrond sat down on Celebrían’s other side, resting his hand on her head.  She was still in the deep healing sleep he had pushed her into and he did not expect her to wake any time soon.  His intent was to keep her in this state until her terrible wounds were well into the healing process.

“She will continue to sleep for some time,” he told Elrohir as he walked to the other side of the bed. He took his son’s arm again and led him to a separate alcove.  Elrohir no longer resisted, and he allowed Elrond to help him undress and then remove the soiled bandages. As his son relaxed beneath his touch, Elrond could sense the flurry of emotions in his mind. Worry for his mother underpinned everything else, but a deep sense of guilt that he had failed her was present, and also pain at something that had occurred between him and his twin.  Realization dawned on him that Elrohir’s earlier apology may not have been empathy, but responsibility.

“The wound to your right hand is different than the burns to your left, which are healing.  What happened?” he questioned.

Elrohir rolled slightly so he could see him. “I do not know, Adar.”

“It resembles the wound to your mother’s hip,” added Elrond, watching his son closely.

Elrohir paled at the mention of that wound, but after a moment he said, “I used my right hand to pull the dagger from her.”

“Your hand was already wounded? Already open and bleeding?”

“Yes,” answered Elrohir numbly. “There was no time to think to do otherwise.”

“Of course not,” agreed Elrond. “But I think the knife was able to harm you because of the open wound.” He prepared a poultice much like what he had used on Celebrían’s hip, and wrapped Elrohir’s hand, then tended to his other hand, side and back. Bruises on Elrohir’s arm caused a moment of guilt as he thought he had grasped his son’s arm too hard, but both arms were bruised.  Looking closely, he saw the bruises were in the pattern of fingerprints. He decided to ignore them for now.

He finished, then sat on the side of the bed and stroked Elrohir’s hair.   Elrohir had drifted into a state of relaxation, but also of vulnerability.  “Speak to me, Elrohir,” he coaxed.  He decided to avoid the subject of what had happened to Celebrían and probed elsewhere. “What is wrong between you and Elladan?”

Elrohir shifted, trying to roll on to his wounded side, and Elrond quickly intervened to prevent him from doing so.  Just then, Elladan entered the healing rooms.  He looked from his mother, whom several healers sat near, to Elrohir and Elrond. His eyes narrowed and a cold look crossed his face. Elrond beckoned to him.

“Sit down, Elladan,” he instructed, pointing to a nearby chair. “How is your head?”

“Healed,” answered Elladan curtly. “Elrohir would be as well, if he had taken due care with his wounds.” He addressed his next words to his twin, who was awake though barely alert after his long day’s riding. “He knows better than to hide a wound and put others at risk because of it.”

To Elrond’s surprise, Elrohir did not answer. He tried to roll on to his side again, removing the bandages from Elladan’s sight, Elrond realized. When Elrond blocked him from doing so again, Elrohir turned his face away from his twin.  The despair about him was palpable.

“Elrond, I need to speak to Elladan in my office, now,” said Glorfindel brusquely from behind them.

Glorfindel was still covered in trail dust, weariness heavy about him and his eyes glittered dangerously as they met Elladan’s. Elrond nearly hissed in frustration. He looked down at Elrohir, then waved another healer over.  “Finish cleaning him up,” he instructed. “Glorfindel, will my study do?”

Glorfindel clenched his jaw, the muscles throbbing, as his anger grew. “I can handle this, Elrond. Stay here.”

“My study,” growled Elrond. He strode from the room, marched down the hall to his office and threw the door open.  When Glorfindel and Elladan entered, he shut the door firmly behind them. “What is going on?” he demanded.

Glorfindel ignored him and turned on Elladan, grasping him by the front of his tunic and pulling him up until they were face to face. “You have been given one order by me, Elladan, and a word of advice by Haldir, both of which you have failed to heed.  Lay off Elrohir, and do not add to the grief of those around you.  You have had nearly a full day to calm down and I arrive to find you still harassing Elrohir and creating turmoil for him, your father, the healers and Erestor. You are not helping your naneth this way.” Glorfindel paused for breath, his eyes flashing. He loosened his hold on Elladan slightly. “Haldir’s advice was sound, Elladan.  Please stop before you hurt anyone else around you or destroy yourself.”

Glorfindel released Elladan, and with a brief nod at Elrond, left the room.  Elrond watched as Elladan straightened his tunic, his hands shaking, and then sank into a chair. He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, and Elrond heard him draw a deep shuddering breath.  When Elladan finally looked up and met his gaze, he looked repentant. “I am sorry, Adar.  Glorfindel is right. I am only adding to your grief. Please go back to the healing rooms.”

Elrond shook his head. “Tell me why you are upset with Elrohir.”

“I do not know that I can explain why,” answered Elladan. “He was strong helping to rescue Naneth, but then he became weak. He let others command him and he did not tell anyone about the wounds to his side and back. He did not really slow us down, but he might have.” He paused, but then continued in frustration. “Elrohir is stronger than this. He knows better. Why would he do this?”

“Elrohir is ill,” answered Elrond slowly. “The wounds to his hand resemble the wound to your naneth’s hip. The dagger he pulled from her poisoned him too, though obviously much less severely. I think his other wounds will not heal because of that.  I will know more as I treat him over the next several days.”

Elladan’s face fell as the weight of Elrond’s words settled on him.  “Adar, what have I done? I have failed Elrohir as I failed Naneth,” he said miserably.

Elrond strode forward quickly, kneeling beside his son and wrapping his arms around him. “From what I have heard, I do not think you failed your mother. As for Elrohir, you know he will forgive you; you need only to ask. You do need to let go of your guilt and anger, though. Do not let them destroy you.”

Elladan nodded.  “I must go to Elrohir.”

Father and son walked back to the healing rooms together. Elrond went immediately to Celebrían, but he watched as Elladan went to his brother.  Elrohir was asleep, however, and Elladan could only kiss his brow and gently stroke his hair. “Shall I take him back to our rooms, Adar?” he asked.

“No, I wish to monitor his wounds and that will be easier done here,” decided Elrond.

When Elladan continued to pace in the rooms, one of the apprentice healers brought a cot and placed it beside Elrohir’s bed. At a glance from his father, Elladan acquiesced and lay down to rest. The lights were lowered in the healing rooms, and Elrond found a comfortable position from which he could hold Celebrían’s hand.  He had no idea how many frustrating days and nights he would spend there.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

Elrond felt a tug on his mind and turned his thoughts westward.   The presence of evil that he had sensed earlier had grown and was drawing near.  It was no threat to Imladris, though Elrond sensed it was a threat to the one who carried it.

“Elrond, you are needed,” interrupted Erestor.

Elrond walked on to the front porch with Arwen just as Asfaloth trotted into the yard, his bells strangely silent.  On his back sat Aragorn; in his arms a cloak wrapped hobbit.  Trailing a distance behind them was Glorfindel with three more hobbits in tow, their short legs running to keep up with Glorfindel’s long stride, and the elves Elrond had sent to meet them.

Elrond reached for the hobbit before Aragorn could dismount, and he knew before touching him that the evil he had felt resided inside him.  Soon it would overtake him.

“This is Frodo. He was stabbed in the shoulder with a morgul blade fourteen days ago,” said Aragorn in greeting. He slid from the horse, and the three other hobbits raced to gather around him and look hopefully upon Elrond.

Elrond spared at glance at the four of them as he turned to take Frodo into the house. They were all filthy and exhausted, and he heard the youngest appearing hobbit’s stomach growl. “Baths and food will be prepared for you immediately. I will come to you after I have seen to Frodo,” he said kindly.

One of the hobbits opened his mouth to protest, but Aragorn gently steered him away from Elrond. Elrond could not help but smile as he heard another of the hobbits gasp as he was introduced to Arwen, but he felt the urgency to see to Frodo and could not linger. Mithrandir passed him as he walked in. The wizard drew back the cloak from Frodo’s face and shook his head.  “It is worse than I feared.”

“Gandalf!” cried one of the hobbits.  “Where have you been? Why didn’t you meet us?”

“I will see to them first and learn what has passed,” said Mithrandir, and he continued out of the house to greet them.

Elrond could not help but compare Frodo’s wound to that of Celebrían.  Frodo’s arm and side were cold, though the wound itself seemed to have healed over. He pressed along the wound edges carefully, but while he could not physically feel anything amiss beneath his fingers, he sensed that the lingering cold and shadow that enveloped the hobbit stemmed from deep inside. Either something remains buried in the wound or he fades from the effect it has had, he contemplated. He carefully removed the rest of the hobbit’s clothing, allowing the other healers to help him bathe the layers of dirt from their patient.  “They were pursued by Nazgûl,” said one elf who had joined them late and already heard some of the story. “The Dúnadan took them into the wilds, through swamps and over the hills, until Glorfindel found them.”

He listened to the healers speak quietly around him, discussing what they had heard of the journey and the encounter the small group had had with the Nine.  Their voices faded as a strange discord rose within him, and he focused on Vilya for a moment, using his ring to determine the source of the disharmony.  It comes from Frodo.  He ran his fingers over the puckered wound again.  But not just from the wound.  He bent and picked up the hobbit’s clothing, and immediately identified the cause. Though he did not touch it directly, he felt the power of the ring through the fabric that held it.  It whispered its desire, its song striving to overpower that of Vilya upon his hand.  The discord rose in greater volume as he contemplated what lay before him.

Though he held the small coat motionless, the ring slipped from the pocket, landing on the edge of his sleeve on the bed.  It called steadily to him, whispering its promises of the healing and light it could help him bring to all peoples.  All of Middle-earth like Imladris.  Wounds healed, enemies subdued, people living in peace.  Elrond listened to the promises for a moment; his heart scarcely beating at the temptation before him.  It is wholly evil, he reminded himself. Will you be so easily misled? He sent all of his thought at the ring, forcefully proclaiming: I reject you.

“He worsens,” spoke one of the healers.

Elrond took a quill from the bedside table and slid the ring on to it.  “I need a chain,” he said quietly, looking around the gathered elves.  One held forth a gold chain from under his tunic, and Elrond nodded. The elf removed the token from the chain, slipping the item into his pocket and handed the chain to Elrond.  Elrond slid the ring on to it, fastened the clasp, and motioned for the elf nearest him to lift Frodo’s head.  He hung the chain over the hobbit’s head.  He was not surprised when Frodo’s breathing became more regular and deep, and the slightest of color returned to his face. He nodded for his assistants to continue.

Voices rose in song as the elves laid their hands upon Frodo, strengthening him and bringing peace to him through the melody they wove with his spirit.  Elrond rested his hands upon Frodo’s brow and heart, entering deep into a healing trance. Whatever afflicted Frodo would not be battled with typical wound healing techniques, but what healing they could provide remained to be seen.

When Elrond felt the hobbit was sufficiently strengthened, they dressed him in a soft nightshirt and took him to a comfortable bed, where the mountain breeze could drift over him through the open balcony.  Bilbo had long claimed that the air of Rivendell was the cleanest and freshest he had breathed, begrudgingly admitting it surpassed even that of the Shire.  As Elrond stood from covering Frodo with a light blanket, he caught sight of the ancient hobbit nodding approvingly from the door.

“How is my nephew and be straight with me,” said Bilbo, his voice quavering slightly.

“He is strengthened and resting comfortably, though he is not healed,” replied Elrond honestly.  “When he has rested we will need to see what harm is still being done to him and why.”

Another hobbit appeared behind Bilbo, then. He was sturdy and younger than Frodo, though not yet clean.  “I had to see him, Mr. Bilbo, I don’t care none what the elves say. I need to see him with my own eyes, if you understand.”

“Aye, Sam Gamgee, you do.  Well, there he is, though Master Elrond says he is not through yet,” replied Bilbo as he patted the hobbit on the shoulder.

Sam edged his way past the elves, maneuvering until he was between Elrond and the bed.  He lifted Frodo’s pale hand in his own brown one, petting it. “You’re in Rivendell, Mr. Frodo. Strider says Master Elrond can heal you, if anyone can.”

Elrond watched as Sam settled himself, apparently determining he would keep watch at the bedside.  He smiled, and bent down near the hobbit. “Master Samwise, a bath awaits you, and then a clean soft bed. On this night I must insist, as you are in dire need of both. Tomorrow you may sit watch over your master.”

Sam looked ready to protest again, as he had in the courtyard, but Bilbo stepped forward. “Come now, Sam. In this house Elrond is master and there is no use arguing with him. The elves will watch Frodo tonight.” 

“He hasn’t been sleeping good, or eating. You’ll have to watch him,” warned Sam as Bilbo ushered him from the room.

Elrond smiled at the admonishments, yet was warmed inside by the loyalty of this simple hobbit.  He had heard as they tended Frodo that Sam was his gardener, as his father had been to Bilbo before him.  Though he did not yet know why, he suddenly knew that Frodo would need Sam desperately, should he survive.

Aragorn came to him next, looking considerably better than he had when he arrived.  Elrond motioned for him to sit next to him, and he smiled when Aragorn folded his lanky body onto the settee beside him.  Aragorn studied the pale, drawn face of the sleeping hobbit for a long moment. “They are amazing creatures, Elrond.  Hobbits do not fade easily.” He lifted a wrapped package that he had brought with him, pulling back the edges so Elrond could see what was lying within.  “This is the hilt of the blade that the Witch King stabbed him with.  The blade disintegrated.”

Elrond took the package from his son’s hands, careful not to touch the metal directly.  Even without touch, he knew the metal was cold, and the light around them shadowed as he held it up.  He studied the runes. “This blade was created for the Úlairi, to create others to serve them. The runes speak of eternal enslavement of the spirit.  It is filled with the presence of the undead.” He looked from the hilt to Frodo, sensing even more clearly the cold shadow that surrounded the hobbit. “Some part remains inside him, though I cannot feel it, the same evil that emanates from this blade stirs within Frodo. If we do not remove it, it will take him and he will become like them.”

“Where is It?” asked Aragorn quietly.

“On a chain around his neck,” Elrond answered and he moved to stand at he bedside, lifting the collar of Frodo’s nightshirt slightly that Aragorn could glimpse the ring. “None shall remove it, nor touch it.”

Aragorn looked upon him thoughtfully, and Elrond knew that his son wished to ask if he had been tempted. He knew that Aragorn had made the decision years earlier to never take the ring into his possession should it come to him, for he feared that like Isildur, it would ensnare him. “It called to me,” he admitted. “While its promises are alluring, they are only an illusion designed to ensnare.” He studied Aragorn, sensing the man’s strength of will and character.  “You are strong, Aragorn,” he said, “strong enough that you would be a fearsome opponent with the power of the One in your control.  It would ensnare and destroy you through your desires for good, much as it would me. I would be a terrible lord with it in my power, and every vestige of self control and goodwill I have striven for would become perverted.  You have traveled with Frodo for many days and the ring remains in his possession. You are not and will not be easily led astray.”

Aragorn relaxed slightly next to him. “Its call was strong, but as the days progressed it grew less. The hobbits are strangely unaffected by it.”

“Bilbo gave it up willingly, though he needed Mithrandir’s aid to do so.  While I thought him unique, perhaps in the fiber of the hobbits there is little desire for power, and thus little hold it can have over them. That the ring has come into the possession of hobbits has been for the good of us all.”

Elrond laid his hand upon Aragorn’s shoulder, sending strength and peace into him. “Go and rest. I will stay with Frodo, and I will see that this is properly destroyed,” he said, motioning to the cruel metal which he had laid on the table beside them.

“You put me to sleep when you do that,” accused Aragorn with a smile.

Elrond laughed. “That was my intent.”

“Where are Elladan and Elrohir?” Aragorn asked suddenly.

“I know not. They rode out with the rangers several months ago.”

Aragorn had grown languid, his eyes drooping slightly as Elrond continued to rest his hand on his shoulder. “I have never seen Glorfindel as I saw him today. Had I known what he could become, I would have crossed him less as a child.”

Elrond laughed in memory, thinking of how this mortal child had adored the golden haired warrior with the light of Valinor in his eyes, knowing only his love and never understanding his power.  “Go and rest, or I shall send for Glorfindel to escort you,” he threatened.

Aragorn rose, but he stopped by the bedside and leaned over Frodo, resting his hand on the hobbit’s forehead.  “Hold on, Frodo,” he whispered, and then left to find rest.

Elrond settled into the quiet at Frodo’s bedside as night fell.  Arwen had come and gone, returning with the scrolls and tomes he had requested. “What can I help you to find, Adar?” she asked as she settled in a chair near the fireplace.

Elrond smiled at his daughter, glad as always for her presence at his side.  “I do not know what I am looking for,” he replied, yet he did wish for her company. “Bring your embroidery and sit with me.”

Together they sat through the long watch of the night, strengthening Frodo when his strength waned, and chasing away the shadows that haunted his dreams.

* * *

In the days of Arahad I the Orcs, who had, as later appeared, long been secretly occupying strongholds in the Misty Mountains, so as to bar all passes into Eriador, suddenly revealed themselves. In 2509 Celebrían wife of Elrond was journeying to Lorien when she was waylaid in the Redhorn Pass, and her escort being scattered by the sudden assault of Orcs, she was seized and carried off. She was pursued and rescued by Elladan and Elrohir, but not before she had suffered torment and received a poisoned wound. She was brought back to Imladris, and though healed in body by Elrond, lost all delight in Middle-earth, and the next year went to the Havens and passed over Sea.  Appendix A, Lord of the Rings.

Thank you to daw and karri for beta reading this chapter