Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized names and places are property of Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  The decision has been passed, and it’s a no-go on the romance!  If you absolutely must read it, though, I’d be more than happy to email you a copy.  Umm, if I get enough heckling, I suppose I could post it as a separate piece.  Probably over on fanfiction, because it seems to contain mostly LotR romance these days.  …I’m going to be struck by lightening for that comment, aren’t I?  *ducks under table*

This chapter’s dialogue was challenging—hopefully it isn’t too wordy or too choppy.

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~ Chapter 6:  Bladed Tongues ~

Sparrows darted to and fro, calling merrily to one another as they flitted up and down the tree branches.  Elrond followed their movements with the eyes of one who looks but does not see.

Elladan and Elrohir were to have arrived at his study fifteen minutes ago.  Propping his elbows on the desk, Elrond rested his chin on steepled fingers.

Erestor continued prattling about some important nonsense or another.  “…have arrived.  Ah, and Círdan sends kind tidings along with his representatives.  *Curunír, as you know, entered the realm last morn…”

One sparrow lit upon the widow ledge, ruffling his feathers and chirruping loudly.  The bird’s black eyes flashed brightly in the noontide sun.  He cocked his head to one side, beak slightly open.  He was soon joined by his mate.

Erestor shuffled through the thick pile of parchments in his hands.  “…cannot seem to find him.  Though if you recall his last visit, Haldir remained hidden in the trees until the Lothlórien entourage departed.  I find no cause for concern…”

Elrond’s gaze strayed to the thick study door, as though he might will the twins to appear should he frown hard enough.  Where were they?

“…His Royal Majesty King Thranduil was booted over the mountainside by Giants while attempting to cross the High Pass—pity—and so you need not worry about him—“

“I beg your pardon?”  Elrond snapped to attention, wondering if his ears had heard correctly.

Erestor sniffed.  “You were not listening.”

“Erestor,” Elrond replied in severe tones, “I was listening, and it would behoove you to kindly refrain from disparaging our woodland kin.”

Erestor’s brother, having sworn himself to a Silvan maiden, fell during the Last Alliance while fighting under the Greenwood colors.  Erestor had yet to overcome the loss, and still held Mirkwood accountable for his brother’s death.  His dislike of Wood-Elves was understandable, Elrond knew, but the advisor did tend to rant if left unchecked. 

Placing the parchments upon Elrond’s desk, Erestor folded his arms across his chest and eyed the other.  “You are unusually strained today, my Lord.”

Elrond raised an eyebrow.

“And,” Erestor calmly continued, “you have done naught but frown at the windows and door since I first arrived.”

Elrond pinched the bridge of is nose and drew in several slow breaths.  Sometimes, Erestor’s prodding overstepped even his patience.

“I shall take my leave,” said Erestor, sensing the other’s mounting agitation.  “If it would please you.”

“Nay, nay.”  Elrond lifted a hand and shook his head.  “I apologize.  My thoughts roamed elsewhere.  Please continue.”

Erestor eyed him momentarily before giving a curt nod of acquiescence.  “Very well.  As I was saying, His Lordship King Thranduil will not attend.”  He pulled an opened letter from the middle of the stack.  “It was thoughtful of him to time its arrival on the very day of council.”

Elrond shot the advisor a reproving glance over the top of the letter as he unfolded it. 

Erestor managed to return the look innocently enough.  “You will notice he did not write it himself.”

Elrond ignored the comment.

“’To his Lordship Elrond of Imladris,’” Elrond read aloud. 

‘His Royal Majesty King Thranduil of Mirkwood regrets he must decline the offer to attend council.  Roads of travel grow darker and fraught with greater peril at each passing twilight.  The King feels it necessary to remind you that His borders, unlike those of Imladris, Lórien, and Mithlond, are pressed daily by Enemy forces, and with increased intensity.  In light of the King’s enhanced obligation to the safety and welfare of his Realm, it is viewed in the Crown’s best interest to remain.  It is also suggested—‘”

Elrond was forced to lower the letter.  Erestor, who already knew of its contents, pursed his lips in self-satisfied anger and waited for Elrond to continue.

“’—It is also suggested,’” Elrond continued, unable to keep the irritation from creeping into his voice, “’that future council gatherings be held in Mirkwood, due to travel inconvenience on behalf of the Wood-Elf King.”’

A vision of Thranduil came to him: golden-haired and imposing.  There was a gleam of smug arrogance in the grey eyes, which clearly said, “I win.”

“Erestor.”  Elrond turned the letter face down and held it out to his chief advisor.  “Please take this and dispose of it.”

“But you have not yet read the part about how he does not have the luxury of being able to send his sons off—“

“I have read enough,” Elrond flatly replied.  He sighed in exasperation as Erestor reluctantly took the parchment.  Why must Thranduil always be so difficult?  Why?  Perhaps the other realms could be accused of minor negligence, having left Thranduil’s folk to fend for themselves.  But the Elven-King deserved his share of blame as well.  Never had Thranduil asked for aid.  In fact, he tended to be rather defiant in his refusals.

Elrond resisted the urge to throw his head in his hands and groan.  There were greater matters at hand than a battle of egos with fellow rulers—especially when they were notoriously sharp and stubborn as Thranduil.

“Shall I write a letter of response?”  Erestor’s eyes glittered wickedly. 

Elrond wearily shook his head.  “Nay, I shall write it.  I have no desire to present him with further fuel.”

Erestor cleared his throat and began to recite a response nonetheless.  “Dearest King Thranduil, Imladris is most saddened to learn you have voluntarily locked yourself in a cave…”        

Elrond bit back a chuckle.

Erestor grinned widely, then broke into soft laughter.  Mayhap he tended to stretch nerves, but he also knew how to soothe Elrond’s when the Elf lord needed it most.

A sharp rap upon the study’s oaken door halted their merriment.  Erestor noticed Elrond still.  The door opened soundlessly, Elrohir pausing to allow Elladan entrance.  Elrond rose from his seat.  The twins appeared clean and sleek—a look befitting rank and station.

They fell into step with each other and bowed simultaneously.  Erestor found the synchrony unnerving, and the strangely wild light in the twins’ grey eyes did not help matters. 

He was reminded of the injured hawk Aragorn had found when much younger.  Three weeks did the boy tend to it, and in the end, the bird still drew blood.

“Erestor.”  Elrond’s voice broke through his thoughts.  Erestor mentally shook himself, turning to find his Lord smiled softly at him.  “That is all,” said Elrond.  “I thank you for your aid, and will see you at the gathering presently.”

Collecting the various parchments from Elrond’s desk, Erestor bowed low and took his leave.  The advisor’s robes swished gracefully as he turned to shut the study door.  There was a soft click, and then naught but silence.

*          *            *         

Father and sons regarded one another for a few moments.  “You are late,” Elrond said at last, eyebrows arching in query.

“We were kept by other matters,” Elladan replied, a slight smile gracing his fair face.  “Apparently, we were missed even by those who have reason to celebrate our absence.”

“And,” broke in Elrohir, “you would be surprised by how many there are.”

Elrond could not help but chuckle.  “Doubtless they will remember their grievances once you have settled and again take up old antics.  Please,” he indicated the twins to sit with a sweep of his hand.

Elladan strode to a well-polished chair and seated himself.  Elrohir, never one to enjoy prolonged immobility, took to an absent pacing.

“Long has it been since you walked these halls.”

Elrohir nodded in agreement, though did not cease his nonchalant pace.

“The Enemy has grown in strength and number,” Elladan replied.  “And there are not many who would willingly pick up a blade against so wicked a foe.”

Elrond nodded.  “Still, not all battles are fought with swords.”

Elladan emitted a rather haughty snort, earning a sharp look from his father.  “Nevertheless,” said the eldest twin, “I prefer blade over speech.  Words and endless counsel will only cut so deep.  Such means cannot bring about a final end.”

“I speak not of talk,” said Elrond.  “For there are other means of defiance.”  He gestured to the windows.  “Look about you.  What do you see?”

“I see complacency and ignorance,” Elrohir replied with surprising scorn, whirling on his heel.  “I see those who turn a blind eye to the world outside, because they dare not admit darkness gathers just beyond the borders.”  His light footfalls echoed angrily in the still room.  

“And you, Elladan?”  Elrond, knowing the nature of his sons far too well to be caught off-guard by Elrohir’s outburst, turned quietly to the elder twin.  

Elladan propped his elbows on the chair, steepling his fingers and pursing his lips.  “I also see this.”  He met his father’s eyes.  “It is an illusion—a selfish dream mocking those who toil and perish beneath the ever-growing shadow.”

Elrond regarded the two in silence, though neither was able to decipher his thoughts.  “Then you do not look hard enough,” the Lord of Imladris said at last, moving silently to the window.  Sunlight played over leaf and grass.  A bee droned lazily from one brightly colored flower to the next.  “Perhaps there is truth in your words.  But I would ask you look again, for mayhap there is more.”

Elrohir ceased pacing and stood at his father’s side.  Elladan remained seated.  After several minutes, the younger twin crossed his arms and sighed heavily.  “It appears unchanged.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across Elrond’s lips.  “Yes, it is unchanged.  The grass remains green, the trees tall and proud, the gardens full and colored.  Song and laughter still fill the air.”  He drew away from the window, folding his hands within the sleeves of his robes.  “This ‘illusion,’ as you would name it, is a reminder.  It is a reminder of why we continue to battle.  It is our defiance.”  He glanced pointedly at each son.  “Even the hardest warrior finds himself wearied at times.  And when he seeks respite, we shall be here to shelter him.”

Elrohir met his gaze.  Elladan did not.

“Ever,” continued Elrond, “shall he have a home.”

Elladan shook his head, ebony hair gleaming at the movement.  “It is a home built upon the shards of faded dreams and memories past.  We have no wish to dwell in such a place.”  He rose abruptly and made for the door.  “Come, Elrohir.  Too long have we tarried in this illusion.” 

He paused in the doorway and bowed low towards Elrond.  “Farewell, Father.  We wish…  I wish…”  He closed his eyes momentarily, gathering himself.  “I am sorry, Father,” he said softly.  “Truly, I am.”

Elrohir bowed apologetically.  “As am I, Father.  But we cannot remain.”

Elrond watched as they turned to leave, noting the grace and purpose in their movements, how the twin bands of mithril seemed to fit just so on their heads, the way light from the windows richened the hues of their dark cloaks and glossed their equally dark hair.  When had Elladan taken to a double-edged blade?  When had Elrohir begun concealing a dagger in his right bracer? 

These strangely foreign yet strangely familiar lords were his sons.  His warriors. 

Proud, strong, and angry.   

‘Too long has this continued,’ thought Elrond.  Glorfindel had been right—as always.  ‘Too much has been left unsaid.  Here and now shall it end.’

He raised himself to full height.  “So you shall take your leave.”

It was neither question nor statement, but something in the Elf lord’s tone caused Elrohir to stop.  He swiftly grasped Elladan’s shoulder, bringing the elder twin to halt as well.

“And you shall return to wander your own territories,” Elrond continued levelly, knowing full well his words would bring about volatile reaction.  “Built upon bloodied soil and fashioned of bones from enemy and friend alike.”

Elrohir’s face paled in anger.  Elladan stiffened.

Elrond paused, calmly regarding each.  “I would name your illusion as great a mockery, for you fail to acknowledge there is still light and laughter in this world.  Not all is darkened by shadow.”

“But it soon shall be!”  Elrohir’s cry echoed painfully in the hushed room.  “We fight because you do nothing.  Nothing!  Where were you when Barad-dûr again reached skyward?  Where were you when the Enemy overran the mountains and forests and plains?  And where,” he pointed a slender finger at Elrond, unaware he was shaking, “where were you when Mother was taken?  When we found her?  Where were you?”

Elladan placed a comforting hand on each shoulder.  Elrohir found himself welcoming the familiar warmth.  For some reason he could not stop shaking.

“You were not there,” he cried hoarsely.  Elladan’s grip tightened.  Elrohir felt a tremor go through his brother.

“Where were you?”  Elrohir was not sure if it was he who spoke, or Elladan.  His eyes were beginning to burn.  Elladan’s hold was so tight it hurt.

And suddenly his father stood before him.

“Ai,” murmured Elrond.  “Ai, my sons.”  He placed a slender hand on each twin’s cheek, then grasped them firmly at the base of the neck, pulling each in for a fierce kiss on the forehead.  “Do not become so lost in your own pain that you fail to see the pain of those around you.”  He sighed wearily.  “Mayhap it is my own failing as a father, or that I allow myself to rely too heavily on that which I foresee—but I have always been here Elrohir.  Always.”

“Why did you not stop her?”  Elrohir’s voice was almost pleading.  “If you knew mother was—“

Elrond shook his head viciously, anguish openly marring his ageless features.  “Many sleepless nights have I spent over the very thought.  But I do not know all—only glimpses of what may come to pass.  You know this, for you are both gifted with foresight, though I know you do all in your power to repress it.  I wished to ride with you, but I am bound too tightly to this realm…”  He trailed off, clenching his hands and glancing at the ring upon his finger.  Inhaling deeply, he gradually relaxed his fists.  “That is why, I think, I said naught when you escaped into the Wilds.  I know what you do, Elladan and Elrohir; I know what you have done.”

Elrohir and Elladan pulled away from his embrace in shock.

Elrohir’s head lowered in shame.  “You know all we have done…”

They had tortured: scalped, amputated, burned alive, knowingly inflicted wounds that caused slow and agonized death just to hear the enemy scream.  Elrohir had put out eyes with his own thumbs.  He had once seen Elladan slice off a man’s fingers one by one.  And those weren’t even the worst of their deeds.

“We thought you took no notice.”  Elladan swallowed thickly.  “We thought you did not…”

“How could I not?”  Elrond grimaced.  “Yes, I have heard of your deeds.  I know of your reckless quests—those you have killed and the means by which you have done so.”

The twins flushed.  “What we have done,” Elladan said stiffly, “is nothing more than was deserved.”

 “Such judgment is not for me to pass,” Elrond replied.  “But I believe you already know whether or not your actions warranted.”  An image of Arathorn sprang from the depths of his mind unbidden.  “And,” he added, “I believe you know the price that will ultimately be paid.”

Elrohir sighed softly.  “Mayhap we have been too cruel and vengeful.”  He stared unseeing at the polished floor.  “Far too easily can we imagine each foe as one of Mother’s captors—that we may slay them again and again, each more vengeful than the previous.”

“And mayhap,” murmured Elladan, “it is penance for those we have lost because they chose to ride with us.  Those we drove foolishly to an undeserving grave.”

“I have been too silent,” Elrond said quietly.  “For in the darker corners of my heart I have oft wished to strike back as you do.  Yet I cannot, and so allow you to in my stead.”  He closed his eyes, voice dropping so low that Elladan and Elrohir had to strain in order to catch his words.  “It is difficult to stand by and do nothing.  More difficult than you know.”

Heavy silence blanketed the room, each Elf lost in his own thoughts and memories, yet knowing they all tread similar paths wrought with similar pains.

“She is gone,” Elladan at last spoke.  “We cannot bring her back.”

“Nay, we cannot.  But,” Elrond firmly replied, “it was not by fault of you or I what cruel fate befell Celebrían.” 

He placed a hand atop Elrohir’s dark head, though the latter was slightly taller than he.  It was strange yet comforting, he thought, how much of Celebrían he could see in the two identical faces.  And how much of himself.  “Do not think you must take on the world, my sons.  You are not alone in your battles.  You shall never be.”

Twin smiles, grateful and brilliant in intensity, lit the faces of Elladan and Elrohir.  “What would you have us do?” Elladan asked with uncharacteristic eagerness, striking a chord of amusement in Elrond.  “How may we aid you?”

“You may start by attending Council,” Elrond answered, opening the chamber door and indicating the twins should follow him.  “And those in the weeks and months to come.”

The twins stopped mid-stride.  Elrohir jerked back as though he had been slapped.  Elrond ignored their sudden halt and continued walking down the sunlit corridor.

“And is there aught else you would have us do?” Elladan called, unable to completely mask his bitterness.

“Such as lie here and rot?”  Elrond heard Elrohir mutter.  

The Lord of Rivendell turned, a slight twinkle in his grey eyes.  “I spoke in jest, my sons.  I would not torture you so by holding you prisoner in Imladris.”

Elladan blinked. 

Elrohir’s eyebrows drew into a single dark line of perplexion. 

“That was not amusing,” Elrohir said at last, eyeing his father suspiciously.  Elrond was not exactly known for his humor.

Elrond emitted a quiet chuckle.  “I would claim otherwise, but I will not press the matter.”

The sons of Elrond stood amidst the bright walkways of Rivendell, watching their father’s retreating figure sweep gracefully into the courtyard and beyond.  The two exchanged wordless glance of bafflement. 

Elladan absently straightened the mithril band about his forehead.  “He has an odd sense of humor.” 

Elrohir nodded in agreement.  “Yes, very odd.”  He tugged his brother’s sleeve.  “Come, let us not allow him to enter the council gathering without escort.  I fear he may attempt to jest with fellow members, and even Glorfindel would not be able to smooth over his insults.”

*          *            *

Walking hurriedly through the cheerful walkways and courtyard, the twins caught Elrond as he neared the council chambers.

“I would have you scout for Council,” Elrond told them.  “Much as do the Rangers.”

Elrohir brightened, a slight bounce entering his light step.  “We could ride with Estel and his Rangers of the North!”

Elladan nodded in agreement.  “We promised to return ere winter touched the land, as it was.”  He glanced eastward to the grey and snow-laden clouds upon the Misty Mountains with a slight frown.  “I fear we shall be late in meeting him.”

“Ride with him only until Spring’s first thaw.”  Elrond paused in front of the latticed double doors.  “He has chosen exile, and while we will not abandon him, we will let him seek his own path unhindered.”

“We shall heed your counsel,” replied Elladan.

Elrond nodded appreciatively before pushing open the double doors.  “And we shall need yours in the coming months.”  

*          *            *

Glorfindel looked up from the conversation he was engaged in with Gilbraith, a representative of Círdan from the Havens.  He caught Elrond’s eye, and the Lord of Imladris inclined his head and smiled slightly.

“My Lords.”  Elrond spread his hands in welcome as he addressed the small gathering.  “A star shines on the hour of our meeting.”

Glorfindel settled himself in his seat.  Elrond tended to be rather formal at times.  Introductions were bound to last half an hour—at very least.  Suppressing a sigh, he allowed his gaze to travel over to the twins.

Each sat tall and straight upon his chair.  ‘They are regal and powerful in their own right,’ thought Glorfindel, noting how well the delicate mithril-woven crowns rested upon their dark heads.  Bright grey eyes shone with wisdom on sculpted faces; slender hands were clasped nobly upon finely clothed laps.  The golden-haired Elf lord felt a surge of pride in spite of himself.  He had helped raise Elrond’s twin stars.  It was good to see them shine so brightly.

“They look well,” a voice murmured at his side.

Glorfindel glanced at Celeborn, watching the Sindar lord’s silvery eyes soften in filial pride.  His attendance had come as somewhat of a surprise, but it was a welcomed one nonetheless.  “I worried, for a time.  I feared we would lose them to the darkness as we lost my daughter.”  Celeborn straightened, silver hair flashing brightly in the sunlight. 

“By the Valar,” came an exasperated voice on the other side of Celeborn.  “Must he babble so?  And I do not think these seats were made for prolonged use.”

Glorfindel was too polite to lean forward in order to catch a glimpse of the second speaker.  As it was, he knew the soft grumbles of Gandalf the Grey well enough.  The wizard’s attendance had come as an even greater surprise than Celeborn’s.  So too had his appearance—a better part of his beard had been firmly knotted around a stick of beech.

Gandalf had vaguely mentioned something about visiting Radagast.  No one asked him to go into further detail.  All knew Radagast the Brown was mad, save perhaps Thranduil’s kin, who thought him wise and a bit misunderstood.  Then again, the Elves of Mirkwood weren’t exactly known for their sensible natures either. 

Thankfully, Saruman* had also come to the gathering, ensuring at least one sane wizard was present.

“My son-in-law enjoys words,” Celeborn replied dryly, albeit in good humor, to Gandalf.  “What may be said with one he says with eight.  Only when angry do I find such expressiveness helpful.”

Glorfindel blinked, arching one golden eyebrow in bemusement.  Celeborn’s serene bearing had not changed while he spoke—indeed, he still appeared to be listening attentively to Elrond. 

Noticing Elladan’s overly blank face and Elrohir’s suspiciously glassy eyes, Glorfindel decided he knew which side of the family was to blame.

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*Curunír, ‘the Man of Skill,’ aka Saruman, ‘Gee My Name Sounds A Lot Like Sauron.’

Coming eventually, Chapter 7!  Young Rangers learn the helpful properties of local vegetation (see: Healing 101), and Halbarad drags one very unwilling Heir of Isildur to the bar. 

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