Chapter 7:  Lords of Dignity and Power

“That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world.”

Elrond, Council of Elrond, FotR

There are other powers at work far stronger.

Aragorn, The Breaking of the Fellowship, FotR

Ithil’s light was shining brightly in Frodo’s chamber when Elrond entered.  Mithrandir sat at the side of the bed, holding Frodo’s hand, but his shoulders were slumped and Elrond could sense weariness radiating from him. On the other side of the bed, Sam was snoring softly. Elrond had been touched each time he saw the faithful hobbit sitting at his master’s side and amused at the instructions and orders he had been given by the otherwise humble Sam.  His concern for Frodo caused him to overcome his natural reticence around the big people.  While he wouldn’t ask for anything for himself, he was quite demanding when it came to Frodo. 

Elrond touched Mithrandir gently on the shoulder, startling him.  The wizard sat upright with a groan, then patted Frodo’s hand before laying it down upon the coverlet.  He rose stiffly from his chair. “I believe I have kept the shard from regaining any ground, though your more acute healing sense may tell otherwise.”

Elrond bent over the hobbit and pulled the sheet back, gently probing along the shard’s path. It had not regained any distance, but the area appeared irritated again and the skin was cold and blue to the touch.  Even in sleep, Frodo flinched at the examination and tried to pull away, crying out weakly as he did so.

Sam awoke abruptly at the sound, jumping to his feet and leaning over the bed.  “What is it, Mr. Frodo?” he asked before fully opening his eyes.  He collided with Elrond, his head butting against Elrond’s arm. He appeared abashed, but then the sight of Frodo drove any embarrassment from his mind.  “What did you do?” cried Sam, grabbing at Elrond’s hand.

Elrond caught the sturdy brown hand in his own. “Peace, Samwise,” he soothed.  “I had to examine the shoulder, but will not cause Frodo further pain.”

Sam glared at him, but his drooping eyes and swaying form lessened the impact.  Elrond stood swiftly and caught the hobbit before he hit the floor.  He guided him gently to a comfortable chair and pushed him into it.  “You may stay, Sam, if you rest there,” he said firmly.  Sam appeared about to argue with him, but subsided when Elrond turned his most stern frown upon him.

“Wise choice, Sam,” laughed Mithrandir, stifling a yawn. “That frown has been perfected on countless persons before you.  Even Strider cowers before that look.” Elrond turned his ‘perfected look’ on Mithrandir then, who added, “As do I.  Rest, Samwise. I will see you in the morning.”

Elrond placed a pillow next to Sam on the chair, then tucked a blanket over the now unprotesting hobbit.   He laid his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Rest well,” he murmured, and then smiled as Sam’s eyes slowly closed and he fell into a deep sleep.

Now able to tend to Frodo without interruption, Elrond sent Frodo to a rest beyond pain and turned Vilya’s power against the evil that indwelled him.

* * *

Elrond opened his eyes to see fading sunlight dancing across the mountains beyond his window.  The level of light identified the time of day as early evening, beyond the dinner hour, and he realized he could not account for his day.  He sat up slowly, and only then did he notice Glorfindel sitting in the chair near the balcony.

“What are you watching?” he asked when Glorfindel spared him only a glance.

He stood when Glorfindel waved him over, then stretched and walked to the balcony.  His rooms had a sweeping view of the valley, opening on to a private garden but overseeing from one end gardens available to everyone.  In those gardens, several elves were speaking to the dwarves who had arrived the day before.

“Wood-elves from Mirkwood,” said Glorfindel.  “They arrived a few hours ago. The blond and the dark haired elf to his right are Thranduil’s sons. ”

Elrond stared at the group for a moment, his mind wandering.  It was as if representatives of the kindreds of Middle-earth were spontaneously gathering to discuss the fate of Middle-earth.  “Why have they come?”

“Drink this,” ordered Glorfindel, holding out a flask of Miruvor. “You should probably be seated lest the breeze blow you over.”

Elrond obediently sat and took the proffered flask, though he doubted he looked as tired as Glorfindel inferred.

“They came seeking Mithrandir. With typical wood-elf reticence, they have declined to speak to any but him about their errand,” explained Glorfindel.

“I should go relieve him,” said Elrond immediately, then realized he did not know who was with Frodo. He closed his eyes, seeking within his own memories for the events of the day. 

Glorfindel laughed at him. “Mithrandir is with Frodo.  You brought him far today, Elrond.  Mithrandir predicts tomorrow you will cure him.  Arwen chased you away mid-day and you’ve slept ever since.”

“Thank you,” replied Elrond with a smile. He looked back out at the gardens, where the wood-elves and dwarves were still politely nodding at each other.  “Please ask them to stay. A decision about the fate of the One Ring must be made.  Elves and Dwarves and Hobbits and Men will determine what that fate is.”

Glorfindel rose, but paused near Elrond and rested his hand on his shoulder. Elrond smiled, knowing exactly what the elf was doing, but relaxed his mind and let his friend strengthen him.  “Mithrandir and I will join you for dinner in a short while.  Aragorn and Arwen will be with Frodo.”

Glorfindel returned with Mithrandir by the time Elrond had bathed and dressed. His appetite had returned, and he uncovered the platters Cook had sent with anticipation.  The mix of dishes was quite different than normal, and Elrond was not sure he could identify all of the items.

“Ah, Shire fare,” said Mithrandir as he breathed in deeply of the scents drifting from the table.  He winked at Elrond. “Some Dwarven ale was served as well, but you prefer wine, as I recall.”

Elrond took the cup of wine that Glorfindel had poured for him. “Celebrían would drink ale with them,” he remembered, but he buried the rest of the memories of those times that threatened to surface and distract him from the matters at hand.  “Tell me of our guests.”

“Dáin Ironfoot sent Glóin with a message for Bilbo, and to ask your advice,” replied Mithrandir. “Thranduil’s sons came with news that they were attacked very close to their stronghold, and Gollum escaped.  I have asked both groups to hold their news for now, while we focus our attentions on the hobbit, Frodo. I have told them that you will be calling a Council soon, where these and other important matters are to be discussed.”

“Who is the younger dwarf with Glóin?” asked Elrond as he tried a dish of something that appeared to be a fried mushroom.

“That is his son, Gimli,” replied Mithrandir.  “He was barely into his majority when the dwarves stayed here on their way to the Lonely Mountain, and Glóin would not allow him to come.  He is good-natured, as is his father.” He paused while he chewed a bite. “I missed this fare when I did not visit The Shire for long periods.”

Glorfindel snorted. “I would sleep often if I ate food such as this on a regular basis.”

Mithrandir laughed.  “Eating is the favorite past-time of hobbits; napping afterward follows a close second.”

Elrond listened as Glorfindel and Mithrandir debated the merits of hobbit habits, but his own thoughts drifted back to Frodo and what healing lay yet before him. From the moment he had laid eyes upon the gravely injured hobbit, he knew that the ultimate destination of the harm was his soul. All of his energy had been directed at preventing the shard from reaching its goal, and at protecting Frodo’s spirit as much as he was able.  He would never know if he could have done more for Celebrían.  Before then he had not treated a wound so poisoned that it attacked the very fëa, and she had already been greatly weakened by the torture inflicted upon her. Perhaps as time progressed he would learn things that would suggest his course for Frodo should have been different, but the costly knowledge earned centuries earlier had aided him.   The weapons of the enemy were imbued with his cruelty and malice, and Elrond did not know how many types existed, but that they sought to harm more than the physical appeared to be a common trait.  Tomorrow would likely be the day, as Mithrandir predicted, when he could find and remove the shard. Whether that would cure Frodo remained to be seen.

Mithrandir’s laughter interrupted his musings. “Lathron would not tell you the message?” he asked.  When Glorfindel shook his head and gave an exasperated sigh, Mithrandir laughed again. “He is perhaps the most reserved of all Thranduil’s family.”

“I would have obtained the information from Legolas,” added Glorfindel.

“Perhaps,” answered Mithrandir non-committally.  “He is not an elfling anymore.”

Glorfindel snorted. “He is still very young.” He laughed then, in memory.  “I do not think Elladan and Elrohir have seen him since our visit there many years ago.  Legolas was quite enamored with them, especially Elladan.  We learned how protective the wood elves were of their princeling.”

Elrond gradually tuned out their remembrances, as his thought moved from the Ring-bearer to the One Ring.  When Frodo was strong enough, a Council would be held and the fate of the One Ring discussed. He knew it was not by mere circumstance that representatives from each race had appeared, but a sign that higher powers were indeed at work amongst them.   He let his gaze linger on Mithrandir, thinking of the many long years he had labored in Middle-earth, waiting for this very time.  Elrond knew there was only one answer for the fate of the One.  It had to be destroyed and there was only one way to do that.  His fingers itched to take it to Mordor himself and drop it in the fire, but he feared having that close of contact with it.  He even considered what it would take to convince one of the great Eagles to bear the ring to its destruction, but he knew they would not involve themselves in the affairs of Middle-earth. 

He knew with a certainty that it was not the Elves who would end Sauron’s reign, but the hands of the meek and dispossessed.  Those same hands, if they won this victory, would also rebuild and rule Middle-earth.  He could lead these representatives through the long history of Sauron’s domination and Melkor’s before him, and he could convince them of what needed to be done.  He could provide advice, and he could outfit them for the journey.  But he could not take the journey for them, nor even with them.  They had to embrace these choices as their own, for they had the greatest stake.  Unlike the Elves, they could not sail west.  The future of Middle-earth was their future, and they had to shape it as they would. Yet he did have a stake, he reminded himself. The part of himself he would leave behind was the heart of that future.

“Elrond,” laughed Glorfindel, touching his sleeve lightly. 

Elrond finally focused on his dinner companions, who both appeared quite amused. “My apologies,” he said, chagrined. “I was thinking.”

“I would not discourage you from thinking, but if you are to cure Frodo on the morrow, you must rest,” said Mithrandir. “I take my leave. I will relieve Aragorn and Arwen at midnight.”

Elrond acquiesced, knowing that he would need all of his strength for one final push against the shard.  He returned to his chamber to rest, and found himself again on the path of dreams.  He did not like to relive the time he found himself in, reminded again of his failure to heal Celebrían, yet if greater powers were at work, then there was reason for him to remember these times and he would not resist.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

Elrond tucked the blanket snugly around Celebrían and kissed her tenderly on the lips one last time.  Her gaze was one of complete faith and trust, and when he touched her mind he knew that at some level, she was anxious to depart, for the entrance to Mandos’s Halls lay open before her and if she stayed she would drift on to that path, no matter how hard he tried to keep her with them.  “I love you,” he whispered. “I will come to you as soon as I may.” He stroked her hair back and brushed a tear from her cheek, then reached deep inside himself, to his connection with her, sending her every bit of strength he had. Resist Námo, my love!  Please, if you can, hold on to this world until you reach Elvenhome, he beseeched her.  She had lost the ability to communicate back to him through their bond, but he felt a slight surge in her spirit, and he knew it was the best acknowledgement he could hope for.  He touched his fingers to her eyelids, closing them, and then pushed her deep into sleep.

He kissed her cheek, then sank to kneel next to her bed, burying his face in the coverlet. He had given her all the strength he could, yet he did not know if it would be enough to hold her nightmares and terror at bay. He feared the journey would be a torment to her, that she would relive those horrors on the voyage and without him there to aid her they would push her to follow Námo to peace. He wondered if he would know if her fëa fled to Mandos's halls after she sailed.  He clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking.  She could not stay and he could not let her go alone.  How was he going to force his feet to retreat from this cabin and leave the ship?

She does not go alone, he reminded himself.  Several elves from his house were also taking ship, including kin of the elves who died the day of Celebrían’s attack.  Amariel was one of these, and she sat now near Celebrían’s bed.  She had promised Elrond that she would see Celebrían into the care of her grandparents, and that Celebrían would not be left alone on the journey.  Elrond was grateful to her, yet he knew that he was the one who should be sitting at Celebrían’s side through the long journey and through her healing.  Nothing would assuage the guilt of sending her ahead without him.

He had not realized how much time had passed until Círdan appeared at his side.  He knew it was time to leave, but remained as if frozen, his mind unable to will his body to move.

"Elrond, it is time," said Círdan softly.

He lifted his head and breathed in deeply, then opened his eyes to look upon his wife one last time.  She was translucent, a frail vessel filled with clear light, but at that moment she looked peaceful.  He leaned forward and kissed her again, then stood and fled the cabin.  As he entered the fading sunlight on the deck of the ship, the world spun around him and he stumbled.  A gasp escaped him, and only Círdan’s firm grip kept him from falling.  Familiar arms surrounded him and held him close, the same arms that held him when he had nightmares as a young child, the arms that held him when Gil-galad had died. 

“I cannot do this!” he cried out in anguish. He clung for a moment to Círdan, accepting the comfort offered to him, and felt peace and strength enter him. “I must do this,” he added hoarsely.  Círdan offered no false words of comfort, merely held him until he regained control.

His children waited for him on the quay, watched over by Glorfindel and Erestor.  Celeborn and Galadriel stood nearby.  They had said their goodbyes, and although Elrond knew Celebrían understood that she was leaving them, she had shed hardly a tear at their parting for she simply did not have the strength.

Over the course of the year Elrond had come to understand more about the type of weapon that had been used to wound Celebrían so badly.  The blade knew only cruelty and fire, destruction and torment.  It was meant to cause pain and agony that extended beyond the body to invade the soul.  The memory of the torment had been carried inside her, taking root in her fëa. Reliving the torment weakened her even further. Only through the connection of their fëar was he able to relieve her agony, but though he could heal her body he did not have the power to heal her soul.  Yet he could not help but wonder if he might have been able to do more had he known that the weapon had attacked the core of her being. That was a question he needed to force himself to stop considering, for he recognized the behavior as being just as destructive as the questions his sons were asking themselves.

Even now, Elladan paced on the shore like a trapped animal.  Elrohir kept a close watch on his twin, yet his reaction was in many ways the opposite of his brother’s. He had withdrawn inside himself, keeping his innermost thoughts hidden.  He lay on the bench at Arwen's side, his head in her lap while she absently stroked his hair.  Tear tracks still stained his daughter's face. Elrond watched them, felt their pain and sorrow, and wondered from whence would draw the strength to go stand beside them and comfort them, and then watch the ship sail.

Círdan kept a firm grasp on his arm, guiding him off the ship and on to the quay. Elrond did not think he could have done it on his own.  He sat next to Arwen and then motioned Elladan to come sit at his other side.  His son came only reluctantly, and when Elrond took his hand he could feel the anxiety radiating from him.  Arwen’s hand was on Elrohir’s head, and he covered it with his own.  Connected to all of his children, he drew in a deep breath and lifted his eyes to watch the ship.  But while he meant to support them, his own heart began to pound, the sound of his blood rushing in his ears

As the ship began to move, he rose, and as it began to sail from the harbor he followed it to the end of the dock.  He reached out to it as it faded into the setting sun, finally lost to his sight as it passed from the Havens and entered the open sea.  He sank to his knees at the edge of the dock and bowed his head as the finality of her leaving settled on him.  She needed to go, he reminded himself. I should have gone with her! his heart cried.

Anor set and Ithil rose, and Eärendil had begun his nightly journey when Elrond finally stood.  He turned to walk back to the shore and saw Glorfindel and Círdan sitting at the landing, but all the others had gone. They rose as he joined them, and flanking him, they walked back to Círdan’s home.  Erestor awaited them in the sitting room.

“They are on the back balcony,” said Erestor. He led Elrond and Glorfindel there, handing them each a cup of wine.

Elrond stood at the entrance to the balcony for a moment.  Galadriel stood at the rail, staring west. Celeborn sat on a comfortable settee, his arm around Arwen.  Elrohir was on the nearby roof, his legs drawn up to his chest and his chin resting on his knees.  He stared west also.  Elrond did not see Elladan.

He felt drained. For months he had slept little, catching only short naps during the day when Celebrían was with her parents. His nights had been spent holding her, chasing away the nightmares that plagued her in his absence.  He wanted to believe that his efforts had slowed her fading, but in reality he had probably only made it less painful.  Watching her decline had been difficult for everyone, so much so that today there was an air of relief, though grief outweighed it.

He swayed slightly, but as he reached for a chair back to steady himself, his hand was caught by Glorfindel.  “Go to bed, Elrond,” he said softly.

Elrond looked at him dumbly, but allowed himself to be led to a bedroom.  He sat on the bed, numb, and only when Glorfindel clasped him on the shoulder did he realize his friend had been trying to get his attention. He undressed as directed and crawled into bed. 

“Círdan sent this.  Drink it,” commanded Glorfindel softly.

Elrond did not even question the contents, just dutifully drank the contents of the cup.  Sleep came quickly, and he was grateful for the escape.

* * *

They left for home the next day.  Círdan had invited them to stay longer, his concern for Elrond evident in his eyes, but Elrond did not think he could bear to look at the sea any longer. Sorrow hung heavily about them all, and there was little conversation beyond that which was necessary.  Glorfindel led the party, and Elrond was glad to see Elladan riding next to him.  His son was anxious and had been unable to sit still for long. He had not returned to Círdan’s house during the night, but had instead run along the beach until breathless, and then climbed the cliffs. He had returned in time to depart with them, a little calmer for all the physical activity, but already he chafed at the sedate pace that Glorfindel set.  As they entered the grassy rolling hills beyond the Blue Mountains, Elladan pulled ahead, loosening the reins of his horse to allow him to run.

Elrond could barely rouse himself to the concern he felt for Elladan, but he felt Erestor’s hand on his arm. “Elrohir will watch over him.”

Elrond pulled his eyes away from Elladan’s diminishing form to see Elrohir following at a slightly slower pace.  Elrohir would keep his distance, but keep his twin in sight too.  He relaxed.

He recalled little of the journey home, knowing only that they rode and rested at intervals, and Elrohir kept track of Elladan.   They rode into the courtyard of Imladris at dusk, but there was no merriment at homecoming.  Still, they were all glad to be home and grateful to rest in their own beds.

Elrond walked into his darkened chambers alone. Not a lamp or candle was burning, and Elrond realized that Erestor’s watch care over him had usurped the normal house help from their duties.  The routine over the last year had included minimizing the people who came into their rooms during the evening and night hours, for Celebrían startled easily and was more restless in the dark.

He tossed his dusty travel clothes aside and bathed, but he was tired and mostly just wanted to sleep.  He pulled the covers back on the bed and crawled in, then rolled to lay on Celebrían’s side of the bed. He buried his face in her pillow, inhaling her scent, and pain gripped his heart. He rolled to his side, squeezing the pillow to him, as a deep ragged sob escaped him. Months of pain, sorrow and grief poured from him as he mourned what he had lost.

* * *

Elladan had just raised his hand to knock on the door to his father’s chamber when he heard the sound of anguished sobs. He let his hand drop to his side and leaned against the door, finally sliding down to rest on the floor.   His father was crying. He had seen his father shed tears before, but never had he heard his father in such anguish, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe, so tight was the vise around his chest.  He had been so focused on his own loss and his guilt that he had not spared much thought for the effect on his father. He had seen his father watch the ship sail, witnessed his grief and sorrow, but his father had seemed strong to him, as if he had come to terms with the decisions he had made.  The pain he was hearing was too much for anyone to bear, and he wanted desperately to remove it.  He rose and reached for the doorknob.

“Give him a little time,” said Glorfindel softly from behind him.

Elladan jerked his hand away, surprised to have been caught off guard.  He spun around, but all the fight that had just risen in him fled and tears filled his eyes.  “He is in such pain,” he said in a tight voice.

“I know,” replied Glorfindel gently, and he stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Elladan.

Elladan tensed at the touch, afraid to accept the comfort offered, for he knew it would be his undoing.  He would fall apart, drown in the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.  But as he pulled away from Glorfindel, he heard again his father’s distress.

“No!” he cried, his fists clenching, and then he spun to the window and pounded the wood frame.  He hit it again and again, glad for the pain. He felt Glorfindel’s hand on his shoulder and shrugged him off. He drew in deep gasping breaths of air, trying to calm himself, but he could still hear his father’s heartbreak, and he covered his ears and fled the room.

He fled to the solitude and peacefulness of the forest, finally collapsing on the pine needle carpet near the large rock where he and Elrohir often came to sit and think.  He calmed himself, forcing the sounds of his father’s grief from his mind.   He became aware of the presence of his twin as time wore on, but Elrohir was as usual, unobtrusive.  He sat nearby, but left Elladan alone.

Elladan awoke as dawn broke. He lifted his head from where it rested on his arm and stretched the kinks from his muscles. Across the small clearing, Elrohir was leaning against a tree. His eyes were focused but hooded, his thoughts hidden even from his twin.

Elladan rose without speaking and began the long walk back to the house.  A few minutes later, he heard Elrohir behind him. Rage he did not know he possessed rose in him and he spun around and grabbed Elrohir by the tunic.

“You do not need to follow me and hover over my every move!” he exclaimed angrily.

Elrohir did not react to him.  He did not grab his hands or push him away, or even answer him.  Elladan pushed his twin back and away from him.  When Elrohir remained impassive, he erupted and struck him.

He watched in horror as Elrohir fell backward from the force of the unexpected blow, his head slamming hard on the ground before he rolled on to his face.  At first Elladan thought he was merely stunned, but as he rushed to kneel at his brother’s side, he realized he had knocked him unconscious.

“Elrohir!” he called, as he turned him gently on to his back.  Blood oozed from a gash to his lip and abrasions to his cheek.  The marks of Elladan’s knuckles reddened Elrohir’s face.  “What have I done to you?”

He lifted his twin in his arms and ran toward the house.

* * *

Elrond had just stepped on to his balcony when he saw Elladan come racing toward the house with Elrohir in his arms.  His hands shook and he dropped the teacup he was sipping from, the china shattering on the floor about his feet.  Still in his dressing robe, he moved swiftly to the front of the house to intercept them.

Elladan had reached the front porch when Elrond met them, and Elrohir was just rousing. Elrond ghosted his hand over the injuries, calming as he determined that his son’s life was not in danger.

“Take him to the healing rooms,” Elrond instructed, and he stepped aside as Elladan hurried down the hall.

“What happened?” asked Glorfindel, appearing from his quarters barefoot and half dressed, his hair loose and his face reflecting his own weariness.

“I do not know,” answered Elrond as the weariness he had felt the night before returned, “but Elladan wears remorse like a mantle and the marks on Elrohir’s face resemble his brother’s fist.”

Glorfindel nearly snarled his frustration, and Elrond laid a restraining hand on the warrior’s arm.  “Leave it for now.”

He tightened the ties of his robe about him and followed his sons to the healing rooms.  One of the healers was cleaning the blood from Elrohir’s face, but stepped aside when Elrond entered.   Elladan sat against the wall with his head bowed.  Neither of his sons would meet his eyes.

“What happened?” asked Elrond as he examined the wounds, carefully feeling Elrohir’s head for cuts and looking for any signs of concussion.

“An accident,” murmured Elrohir, still not meeting Elrond’s eyes.  Only when Elrond forced him to meet his gaze so he could examine his eyes did Elrohir’s guard slip, and Elrond could see the depths of his pain mingled with confusion.

At Elrohir’s words, Elladan jumped to his feet and paced along the wall, his hand clenching and unclenching into fists.  Elrond could feel the tension radiating from him, and he was still weary enough himself that it grated on him.  “Elladan, please,” he began, but when Elladan swung around to look at him, Elrond saw the rage brewing in his son’s eyes, anger that had reared its head all too often these last months.  “Please go to your chambers and rest.”

Elladan’s eyes flashed as he looked from his father to his twin and back, and for a moment Elrond thought his son meant to defy him.  He finally strode forward to walk from the room, but as he passed his twin, the anger resurfaced and he leaned over to grab the front of Elrohir’s tunic and growled, “It was no accident.”

Elrohir not only did not resist him, he closed his eyes.  Elladan released him, pushing him back on to the mattress, unmoved by the slight grunt of pain from his twin.  He brushed past the healers near the door and did not look back.

Elrond took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment, then laid his hand on Elrohir’s chest, straightening the wrinkles Elladan caused while also imparting a sense of calm. “What happened, Elrohir?” he repeated.

Elrohir did not answer, instead closing his eyes and turning his face away.  A tear slipped down his cheek, and it took all of Elrond’s self-control not to cry out his own frustration and demand a response.  He finished tending the cuts and scrapes in silence, then rose. “You will need to spend the day here. I will return later.”

Elrohir again made no response, but curled up facing the wall as he withdrew into himself.

* * *

Elrond returned to his rooms to properly dress for the day. Once inside, he found he wished to return to his bed and find relief from the conflict outside his walls, but the room reminded him of Celebrían and that pain was still too near.  He pulled on appropriate clothing and fled to his study.

His desk was neatly organized, evidence of Erestor’s efforts the night before, and Elrond wondered if his advisor had rested at all.  He fingered the pile before him, but no matter how hard he tried to focus on the words before him, the image of Elrohir’s bruised face would not leave his mind.  Except for accidental training injuries, he could not remember one of his sons physically injuring the other.

He rose and went to the suite the twins shared.  The door to the outer sitting room was partially opened, and he entered without announcing his presence.   Elladan was sitting on the balcony, his legs draped over the side of the chair as he stared morosely at the horizon.

“May I join you?” he asked.

Elladan looked up at him, remorse again written on his face, and swung his legs down to sit upright. “Of course, Adar,” he answered, motioning his father to a chair.

Elrond sat, but did not immediately speak.  He looked out over the gardens and field, following the stream that emptied into the Bruinen beyond them, but the sight failed to bring him the joy it normally did. After a few moments he turned to look at his son, and found Elladan studying him.

“Why did you hit your brother?” he finally asked.

Elladan blew out a breath of air before replying. He did not deny it, and Elrond suddenly wished he had, wished there was some other explanation. “I do not know, Adar.” He paused, then added, “No matter how angry I get with Elrohir, no matter how much I push him, he will not respond to me.”

“Why are you angry with him?” asked Elrond.

Elladan rose and began pacing, much as he had done in the healing rooms.  Elrond dug his nails into his palm, the pain helping him to ignore the nervous distraction. “He accepts too easily,” Elladan burst out.  “He will not fight, not for himself or for others.”

Elrond raised a brow in surprise. “Did he not fight in the Redhorn Pass?”

“He will fight the enemy,” corrected Elladan.  “I mean he will not fight emotionally. He accepts what comes his way without question. I hate it, Adar.” His eyes flashed and he turned on his heel to look out over the valley.  “I have to fight the darkness, for if I do not, the darkness will surround and engulf me.” He turned back to face his father.  “Elrohir accepts it. He gives up.”

Elladan’s voice faded with those last words, and he pursed his lips together as if preventing himself from saying more.  Elrond let the silence stand between them as he considered his son’s words.  He could see where Elladan’s interpretation of his brother’s actions, or lack thereof, reflected more upon his own state of mind than it reflected Elrohir’s. Unfortunately, he could see where Elladan’s anger had clouded his mind to any understanding of Elrohir that Elrond might offer.  Elladan was not seeking to understand his twin; Elrohir was merely an easy target for the feelings of helplessness that manifested as anger.

“Each of us expresses our grief differently,” he finally answered. He paused, continuing only when Elladan met his gaze.  “You and Elrohir have always been different. He has been your closest friend and confidante since the day you were born.  Try to understand him, Elladan.  He hurts as much as you do.”  He stood.  “I must go check on him.”

Elrond left Elladan standing on the balcony, noting he had not even asked after his brother’s welfare, and returned to the healing rooms to find Elrohir much as he had left him. A healer sat nearby, ensuring Elrohir remained awake.   The healer rose quickly when Elrond entered and motioned him into the hallway.

“One eye is dilated and he experienced dizziness when he tried to sit up,” reported the healer.  “I asked him what happened, and he told me he thought he’d been in a fall of some sort.”

Elrond pushed his fears aside and managed to thank the healer for the report.  He sat beside his son, who suddenly looked very young and very lost.  Elrond examined him again, noting that one pupil had indeed dilated. He felt over the wound to the back of the head as well as the face, feeling the swelling and inflammation of damaged tissue.  As he probed gently at his son’s mind, Elrohir allowed him in, as trusting as a child. As he explored his son’s memory, he found Elladan’s anger and then Elrohir’s awakening in the healing rooms, but the time in between was shrouded in darkness.  He could sort through the darkened and tangled threads to piece together the explosive blow that Elladan landed on his twin, but the memory was veiled from Elrohir.  He pushed aside the guilt of having missed this earlier, for having assumed Elrohir’s reaction was to his twin’s anger.

“Elrohir,” he said gently, “what hit you in the head?”

Elrohir looked at him in confusion.  “An accident, Adar,” he repeated his earlier statement. “Elladan is angry about it. He might know. May I sleep now? I was awake all night, and I am weary.”

Elrond smiled and gently stroked his son’s hair.  “I will need to wake you periodically, but you may sleep now.”

Elrohir curled up and drifted into sleep, and Elrond motioned the healer over to sit beside him again.  He returned to the privacy of his study, intending to bury himself in the long neglected affairs of his house.  A glance out the window revealed his daughter sitting alone near the waterfall, sorrow in her face, and all of his intentions fled.  He bowed his head, burying his face in his hands, as he grappled to maintain control of his emotions.  Tears seeped through his fingers, wetting the papers on his desk, and he shoved them aside. Determined to go see how Arwen fared, he rose, but when he looked out the window again, he found Celeborn comforting her.   He rubbed his forehead as he felt a dull ache develop behind his eyes. 

* * *

Elrond saw Elladan rush into the house, wearing a look of grim enthusiasm and determination. Glorfindel followed at a distance, concern written on his face.  While Glorfindel stopped to speak to him, Elladan continued on to his chambers.

“The Rangers have reported an orc den they plan to clear near the Pass,” said Glorfindel, but though he spoke to Elrond, his eyes followed Elladan. “Your son plans to ride out to aid them.”

“He is in no frame of mind for that!” Elrond exclaimed immediately, concern mounting in his heart.   Several days had passed since he had knocked his brother unconscious in a fit of anger, and while Elladan had calmed some, Elrond did not think he and Elrohir had spoken about what happened.

“I agree,” replied Glorfindel.  He looked at Elrond thoughtfully. “Are you prepared to prevent him from going?”

Elrond breathed in deeply.  His son was at best unpredictable right now, and telling him what he could and could not do had the potential to cause a deep rift between them. Physically restraining him would be impossible.  Yet, letting him go could lead to his bodily death, for he was reckless and careless in his anger.  Elrond knew, however, that if words led to estrangement, Elladan would still ride out to fight.

“You are not just his father, you are his lord. As a member of your house, he can be commanded to obey you,” Glorfindel reminded him.

Elrond looked sharply at his friend. “Were I to do that, in his current state of mind, he may well take his leave of this House.”

Glorfindel smiled gently. “Then I am sure you will not object to me attending him on this mission.”

Elrond closed his eyes as relief flooded him.  He calmed his spirit, then opened his eyes to look upon the golden warrior. “I fear I have been remiss in expressing how much you mean to me, Glorfindel. Words can not convey how much I would appreciate you accompanying my son.”

Elrond waited to intercept Elladan while Glorfindel prepared, and was surprised when Elrohir appeared with Elladan.  Elrohir’s face was, as usual, impassive, while Elladan’s reflected his irritation.

“Adar, we have come to beg your leave to ride out to aid the Rangers in clearing the Pass,” said Elrohir before Elladan could speak.

“I will accompany you,” said Glorfindel as he approached behind the twins.  Elrohir did not react, but Elladan spun on his heel.

“I do not need one nursemaid, much less two!” he cried in frustration.

Elrohir glanced briefly at his twin, but ignored the outburst and turned instead to Glorfindel. “I am sure the Rangers will appreciate all the aid we can give them. I for one look forward to removing this blight from the landscape.”  He shouldered his pack and bow and with a quick bow before Elrond, walked out the door.

Elladan appeared less perturbed than he had been, and Elrond wondered if perhaps he had not considered that his twin might wish to go for his own reasons.  Glorfindel followed Elrohir, but Elrond laid a restraining hand on Elladan’s arm.

“I fear for you,” he began without preamble. “Your temper masters you and you become reckless and careless.” When Elladan opened his mouth to protest, Elrond held up his hand. “Do not interrupt me, Elladan.  I expect you to exercise self control, not endanger yourself or those you fight with, and come home safely to me.” He paused and gentled his voice. “If you have not reconciled with your brother, doing so before going into battle would be beneficial to you both.”

The look on Elladan’s face told Elrond that his son had not apologized to his twin for striking him.  Elladan had said he would speak to Elrohir when he had fully recovered, but Elrohir had not appeared to have regained memory of the incident. Elrohir had become even more distant from them, however, and Elrond believed that he had recalled more than he let on.

Elrond followed Elladan out into the courtyard. He embraced him, though Elladan held himself stiffly, and then Elrohir, who returned the hug though he remained emotionally aloof.  Then he felt the touch of Glorfindel’s mind on his own. I will take care of them, promised Glorfindel.  With that small comfort, Elrond watched them ride away.

~ ~ ~* * *~ ~ ~

Elrond awoke strangely refreshed from the dreams of what had been the lowest point in his long life.   The warm glow on the wall told him the sun had risen, which meant he had slept long.  He had left dreams of despair for a reality of confidence and strength.  While he did not know if Frodo would be altogether cured, he knew with sudden surety that he would recover.  Elrond bowed his head for a moment, knowing indeed that higher powers were at work in Imladris, as well as Middle-earth.

He arrived in Frodo’s room to see the now familiar row of concerned hobbit faces.  He smiled at them, knowing his confidence would infuse them, and watched with satisfaction when each face softened and smiled in return.

“This day will be long,” he informed them, “but profitable. Only one of you may stay at a time, for I will need space to work and my assistants to aid me.”

He watched as Merry and Pippin rose in deference to Bilbo, but Sam hesitated.

“We shall spell each other, Samwise Gamgee,” said Bilbo diplomatically.  “Besides, I will need my naps.  I will take the first shift.”

As Mithrandir departed for his bed and the hobbits filed with last longing looks at Frodo from the room, Elrond removed his outer robes and rolled up his sleeves.  He could see that the shard had made only a little progress, but the translucence that he had been watching grow had intensified somewhat.

“The enemy will not have you, Frodo,” he whispered encouragingly.  “Today we will free you of its presence.” Even as he spoke the words, his hand brushed the One Ring. Not even Elrond would dare to remove that presence.

* * * * *

  Special thanks to daw and karri for beta reading this chapter.