Rating: NC-17
Paitings: Multiple
Summary: This is a long tale that covers a lot of time and territory. If I gave
more away, it would take some of the twists and turns out. Suffice it to say,
this is a mystery.
Notes: The insanity of the Pretty series sort of birthed this story. It is still formulating. It's rather a sort of mystery and tale of people coping with a world that cuts them no slack.
I am lousy with summaries. Just suffice it to say, this is long, comprises much history, many elf pairings and much coming and going around the place. It is not necessarily following the set course of the movie or books but it isn't AU.
I hope you enjoy it. All suggestions, comments, criticisms and howdy-hos are welcome.
Feedback: Please feel free to comment, critique, suggest or whatnot. I am very happy to hear from you as you, the readers, rule.
Dedication: For AC, for being such a wonderful friend and LOTR's babe.
Trapezoid... a configuration of four sides of unequal length that combine to make a closed figure...
On a riverbank, in the spring, near to midday...
The river had risen, flooding the banks along each side with sediment and floating debris. It was the spring run off and he knew he wouldn't be fording here. It would be a risk of life and limb attempting such a venture. He sat on his horse and stared at the sky, considering how long it would be in the day before the rains came again. It was melting the snow in the high up country and he was concerned how far he would have to ride before the river let him cross. He would be out of his way, moved farther downstream than he wanted but there was nothing he could do.
He could still see his breath. It was cold in the shadows along the forest's dark edge and he knew it would be cold when night came. He was warm enough in his cloak now but tonight would be a different story. When that came, he would not be able to light a fire because they would see it and track him down. He couldn't allow that to happen. He was the hunter, not the hunted and he wouldn't allow that pattern, the pattern of his majority, to change.
Tapping his horse's sides with his feet, he moved along the edge of the flooded plain, the sound of the water rushing past, the crashing of the odd tree and branch his only companions. He would be a long time traveling before he could cross and it would be well into the darkness when he would find a secure spot to rest. Morning would be a long wait in the silence, a long and restless time before the sun's rays finally broke over the horizon.
Rivendell
He stood on the balcony, a cup of warm tea in his hand. The sun was up and the cold had begun to recede just a little, becoming more bearable in the light of day. The sound of the waterfalls were louder, the snow melt packing the streams of the higher up hills with overflow. He was mesmerized by the sound of it, the cyclic rhythms of the earth as he moved through the seasons. He set his cup on the railing, rubbing his hands together as he watched his breath condense and then fade in the briskness of the morning.
His valley was beautiful, a work of art created in the beginning of time by the Valar and Eru, the Lord of them all. He was the happy recipient of their skill, love and labors. It was glorious at any season but spring was especially graceful for the surrounding mountains as they shook off their slumber of snow and faced the changing of the trees with all its complete inevitability.
The valley would be clothed in green soon and he was looking forward to seeing it once more. He had stood on this balcony and watched its arrival for countless centuries, endless years that rolled one past the other into an unbroken line that stretched from another time. He had been the Lord of this valley since the end of ages before and he was certain he would be forever.
He shook his head. He was clearly morose today. That wasn't an unusual thing. He had times of depressed emotion like anyone else. However, this felt different. It felt lingering. Behind him, in the rooms of his chambers, people bustled, going about the business of the day. Cleaning, arranging, bringing things and taking things away, it all went as it ever did. One thing happening after another. He was sure it was happening in other places. Hobbits were getting up as were Lorien Elves, that is, if they ever slept in that strange and enchanted land. He smiled. He wasn't clear that they did. At least among his in-laws, that is.
"Father."
He turned and spied one of his children standing in the door, dressed in riding clothes. It was Elladan, he could see plainly. As perfect a copy each of his sons was to the other, they were easy for him to tell apart. Elladan was more sturdy of disposition and it played in his face and expressions. He was handsome and as finely featured as his brother but around the eyes he was more durable, more strong-seeming and more obstinate. Elrohir was another sort of personality, quieter and more contemplative, more easily given to introspection. He was lighter, if you will, more... Elrond considered the word carefully. Elrohir was more delicate of nature and it featured in his persona.
"Elladan.You are going out?"
He smiled and walked forward, staring at the cascades of water that spilled off the tall mountainside across the way. "I am going riding around the perimeter of our lands. I am riding for the next few days with young men from here. I know you will not countenance me going alone or teamed with only Elrohir."
"And you would be clear in your assumption," Elrond replied, grinning slightly. "Is Elrohir going with you?"
"He would but he moons over someone, so complete in his love for this poor soul that he cannot ride out and survey the security of our lands is he."
"You mock your brother but love is a piercing pain equaled only in its harsh relentlessness by the piercing bite of a chipped tooth. You would do well to be careful of his feelings. Some day you will find the twin daggers of love stuck firmly in your own backside."
"Is that were the emotion resides?" Elladan asked, grinning broadly. "I dare wonder what the good people of Middle Earth would think if they could see you in all your earthy glory? The Great Lord of Imladris will utter the word 'backside'?"
Elrond grinned. "That is not all I will utter given the proper provocation."
"I can see that," Elladan replied, smiling. He turned and looked at the waterfalls beyond, the perfection of his profile stunning as ever to his father's eyes.
Elrond had beautiful children, sons and a daughter. They were elegant as well as beautiful and many was the unguarded heart that had fallen for them at a weak and unsuspecting moment. Elladan was a person of rather above average height for their kind and was well muscled as one would be who spent a good portion of their life on a horse or in physical, manly pursuits. He was an archer of great ability and his skill with sword and dagger well respected.
He was smart and cunning, shrewd and filled with a malice for fell things that gave Elrond disquiet on the few occasions that he dwelt on the well being of his sons beyond the normal concerns of a parent. Since the harm that had fallen their mother had overtaken their domestic tranquility, his sons had made it a matter of their personal honor to settle that score in as many and sundry ways as possible. Mostly that entailed riding into the wilderness and hunting the enemy like a pack of wolves hunts a wounded deer.
Elladan had put aside many of the normal things that occupied the mind and emotions of a young elf his age. He had no romantic entanglements, preferring to leave himself free and available to purge the demons of his vengefulness at the drop of a hat. He was much admired among their kind and among men, the eyes of both sexes taking his measure.
He wore his clothes well, a fact that he was conscious of and as a consequence, he spent more time in making sure that he was well attired than his younger by-mere-minutes identical twin brother. He was dressed in simple clothing now, gray in color to match the drab world of early springtime that held them tightly in its leafless clutches. He was a clothes horse, as all his siblings were and he had natural and outgoing style that made him a natural leader among those of his age.
Elrohir, on the other hand, was a companion to his more outgoing brother, a compliment to him rather than competition for leadership among the young men that formed the circle of their professional and personal lives. He was content to be the second to Elladan's first, supporting him in his endeavors rather than leading them. He was more reserved and reflective than Elladan and had more solitary interests.
They were a nice pair, Elrond reflected. They were the light and dark, the yin and yang of his household. They certainly were never dull. Elladan turned to him, gazing at him with his dark-eyed confident stare.
"You will talk to him."
"Elrohir?"
"Yes," Elladan replied. "I think he needs perspective in his current dilemma. You know how he is."
"Your brother is a lover of beauty and truth. He seeks it with the same single-minded tenacity that you pursue orcs."
Elladan smiled. "Perhaps." He moved toward his father, pausing behind him. He wrapped his father in his arms, resting his chin on Elrond's shoulder. They stared out at the river, watching as a single duck floated down its swiftly moving surface.
"You will take care."
"I will," Elladan replied. "We all will."
"You are my treasure," Elrond replied, squeezing his son's hand.
"And you, mine," he replied, squeezing his father.
"How long will you be?"
"We shall be gone no more than a month of days," Elladan replied, sighing. "I think we shall ride as far as Isengard but no farther. I am curious of the Ford. I can imagine that it has flooded and overrun its banks."
"Do not ford them when they are running fast," Elrond admonished. "I do not want you to take risks with your lives. A moment's bad judgment can lead to a lifetime of sorrow for those of us left behind."
"I will be careful," Elladan replied, grinning slightly. "You will counsel Elrohir?"
"I will speak with him."
It was silent a moment as Elladan lingered. Below, both of them could see the traveling companions gathering, horses being saddled and conversation held in quiet voices. They watched silently and then Elladan squeezed his father once more, stepping back as Elrond turned. They clasped arms and then Elladan turned again, walking from view back into the house. Elrond watched him and then turned back to the railing, waiting for him to appear again. He did, Elrohir in tow, and mounted up. Glancing up and waving to his father, Elladan and his party galloped jauntily out of the courtyard and onto the road beyond that would lead to the greater world outside the valley.
Elrohir stood a moment, watching with a slightly guilty eye, as his mirror image rode away without him. He had not been very enthusiastic about this trip away, his mind drawn to other things. As he stood in the warming sunlight of morning, he prayed to Elbereth that the troop would return in thirty days time well and unharmed.
In the night, on the trail between the Ford of Isen and Imladris...
It was cold when he settled, nestled against a rock to break the cold breeze that had begun to arise. It was deep in the night, the moon nearly directly overhead in the clear sky as he waited for the relative safety of the morning to come again. He had heard them out in the night, tramping in the rain as they made their way in the darkness. Groups had been moving toward Isengard for some time now, moving from their usual haunts in the south toward the black tower beyond.
He had been moving northward himself, heading for the sanctuary of Imladris even as he considered the threat to the people living farther west. The Shire was a place with few defenses. He had stepped between that beautiful country and her unaware and self absorbed people more than once. Orcs had tramped in the back country in the past and they would again.
He sighed. The ground was cold and hard and he could feel the chill leaching through his clothing as he sat huddled and still. The rain would be coming. He could smell it. Soon its steady down pour would shut out all other considerations. The trees above him would take most of the brunt but he would be drenched none the less. It would take time for him to recover from the burden of his drowning. However, he was patient. He had been patient his whole life. Tonight and tomorrow and the days that followed would be no exception.
On the trail...
They rode together, heading away from the security of a civilized life and into the rough country that lay between islands of learning and culture. He was the son of a great and gifted man, this offspring of Elrond. He was the oldest of his siblings and the one who would naturally be tagged to shoulder the burden of family obligation. He had risen to it until the personal tragedy that hung over them all transformed his goals, both personal and professional.
The orcs and the Lord of Mordor. They had taken from him something he found difficult to cope with. His mother was gone, taking her light and grace with her and perhaps he would never see her again. She was his advocate, his confidante and without her the colors of the world seemed less vivid. She was gone for good and he was left behind, struggling with the all encompassing rage that filled him night and day. He bled it off on hunting excursions, killing orcs wherever they were found and moving on toward more opportunities. It was the control mechanism that allowed him to function in the inferno of his loss.
Elrohir was his companion, someone who shared his pain but in the natural course of years, his anger had begun to subside into deep but manageable sorrow. He no longer burned with he need for revenge. He no longer sought in the death of others a poultice for his own suffering. He had begun to stay behind, taking fewer trips into the wilderness, leaving to other companions the role he once fulfilled for his brother.
He had the contemplative side of his father and mother, the desire for knowledge and the compulsion to know all kinds of things. His brother was less driven that way but they had between them one of the best educations of anyone in Middle Earth. He had begun to resolve to put it to use. There was much to be remembered and he resolved to be the conduit for it. He spent his days gathering and compiling information, stories and personal remembrances. He was going to put them into written format for others to share.
He sat in the den of his father, paper and quill in hand and wrote for hours, putting into the general populace's hands memories and details of times past. He would continue to do so even as he contemplated his heart's desire far away. It would pass the time until they would be together again. Perhaps when they were, he would be able to express something to the quiet center of his heart's desire and find something there in return.
It was what he hoped as he worked by himself by the open window.
Underground, far away...
Orcs were everywhere, their guttural cries piercing the darkness of the cave. They worked together, sweltering in the heat as more of them emerged from the ground. They were huge and powerful, seething with barely controlled emotional chaos and as they began to congregate, it became clear that they would be a formidable foe to any who stood against them.
Saruman watched, almost consumed with intense sensation as they struggled to break the membrane that had sheltered their gestating forms in the slime and ooze of mud that was their womb. He felt a storm of sexual tension as he stared at them, each of them coming to consciousness before his eyes. He had first seen it days before, a wrenching experience, and now he was addicted. He was there for all of them, all of his creations as they came from the mud of the dark earth.
Orcs worked around him, running the risk of injury as they did his bidding and assisted the Uruk-Hai. Huge, malevolent and utterly his to command, Saruman the White felt released from his emotional prison in a way nothing else had since he had fallen into the darkness of Sauron's control. The Eye, the evil Lord of Mordor had commanded him to create an army. He had done so and in the doing, found himself drawn to the figures before him with an almost compulsive need.
They were indestructible, immune to hurts and privations and his alone to command. He began to consider, keeping his thoughts carefully shielded, that there might be more to his lot than fetching and toting for the ghost of a creature in Barad-Dur. Perhaps there would be more to this business of who ruled the world than he had considered.
He thought about the Ring and kept his own counsel, even as he sent more and more lesser orcs into the world to find it. He would keep his plans secret and if the moment showed itself, he would do what he wanted regardless of the consequences. His powers were formidable and with the Ring in his possession, he would be unbeatable.
He turned and watched another Uruk-Hai struggle from the slime pit of its birth. As he did, he smiled slightly, his eyes never leaving the muscular form rearing up from the ground before him. He would see in the end who would prevail. For now, this was more than enough to occupy him.
Late at night, Imladris...
It was warm where he was and he felt contentment. He had come here late, slipping into the already occupied bed and drowsing as he listened to his companion. No one knew about them, no one had a clue, so complete was their care in hiding their feelings from others. He came when he needed comfort and so it was with his companion. They were extremely close and shared much, even this between them, their secret rendezvous' and deep mutual affection.
"Are you awake?" he whispered softly, the back of his fingers sliding slowly down a bare pale shoulder.
The golden head moved slightly, sleep-filled eyes peering at him over a rumple of bed clothes. "I am now."
Elrond smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair from his companion's face. He sighed, the familiarity of this moment comforting. It had been a long day and they had moved through their familiar ballet of work and public employment in the service of their country. Now he sought more, old sensations of need and restlessness rising simultaneously in him. His companion moved over and settled in his arms, moving to lay a tall muscular body along the full length of Elrond's. He sighed deeply and it was silent again.
"I take it that you are not up to anything more than lying together," Elrond whispered, entwining his fingers through the soft silk of his companion's hair.
Another sigh met his remarks and a soft chuckle. Blue eyes peered at him again. "You treat me as your much neglected wife. You come home from the wars late and expect me to give my body to you at the drop of a whim."
"You have a lovely body. It has saved me from despair many a dark and stormy night."
His companion chuckled, a strong hand moving downward under the covers and taking Elrond's member into a firm grasp. Elrond sighed himself and reached down, closing his hand over his partner's. "You find me at a disadvantage, old friend."
"I find you, my Lord, as I have always found you... ready for my gentle touch."
"I beseech you then, in all haste, to make it so," Elrond said.
His partner smiled and moved down Elrond's body, trapping his Lord's aching need in his own skillful mouth. With tongue and fingers, he worked his magic, his partner's body responding immediately. Elrond groaned in pleasure, moving his legs farther apart as his partner gave to him that which he desired. A thousand sensations of silver tunneled their way into his brain as the heat from his groin radiated out toward all his extremities. His hands drifted south, freed from their restless perusal of his chest and they found themselves once again threaded through silken tresses of gold.
Up and down, a steady pace, bobbing over Elrond's pale body, his partner moved. It was a sight Elrond would never get used to, this wonderful synergy of dream and reality and when he felt the stars explode behind his eyelids, he arched and gripped his partner's head, shedding into his warm and succulent mouth, that which was most sacred to his manhood. Elrond twisted and gasped, the breath sucked out of him and then he sagged against the sheets, his hands falling away.
They lay together, comforted and comforting as the roar of blood in Elrond's ears slowly diminished. The figure moved and lay against him once more, his own indifferent member lying limp against Elrond's hip. Elrond sighed and kissed his partner on the lips, intensely aware of the futility of trying to return to him a small measure of his own pleasure.
"I wish to return the gift you gave me," Elrond said, rubbing his cheek against the soft silk of Glorfindel's hair. "Ask that which you require and I will give it to you with a glad and loving heart."
The older elf, more than aware of the futility of such a gesture, sighed. "You do not have to feel a need for reciprocity, Elrond. You have to know that it is enough to lie here with you. After all these years, you should know that."
"I do," Elrond whispered, lacing his fingers through those of his friend. "I want your happiness too."
"I am," Glorfindel lied, pulling a sheet up. He settled against Elrond's body. "It is enough to be close to you, my friend."
They lay together, each couched in the shadow of Glorfindel's lie and felt the solidity of each other's presence. There were times when it was enough, Glorfindel considered. There were times when this was almost enough. He closed his eyes, praying that the dream that always came after these moments wouldn't come back tonight and sighed softly against the pale and perfect skin of his lover. Elrond sighed as well, the old frustration rising as he considered their predicament. It wasn't fair, he reasoned. But then, little in life was.
He closed his eyes and held his lover in his arms until the first light broke through the clouds over the mountains, signaling that he had to leave. He would, savoring the taste of Glorfindel's lips on his and when he returned to his rooms, settling in his own bed, he would be ready to face another day. In his own rooms, lying in his now empty bed, Glorfindel would push away his despair one more time.
The Prancing Pony...
He walked in and paid for a room, walking up the winding stairs to the place where he would spend the night. His gear was with him, his horse in the care of a farrier who let stalls and when he had his meal, he would wash up and change what he could from among the limited supply of clothing that he carried. He had a corner room and he entered, throwing down his belongings. He shed them and walked to the window, staring outside.
He had taken care with his trail, hiding it from even Elvish eyes and now he would let down a little and enjoy a small measure of comfort in this tiny island of normal life, or what passed for it lately in the complicated world he lived in. He had diverted from Imladris, following a band of lesser orcs, watching them as they moved through the wilderness toward the west.
It had not been good, this increased activity and all indications pointed toward the Shire. He had come here, intending to leave at dawn's light toward that bucolic land and the unsuspecting inhabitants therein. They wouldn't see him, they never did and when he would leave, there would be no trace of his presence. That was the plan. He would follow the orcs and see what happened.
Walking toward the door, he slipped out and walked downstairs to the dining hall and bar. It was filled with traveling men, a few hobbits on the trail and various oddities of mixed ancestry. A woman or two sat with a man, a child could be seen but all in all, it was the usual man's haven that it always was. He sat in a table in the corner, out of the general view, his hood obscuring his face. He ordered and paid for food and ale and ate silently, his eyes roaming the room and all the faces therein.
He knew some of them and all of them avoided contact with his dark gaze. No one bothered the Rangers of the West, men who were legendary in their ability with fist and sword. The safe denizens of towns and villages didn't know how much they owed to the dwindling race of Numenoreans whose efforts made their own lives safe. They probably would never know.
He finished his meal and lit his pipe, leaning back comfortably as he took a smoke. People came and went, good and bad people and the talk was a mixed rumble of barely intelligible gibberish. That is, until a half-drunk man sitting at a table near to him began to explain a story that he had heard from a 'friend of a friend of someone who knew somebody'...
"He was walking toward the town, taking his corn to the miller, like, and there was a commotion in the woods nearby. He didn't know what t'do so he moved on."
"What about it? Where was this 'commotion'?" a friend asked, grinning at him with his own glazed eyed look of bemusement. Their companions snorted.
"'Ere... it was down out of Hobbiton... there was a man there and he saw it with 'is own two eyes, he did," the man insisted.
His companions guffawed and then settled, listening to the rest of the story.
"He was a man in the woods and he gave off a huge cry of fear and pain. Suffering, he was," the drunk said, sipping his ale. "He gave off a strangled cry, like someone cut 'is throat and then it all ended."
"The man who saw it... what did he do?" another asked.
"He ran, he did. He tugged on his ox's halter and hurried away. He didn't look back and he didn't ask no questions. He just hurried off and didn't ask nothin'."
Aragorn listened, his body language betraying nothing. The others talked more and then one of them asked another question.
"Where was this... murder supposed to happen? There is a lot of roads around Hobbiton, there is."
"There's a big rock, like, and there's a grove of beech trees near to it. The man was killed in the woods and by a creek. The man what saw it never went back. He never went near to it either. For all we know, a body is still there, rottin' and decayin' in the molding earth."
"You're a sick man, Skylar. There should be a limit on your drink."
Aragorn listened longer but the conversation changed. He considered the details of the scene and realized he knew where it was. Tomorrow, on his swing by of Hobbiton, he would detour toward that site and see for himself. Murder was not rare but it was disturbing so close to the Shire. The people there, the halflings... they would be helpless if someone was there to cause harm.
Rising wearily, glancing around once more, he walked through the diminishing crowd toward the stairs, conversation stilling as he passed each small group. It didn't continue again until he was up the stairs and out of sight once more.
In another realm...
He walked along the riverbank, contemplating things large and small. He was an ancient being and the greatest Lord still among the faithful of Middle Earth. He was married to a woman of great power, her heritage staggering in its regnal splendor. They had been married a long time, begetting a daughter whose passing into the West was still a matter of great pain and sorrow for him.
His wife talked about going some times, something he felt deeply disquieting. He, himself could live forever in the beautiful wood of his country. Lorien was his home, the sanctuary that he had come to when his heart was rent and his back broken with sorrow. The intricate and time-consuming matter of building a sanctuary for his kind here in these blessed trees was something that still occupied him.
He was an ethereal being, half in the world and half out of it. He glowed with a light from within, his fairness and wisdom achingly beautiful to those that beheld him. He was given pride of place among his kind, many seeking his support and advice, even as they sought out his son-in-law, the redoubtable Elrond of Imladris. They were peas of a pod, the two of them. They were caught up in burdens both heavy and ancient.
They were in many ways very unlike, even though they were indeed similar in lesser issues of complexity. He had watched with much foreboding the betrothal and marriage of his only child with this great scion of all the royal houses of his kind. It had been somehow askew in his emotional well-being, the joining of these two. The cause of his disquiet was nebulous in his mind but it was there, ever there.
Celeborn's memory went back far and he couldn't help but see the ghost of another hovering over the joining, unacknowledged but there. Gil-galad, the High King of the Noldor people was always there with Elrond, walking behind him just out of view. Celeborn could see him, the shadowy figure of the great man watching all that transpired. He often wondered if Elrond could. Of course, it could all be just his imagination...
He sighed and continued, staring at the water as it moved swiftly away from his home. He considered the family that Elrond and Celebrian had created together. They had children, three of them, even twins. It was a rarity, twins. He had stared at the little boys, his heart bursting with love for them, and he did his best to lavish time and attention upon them and the little girl that followed. He felt compelled to do so. Something in the unseen background haunted him. It haunted them all. He could feel it some days, like a pulsating light, blurred and unavailable, yet there all the same.
Something fell followed them, something more than that which dogged all their people here. Elrond of Imladris was a man of losses. His parents had been gone from him a long time, even as a small child. Celeborn wasn't even clear if Elrond had any real memories of that unique pair. He was raised instead by suspect people. His brother chose to turn away from eternity, finding in a handful of centuries great fulfillment among men.
Tar-minyatur...
Elrond watched it all happen, taking each body blow with that intensely private silence of his. When Celebrian was hurt, he frantically tried to heal her but the wounds were grave and emotional, something he had no hope to tender. She had gone from him and her children, a sundering he still struggled to assimilate. Elrond had watched her go, his face silent and his thoughts his own. His children had wept but Elrond hadn't, his eyes giving only small hint to his suffering at yet another loss... another failure.
Failure.
Celeborn had wanted to ask them, the questions he desired on his lips more than once but that famous Elvish reticence in the private connubial affairs of others kept them from being spoken. Now, with his daughter over sea in the fabled West and his grandchildren wandering between happiness and a future and the despair of a past that will never be settled, he found himself pacing in the sanctuary of his home.
Elrond had not been to his woods in some time. Friends in Imladris kept him apprized of the household and its goings-on. It would appear that Elrond had chosen no one else to take his daughter's place. He wasn't clear that this was true. It was hard to crack the wall of privacy that informed his son-in-law. They were friendly but not especially close. Elrond was a work-consumed individual.
His grandchildren were busy and relatively happy. Arwen would be coming soon to stay with them. The woods would ring with the echo of her joy and bathe in the reflected light of her beauty. Elladan was riding after orcs on his own. Worrisome, he considered, pausing by the river. Elrohir was writing books and involved in affairs of the mind and intellect. This pleased him.
It would also please him if he had some idea of what the status of their hearts were. He would have to ask Arwen when she came. He would ask her what she planned to do with her own life and legacy. His even-tempered girl would be a boon to his soul, he considered as he watched broken branches whisk past him in the swiftly running cold water of his river. He turned and began to walk back. It would be good when Arwen came, he considered, good indeed.
Near Hobbiton...
He searched near the beech trees, walking outward as his keen eyes scoured the ground. He had paused on his journey to Hobbiton, a ride-by in order as he searched the area for enemy activity. He had dismounted and walked into the woods, looking in the area near the creek where the murder was supposed to have taken place.
Pausing, he knelt, pulling from tangled brown grass a small and sharp wood-like shard. He examined it, noting the teeth marks left by animals. It was human, he was sure, turning it over and over in his hand. He glanced around and paused again, picking up a bit of ragged cloth that contained a button. He looked at it and put the bone and button in his tunic. He would spend a few more minutes searching, finding small bits of bone and another button. There would be no sign of who had done this, any traces of footprint or skirmish long since destroyed.
He considered the idea of a murder this close to Hobbiton and sighed softly. It wasn't good. He would have to go and see what it was among those little people that might inspire such an action here of all places. Silently resolved, he moved equally as quietly to his horse and set off down the road, his keen eyes ever open for danger.
Isengard...
He saw them riding nearby, Elves dressed in the livery of Imladris. They were hunting orcs he imagined. They appeared to be aimless but he knew better. He watched them go from view, rounding a hillock and leaving his casual gaze behind. The seeing stone was useful but he had learned to use it sparingly. It was a way for Sauron to control him. He only gazed any length of time when Sauron summoned him. The rest of the time, he just used it for brief glimpses, a look or two here and there.
He knew his orcs were closing in on the Shire and that they would tell him sooner or later if the rumor about the Ring was true. If it was in the Shire, they would find it even if they had to kill every hobbit in sight. Turning and walking to the next room, he stared with pride at the apex of his creation, the redoubtable Lurtz. He was huge, dangerous and intensely exciting to the silent Istari as he watched the beast staring out the window. Lurtz was his, his alone to control. Sauron didn't know of his most perfect creation. He didn't ask and he didn't seek. Maybe he had a moment of his own to crow over, Saruman considered. Maybe he would be able to indulge himself a bit after all.
With a slight smile on his lips, he walked toward the window and the all dangerous figure of his creation.
In a palace...
He strode down the hallway, his muddy boots leaving a trail behind him. He was back from days in the wilderness and he looked it. The rains had come in the spring and he had been soaked for most of his journey. It would be good to recline in hot water and relax the kinks in his back that had begun to accumulate.
Boromir had greeted his father and brother in the courtyard, giving to them an accounting of orc activity in the north of their kingdom. He had assured his father that they were up to the challenge of the spring campaign and he, in his weariness and fatigue, had nodded, reassured. Boromir had watched his father's face, feeling a pain in his heart for the decline that was so evident in a man he once thought unshakable. His father was leaning upon him more everyday and he struggled not to falter under the increasing load.
The Steward King... his father... after a lifetime of struggle, the man was tired. His reign was failing, the incursions of evil from the nearby realm of Mordor becoming more common. He had struck an agreement with the horse lords, the Riders of Rohan more than happy to divide the vastness of their respective territories into more manageable areas to protect and patrol. The orcs were thick on the ground this season and they would have their hands full keeping them back.
He entered his chambers, the neatness bespeaking of his absence. The cordial disarray that was his usual lot was notably missing. He smiled in spite of himself and walked to his bathing chamber, bemused that hot water was already waiting for him. He sighed and turned, aware of his father's growing confusion. His father was growing anxiety and disarray fell heavily upon him and he felt the burden of it on his back. He was tense now, seldom relaxed, and he found solace in few things, keeping his own anxiety in check with sheer, constant movement.
He was rarely home, riding off into their kingdom instead, searching for ways to make it safer. Their people depended upon all of them for protection and he would give his life to make it assured if he had to, so determined was he not to fail them. Stripping off his leather and suede garments, he rubbed his sore shoulder, a mishap with a branch making short work of an uphill ride in slippery terrain. He moved to the bath, sitting down in the hot water. It felt better than good and he relaxed, the painful laying down of his burdens and sorrows physically reciprocated in his muscles. He sighed and closed his eyes.
As he did, he felt a presence, something beyond his body and he opened his eyes, betraying no other movement. He had felt it on the trail, this slithering coldness and it felt as if a clammy hand of a dead person had risen from the cold wet earth to grab at him. He swallowed hard as his eyes scanned the empty room. No one was there but him. Yet, he felt something else. For a moment it was with him and then it was gone, dissipating away like fog under the glare of the rising sun. He sat up and looked around, listening hard and when nothing greeted his senses again, he lay back, fatigue enveloping him once more. He had been gone a long time and he was tired. That had to account for it, this sinking sensation. Nothing was there. Nothing was in the room with him. He was alone.
But he wasn't, that he was sure of. He hadn't been since he turned back from Rohan. Something had dogged him until now and the absence of it felt strange.
In a good way.
He closed his eyes and soaked in the water, content to be home among familiar faces once again.
Imladris...
He walked toward the kitchens, carrying news to Erestor. Dinner would be late, the guests expected late from another land. He paused and delivered his message, watching as Erestor absorbed the changes without comment. Erestor nodded and turned, sending people scurrying to comply with the new demands.
Turning, Glorfindel left the kitchen, walking to the balcony nearby to look for the sparrows that had decided to nest nearby. They had begun to repair an old stuffing of twigs and feathers, restructuring it with sticks and their own soft down. They saw him but didn't recognize any threat in his presence. Watching them, he became soothed from the chaotic emotions that had collected in his heart of late.
He stood in the sunshine, unaware of dark eyes watching him. His tall frame swathed in embroidered robes, Glorfindel stared at the birds as they toiled. Elrond considered him, noting his distraction and made a mental note to visit him this evening. He would talk with his partner in all things and ascertain his emotional status. Glorfindel had been quieter of late than usual and it had become noticeable to more than just himself. Over breakfast, Elrohir had commented upon it once the golden haired elder removed himself from the table.
"He seems strained."
Elrond glanced at the door through which Glorfindel had stepped. "I have noticed it too. The winter was long. It can bring gloom upon the spirit in spite of one's good efforts. Perhaps he is adjusting to the return of spring."
"He should perchance visit the coast. Maybe a short stay with Cirdan would be helpful."
Elrond considered that innocent enough statement and sighed. "Perhaps. I will talk to him tonight."
Elrohir nodded, turning to his meal once more. Elrond watched him, the earnest request of Elladan echoing through his thoughts. "You no longer ride with your brother as much, Elrohir."
Dark eyes glanced up. "He said that to you?"
"I noticed it," Elrond replied gently. He smiled. "Your reflexes are as keen as ever."
Elrohir flushed, glancing at his plate. "The fire burns less bright in my heart, Father. I think, of all who would hear that, you would be the most pleased."
"I am," Elrond replied, sighing softly. "I wish your brother would find succor in other pursuits as well."
"He misses Mother."
Elrond nodded. "I know you do too."
"Do you, Father?" Elrohir asked. "Do you miss her much?"
Elrond blinked and stared at his son, attempting to decipher in his level gaze any hidden questions. "What means you this, Elrohir? Do you think your mother is no longer in my heart in any fashion?"
Elrohir blushed and shifted in his seat. "You seldom speak of her, Father. I just wondered if you felt her absence as much."
Elrond sighed. "I do. It's a strange thing, this sundering over sea. I know she lives. I know she is happier there. I wish it could be so here. Your brother would be happier knowing she was still among us in this middle place. But it isn't so. Your mother had to leave and we have to carry the consequences of her decision ourselves. Such is our fate. What you do about your pain determines the degree of happiness you finally gain in measure."
"What do you do?" Elrohir asked.
Images of sorrow, nights spent pacing, flashed through his mind as the aftermath of his wife's departure came unbidden to his thoughts. Those days were horrible, his children's pain almost more than he could bear. They had seen her off, their tears flowing like rain. She had to go, that he knew and he didn't hold against her all the days that followed.
She was going to a better place.
He told himself that as he walked through his days, doing his duty and soothing his children as best he could. What did he feel himself? It was hard to ascertain. He had been through this kind of loss before. Indeed, the loss of his first lover was of a magnitude so much greater than that of his wife that he felt almost embarrassed that his display of loss was not greater. He knew others had noticed, most notably his in-laws, but he hoped his usual manner of dignity and control would explain any lack of showy grief.
The days blended one into the other and years passed before he even noticed. His children never forgot, their grief as bright in their minds as the day she quietly told them that she could not stay in the world any longer.
"But we're here!" Elladan had said, spinning in his grief and disbelief. "We're here! How can you leave us behind?"
She had swallowed around the lump in her throat and gazed with deep pain and suffering at her oldest child. "Even that, even you, my most precious children, cannot do for me what I can only find in the lands beyond the sea. My heart is so torn, I cannot bear your tears, Elladan."
"You see them flowing but I know it doesn't make any difference. You are going over sea and we shall not see you again." Elladan stood quietly, as if memorizing her features and her warmth. She rose and walked to him, pausing before him, her face a desolation of anguish. "You are really leaving us..." he whispered as tears fell from his eyes.
"My darling boy..." she whispered. "My beautiful darling child
... even you, my only treasure... even you cannot help me now."
Elrond shook himself of his reverie, his eyes meeting Elrohir's.
"Papa?" Elrohir asked, his voice soft with concern.
"I'm sorry, my child," Elrond said, sighing painfully. "Those were terrible times. They come to me unbidden. It seems as if all the sadness of the whole of my life coalesced at that moment when Elladan realized that there was nothing that could be done about your mother's decision. I saw him shatter into a thousand pieces."
Elrohir nodded, putting down his fork. "It has been a burden to him, this sundering, and he cannot shake it. I fear for him."
"He fears for you," Elrond said, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips.
"Me?" Elrohir asked, blinking with surprise. "Why?"
"He fears you are lost on the paths of love and that the pitfalls there outweigh those of the orcs that travel across our lands."
Elrohir sighed, sitting back in his chair. "I want love, Papa."
Elrond felt his chest tighten. "You shall have it, my son. You are a worthy man in all."
Elrohir looked at his father with deep affection. "You had it twice."
For a moment, Elrond didn't stir as images of another came unbidden. "You can be that lucky sometimes, Elrohir."
"And the pain of loss? You have lost at love twice."
"I haven't lost at love," Elrond gently chided. "Life intervened and my heart was crushed but I never lost at finding and realizing the love of another."
"And now?" Elrohir asked, curiosity rising as he considered his father's openness, a none-to-frequent happening when it came to his own personal traumas or triumphs.
Elrond sighed and rose, smiling at his son. "You are a persistent busybody."
"I am the son of a great and good man," Elrohir countered. "I wish to write of your life in all its many interludes. I hope that you will honor me with many re-countings so that someday my own young ones will know the measure of the elf that is my sire."
Elrond smiled. "You are a goodly person, Elrohir. I shall consider your request. As for the young ones of your own... when is the day coming that I may know who captured your heart so completely that you have turned from vengeance?"
Elrohir blushed in spite of himself. "When they know that I love them. That is when I will tell you of their grace and their beauty."
"They do not know?" Elrond asked, pausing as he began to turn to leave the room.
"No, they do not," Elrohir sighed.
"Then you must tell them. Do not delay. Time is a harsh mistress," Elrond replied, pausing for a moment. "Who would not want a person like you, Elrohir?"
Elrohir smiled, watching as his father left the room. He sighed deeply, staring at his plate. ... who indeed?...
Nearby...
He turned and walked away, heading for the tasks that he had claimed as his own. The day would pass and the evening fall again, Elbereth's necklace of stars giving him a focus for reflection. The need for it was overcoming him again. He paused in the doorway, listening to the sound of the river below.
The dream had come again, the one that never failed to find him of late. The hot breath of his personal demons blew sulfuric unease across the dreamscape of his sleeping world, a time of defenselessness for him that lingering into the next day. He felt it now, the aching need to run and keep running. He hadn't before and he didn't the last time his mettle was tested in the service of others. He had paid a price for it, a costly price and in his resultant disarray he had found the fullest extent of his penalty.
Elrond had been difficult, seeking solutions to his suffering but in the end it had all come to naught. Glorfindel was as he was now, encased in a fleshy prison that was prey to the vagaries of the world. He would continue onward, making his way alongside the man who had been his friend for longer than just about anyone else. They were complimentary, meshing with a precision that was seamless. He didn't trust anyone the way he trusted Elrond and on that night, when he had reached his limits of endurance, Glorfindel had gathered his friend and lord into his arms and given him comfort in a way not unknown among their kind.
What was different about the moment was that it had awakened in him feelings that he had felt disconnected from, feelings that had burned away in the fires of his past. He had fallen in love with the man who was his friend and over the course of much mutual recovering, felt it reciprocated. He sighed and turned inside, the shame of his failures fleetingly evident in the sharp pains of his stomach. He rubbed his abdomen, determined to sort out his stresses and find the middle path. It would not do to become too emotional at this moment. There was work to do and people to confer with. He was to ride to Lothlorien and speak to Celeborn about matters that were important to their two realms.
It was significant that he was the one who would go. It was significant of the changes in the air that the great Elf Lord of Imladris didn't have the stomach to go to the Lord of the Lorien Wood. That delicate task was his alone now.
With a sigh, Glorfindel walked inside and began to prepare for the journey east.
Near Hobbiton...
Aragorn of Imladris, Ranger of the West, Heir of Isildur didn't appear very prepossessing when he stood on the hillock and stared into the hamlet below. It was relatively quiet, the rain driving people indoors and he sensed that nothing untoward was amiss. Relief flowed through him and he turned, walking back to his horse. He would mount up and ride through the perimeter of the bucolic landscape known as the Shire. By the time he circled it, he felt he would be clear on the sanctity of the area.
His horse's footfalls were muffled in the wet grass and he crossed the road, slumped in the saddle, water dripping from his soaked cloak. Everything he wore was drenched and he felt the chill of a coming evening in his bones. He would have to find a place to sleep that had some semblance of shelter or he would have a miserable night. Riding along, he noted a small shed nearby, nestled in the trees surrounding a gathering of beehives.
He rode toward it, tying his long-suffering horse to a tree, hidden well by bushes, and walked through knee-high grass to the small porch that led to the room inside. Pausing to look around, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, letting it slam behind him. It was stuffy but functional and he sat on a box, pulling off his cloak and boots. Dry socks were in his saddle bag and he considered going out to his horse and getting it when he heard the sound of running feet. Rising, he moved into the shadows and was still, listening as the door opened and slammed shut.
A sound was nearby and he leaned slightly forward, peering into the near darkness of the room for the source of the sound. A figure was there, pulling his own soaking cloak away from his curly-haired face. He turned and their gazes met, each freezing in surprise.
"Who are you and what are you doing in here?"
"I am Strider, a traveler through your lands. I came here to get out of the rain."
The figure smiled slightly, looking around for a moment. He pulled up a box and sat on it, dropping his cloak on the floor. "Then that would make you a wise man."
Aragorn stepped out, his bare feet silent on the dirt floor. He pulled up a box and sat himself, the two staring at each other for a moment. "You have me at a disadvantage."
The figure smiled, a soft chuckle issuing from his red lips. "I'm Frodo," he said, with a grin.
On the trail near to Isengard...
They rode silently, their keen eyes searching for even the smallest sign of orc passage. They had seen much and were following a set of big footprints, all of which appeared to be emanating from the tall tower in the far distance. These footprints were not unknown. Greater Orcs had been a feature of life in Middle Earth for more than five hundred years. However, they were rare and any sighting boded ill for someone.
Elladan considered the direction they were taking and decided that the pathway led west, toward the coasts and toward the unprotected and bucolic lands of the Shire. Halflings... hobbits... they were a people known to most of the long-lived denizens of this fabled land but they were rarely seen far from their homeland. The occasional hobbit could be seen in the fringe areas, frequenting the habitations of men but never in Elf lands.
They were a peculiar people, insular and out-of-touch, even with the highly sophisticated cultures of the Elves. He, himself, knew of only one hobbit by name and reputation, a redoubtable figure called Bilbo Baggins. He had never met the creature but his father had, a personage that Elrond liked in spite of their obvious differences. But then, his father was unlike most Elves. He was a cosmopolitan man with a history of tolerating unusual people and happenstance.
They paused, discussing the situation before them and then turned, riding toward the west and the settled lands therein. They would be days on the trail before they met anyone at all.
In the Shire...
Aragorn stared at the little figure sitting before him. They had surprised each other, neither expecting anyone in the shelter of the small shed. The rain pounded against the roof, a staccato of noise that was soothing in its constancy. Frodo sat with a curious expression on his face as they took the measure of the other. Frodo wore clothes of quality, pants that ended above the ankle and suspenders that held them up on a frame that was surprisingly slim for a hobbit. His white shirt was of nice material, sleeves rolled to the elbow and neck buttons unfastened and open. He wore no shoes, as was the habit of his kind and the hairy tops of his feet bore a tinge of red in the dark hair sprouting there. It was strange to look at and Aragorn could feel himself smiling.
"Is there something funny?" Frodo asked, his voice of a pleasant timbre.
"Your feet. I have seen hobbits before... many times actually," Aragorn began, retrieving his pipe from his tunic. "However, I will have to say, I find it amusing to see hair growing on the tops of feet in the profusion that it does with your kind."
Frodo smiled. "I suppose it does." He was silent a moment. "You smoke too?"
"I do," Aragorn admitted. "It is a bad habit I picked up from my travels."
"You travel," Frodo stated with a sigh. "I would like to do that. I suppose you have adventures too?"
Aragorn smiled in spite of himself, the infectious curiosity of the youngster contagious. "I have. Not all of them pleasant."
"I would like to see the world. The Shire is a good place, in all... but I want adventures. My uncle was an adventurer. I guess I get it from him."
"Your uncle?" Aragorn said, puffing on his pipe, the sweet smell of his weed filling the room with a pleasant odor.
"Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins."
Aragorn considered the name a moment. "I have heard of him. He had an... adventure... with Thranduil in Mirkwood, didn't he? Some years ago?"
Frodo grinned. "He was locked up by King Thranduil. It didn't endear him to my uncle."
Aragorn listened as Frodo began to recount the adventure, visions of another's tale filling his mind as well. He had been friends with Legolas of Mirkwood for many years, the son of Thranduil mentioning from time to time the doings of his family. He had heard this tale from the other side and was amused by the robust telling the young hobbit was giving to his own version.
"He was a rich man, King Thranduil of Mirkwood."
"He is," Aragorn agreed. "He has a fastness in the Great Green Wood that is quite impregnable."
"That is good in these times," Frodo agreed.
"There is mischief afoot in the Shire?" Aragorn asked.
Frodo paused a moment, his big blue eyes resting on Aragorn's face as he considered his words. Then he nodded. "There are strange things happening. It is said that there are people missing on the main road, the one that leads this way. It is said that fell creatures hunt them and no one goes out at night. Strange things are said to ride in the darkness, hunting for something or someone."
"Who tells these tales?" Aragorn asked with exaggerated casualness.
"Travelers from other places. A few pass through but traffic from other regions is becoming less common. Even going to Bree is fraught with dangers unheard of in other times."
Aragorn nodded. "That is true. I am heard that men are killed here and there in the local area. There are people who say that they have actually heard people being murdered."
"You have talked to Farmer Bartlebury?" Frodo asked, his guileless eyes intent on Aragorn's face. "He was the first to tell about what he saw. Mind you, my uncle says he is fibbing."
"What did he see, Frodo?" Aragorn asked, relighting his pipe.
"He was taking his corn to the miller and there was a commotion in the woods next to the road. He stopped, he says, and listened. There was screaming and then it stopped." Frodo thought a moment. "He said it was like a gurgling sound... like someone had their throat cut."
"Did anyone go and see what was happening?" Aragorn asked.
"No," Frodo replied, smiling and shaking his head. "Farmer Bartlebury hurried away as fast as he could. He didn't want any part of what happened. It was a long time before he told anyone where it even happened."
"And you? Did you go when you found out where it was?" Aragorn asked, a slight grin on his face.
For a moment, Frodo just sat and then he grinned. "Yes, actually. I did." He considered his words. "It was a time after it was supposed to happen but I found a couple of things there."
"What were they?" Aragorn asked.
"There were a few bones. It looked like some animal had been there. I found a button and a pipe. That is all I that appeared to be left."
Aragorn considered Frodo's words and then reached into his own pocket, withdrawing the items that he had found himself. "Did they look like these?"
Frodo stared at them and then looked at Aragorn. "Exactly like those." His big eyes narrowed. "Where did you find them?"
"The same place you did. I overhead someone talking in the pub in Bree and since I was coming this way anyway, I looked myself. This is what I found."
"What does it mean?" Frodo asked, deciding that if this Strider was the killer, he would be dead by now.
"I don't know. Someone was murdered. Whether it be by man or elf or hobbit, I don't know. I just know that there is a killer running loose among us and we have to be very careful." Aragorn stared at Frodo curiously. "You aren't afraid of me?"
"You don't seem dangerous or desperate enough looking to be a killer."
"Maybe the victim thought so too just before he was murdered," Aragorn offered, leaning forward slightly. "Sometimes death and destruction doesn't have an obvious face."
"Perhaps," Frodo said, considering his words carefully. "Even though you look rough and are a stranger to me, I am not afraid of you."
Aragorn smiled slightly. "You are an interesting fellow, Frodo Baggins. This uncle of yours... I should like to meet him."
Frodo nodded and leaned back against the wall. "When the rain slackens, perhaps we can go there."
Aragorn nodded, leaning against the wall as well. "Very well," he said simply.
Imladris...
It was late and the stars were thick in the sky. Dressed in a robe of dark blue, Glorfindel stood on the balcony staring up at them. The stars soothed him and made it possible to rest his mind on things other than his own cares. The night was cool but he didn't feel cold. His body was naked beneath his robe, as he slept that way by habit. He didn't know if Elrond would be joining him. He hoped so. The contact with him when no one else was around was comforting and in his present morose condition, that contact would be highly welcomed.
He sighed and turned, noting a movement nearby. The shadows parted and Elrond was there, pausing to look at him with his dark concerned eyes. He knew that Elrond was regarding his beauty, even as he considered the older elf's rectitude. That part of his pleasure had always been voiced to Glorfindel and he waited, watching as Elrond closed the distance between them. They both turned and stood side-by-side, hands resting on the railing of the balcony. Elrond stared at the sky, gathering his thoughts.
"You seem distracted, my friend," he said softly, turning his gaze on his partner.
Glorfindel shrugged. "It is that time of year."
Elrond nodded, sighing. "Your dreams... they come again?"
Glorfindel nodded. "I must learn to deal with them. I have had centuries."
"It doesn't matter. Who is to say how the mind works? " Elrond proffered. "All of your experiences are a part of who you are. You cannot always contend with when they will revisit you."
"Maybe..." Glorfindel sighed. "I must adjust to the vagaries of my own conscious mind."
"I am here to help you," Elrond said, stepping closer. He felt the silk of Glorfindel's robe rub against his own and he sighed. The sensations of silk applied to Glorfindel in his own mind. He was golden and pale, his muscular body almost seemingly sculpted from marble. He had lived more lives than anyone else, his memories stretching back into another time even he only had the most rudimentary memories of living. It was his glory and his curse, the burden of it emerging from time to time to wreak havoc with his life until he summoned the strength and mental agility to put it away from his conscious mind.
That was getting to be harder lately for Glorfindel, Elrond noted. He turned and leaned against the railing, studying the profile of his friend with concern. The dreams were back. He had seen the effects of them himself when they slept together. He didn't know how to help him, this most reticent of elves, and it felt odd to be at a loss for solving a problem for once.
"I wish you would talk to me. I wish you would confide."
Glorfindel's expression softened, his gaze turning toward Elrond. Glorfindel appeared to be haloed with a soft silvery light and Elrond felt want pulse through him even as he pushed it back. This was about Glorfindel, he reminded himself, his iron control returning.
"You hear the woes of others all day long. I am giving you a respite from those of mine, such as they are," Glorfindel said, a slight smile on his face.
Elrond sighed and rose, touching Glorfindel's face with the backs of his fingers. He lingered on the fine planed lines of the older elf's face, the soft texture of the pale skin beneath his fingers as smooth as glass. Glorfindel sighed and closed his eyes, turning his face toward the touch when a woman's laughter broke the spell of the moment. He stepped back, both turning toward another balcony as a girl and two young boys moved into sight. They were laughing and talking, charming the two men for a moment and then they left, hurrying away into the night. Elrond smiled and turned to Glorfindel.
"Were either of us ever that young?" he asked, gazing with affection at the splendid beauty of his partner.
Glorfindel smiled. "Not since the beginning of the world."
Elrond turned and began to walk toward the door of Glorfindel's chambers, pausing as he did after a step or two. Turning again, he held out his hand, a slight smile on his face. Glorfindel paused and then moved, taking Elrond's hand and the two stepped inside, the soft illumination of candles casting everything in a golden hue of color. Elrond raised Glorfindel's hand and kissed it gently before releasing it and walking to a table, pouring two small glasses with wine. Turning, he walked to his partner and handed him one, clicking his glass against Glorfindel's. He sipped it and smiled.
"You are a wise and strong man, Glorfindel. When are you going to realize what a fool you are not to confide in me?" Elrond asked, moving to sit on a chair by the fireplace. "We are friends, are we not?"
Glorfindel snorted, smiling slightly. "You are a whelp, Master Elrond. I can remember when you wore the shifts of an infant."
Elrond smiled and chuckled. "At least I had the legs for it."
"You did," Glorfindel replied, sitting on the bed. The sense of his depression, the all encompassing magnitude of it began to dissipate somewhat in the warmth of Elrond's company. "You were a good child."
"So I am told."
"You always did the right thing. You were a serious elf, I must tell you. Never were you one to shirk your duty."
"And you, Glorfindel? You never did either. My family is testimony to your honor and diligence. I am profoundly in your debt."
Glorfindel shrugged, staring at the glass in his hands. "You do what is necessary. I didn't want to see anymore death. I saw too much, Elrond. There were too many of us that didn't live. I don't know what it means to see that happen again. Most of the time I know I will go and take up sword in hand and be strong for our people's sake. But there is also a time where I want to turn away and never see anything that evil again."
"No one does," Elrond agreed, setting his glass aside. He laced his fingers together, watching Glorfindel as he sat quietly, staring into the half empty glass in his hands. "I wish I could help you resolve something... anything. I wish I could help you find your footing again."
Glorfindel smiled, raising his deep blue eyes toward Elrond. "You help me in many ways, bain brannon. Must I tell you that?"
Elrond smiled for a moment, his intense gaze holding Glorfindel's, and then he rose and walked toward the older elf, pausing before him. He took the glass from Glorfindel's hand and turned, putting it on a low nearby table. Turning again, he took Glorfindel's hand, pulling him to his feet. He sighed, shaking his head. "You don't have to tell me anything, bain conin, but I hope you know you can."
Glorfindel slipped his arms around Elrond's waist, stepping into the comfort and familiarity of his body. They held each other silently for a moment and then Elrond kissed Glorfindel's shoulder, rubbing his cheek against the elf's neck.
"It would not be good, this life I live, if you were not a part of it. You have always been there, in some fashion or other. You have always been a part of my family. I owe you greatly, bain brannon."
"You owe me nothing," Glorfindel replied, tightening his grip around Elrond. "I am willed by fate to be with you. It is written in some great book some place that 'Glorfindel of Gondolin is meant to be with Elrond of Imladris until it is written that it is not so'."
Elrond snorted and looked at Glorfindel with a fond expression of contentment. "I would not doubt it," he said before capturing the soft lips of his lover in a kiss of passion.
They stood together, kissing and whispering as the stars shone overhead. Elrond would stay the night and they would have the comfort and companionship of each other once again. But in the morning, when it was all said and done, Elrond would know no more about Glorfindel's sorrows than he knew the night before.
In the Shire...
Bilbo Baggins looked up at the tall figure before him and felt flustered. He often had the odd visitor but this one was odder than usual. He was rough and hard-looking but his eyes were warm and spoke of intelligence. Frodo looked from one to the other and as he did, Bilbo felt the past transfix the present.
... I suppose I'll have to feed him...
The thought went through his mind and he almost laughed out loud. Turning, he gestured.
"Come. You are just in time for supper," he said, vanquishing the ghost of a memory of other times.
Frodo smiled and walked past him, through the round door of the little house on the hill. Aragorn grinned and shook his head as he bent and entered the house himself. Once inside, the door closed and all was the same as it was before he came.
For now.
Far away, in another time...
It was very late when they arrived, the smell of wet earth permeating the air. The ride over the mountain had been long and difficult and all that Elrond could think of was food and a soft bed. His party had ridden hard with him, all of them struggling through the mud and early snow of autumn. The meeting in Lorien had been oddly disquieting, the Lord of the Great Wood preoccupied with many thoughts both connected and not to the task at hand.
The Dark Lord had made designs upon the realms of Men and it was in all their interests to do what they could to thwart them. His intentions were clear. He wanted the dominion of the world and all her people and they would be lax in response to their everlasting peril.
He, himself had spent hours in conversation with Celeborn and his lady, Galadriel, the lovely woman listening quietly and offering small but precise commentary here and there. He had done his best to outline the quandary they faced as a whole. They had not demurred in their support. Lothlorien was a valiant partner in the security of all concerned. But they were preoccupied.
He had not inquired. He had merely cataloged their emotional distraction for further rumination when he had both time and energy to consider it in full. As it was, he had pondered it during the ride back to Imladris but had come to no conclusions. They were obviously absorbed in matters of a private nature and he had filed it away in the 'unresolved but not vitally important' section of his formidable intellect.
The stay had been welcoming, the people of the great wood famous for their hospitality. The beautiful trees and the breath-taking city had been a welcomed sight to him in his long journey there. It was certainly a better place to start than Mirkwood, the fastness of his counterpart among the woodland elves of that redoubtable place. Thranduil, the son of the lord of that land was someone with whom he had little in common. There was much bitterness in the aftermath of other, more terrible days and he did his best to minimize contact with the haughty and beautiful son of Oropher. Thranduil, on the other hand, went out of his way to make contact with Elrond, taunting him in the brilliantly polite method of social warfare that their kind sometimes excelled in. It didn't make a lot of sense, this continual aggression from the golden son of the King of the Wood but Thranduil persisted and Elrond met it with polite but limited rebuttal.
Oropher, on the other hand, even with his evident distaste clear on his face, made great effort to ensure that the strict code of hospitality that governed their people was met to the last and smallest degree. It made for spectacular comfort of the body but the strain to the spirit was daunting. Oropher was a magnificently handsome man, a blond with a gaze that could pierce metal. Elrond felt the intensity of that personage's scrutiny long after the contact was broken. It was distracting and unnerving, the unwavering eyes of the Mirkwood king. The mind games engaged in by both elves obviously served some purpose between them but he minimized his participation. He had no wish to deepen whatever drove them to such lengths of coldness and strife . Too much was at stake between all of them.
These were troubled times, he considered as he reached his chambers. The tensions in all the elf lands were to be expected. Many among them remembered worse, he thought, stripping his clothing off and walking to his bathing chamber. Making a bath for himself to soak in, soothing warmth occupied his body even as thoughts of others occupied his mind.
He was the herald of the High King of the Noldor people. He was the right arm and keen insight for the sixth elf to hold that distinction. He was the analytical left brain to the sparkling, dazzling force of nature that Gil-galad of Lindon represented in the current game of survive or die they were engaged in with the Shadow. Between them, they compromised the force that by sheer intellect and will was keeping doom from overtaking all of them.
The strain was evident continuously but he found it easier to bear when the great bear of a man was here with him. He sighed and sat back in the water, his long dark hair trailing into it, plastering itself against his strong shoulders and neck. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the sensations and then he sighed again. There was no advantage to bathing alone. He smiled. That random thought might be true but it was distracting. He quashed it. Mostly.
Memories of other moments like this slipped in unbidden, visions of strong arms wrapped around him, of a low rumbling chuckle shaking his body as he leaned into it, of hands calloused and strong, yet capable of intense tenderness drifting slowly over his chest... they came to him now. He gave into them, the muscle memory of love overtaking him in his fatigue and he felt less lonely.
The King would be coming in a day or two. They would discuss what he had learned in his journeys and make plans for defense accordingly. Also, laced into the days that would come would be the private side of their relationship. He would serve his king as he did from the moment they had understood the strange attraction that had drawn them together in the first place. He would give to his king all that he required and find in the doing of it, all that he desired.
His lord couldn't arrive too soon, he considered, trailing water over his chest, the bright droplets sparkling in the flickering light of candles. On the nearby terrace, moonlight trailed silver streams through the dark trees and the sound of waterfalls gave counterpoint to the far away howls of night animals. It was peaceful and he was content. The only thing better would be the warmth of his king surrounding him. Soon, he considered.
Soon.
Imladris...
"You seem much lighter of spirit," Elrond said, noting Glorfindel as he walked into the room, a tray of tea things in his hands.
Glorfindel sat the tray on a table and turned, grinning slightly. "Each day is a new dawn of hope, my lord. If there is nothing learned in all my travails but that, then I am indeed a wise man."
"You are," Elrond said, grinning. He took a cup and blew on it, the pungent odor reflective of mint and summer time. "Your rest was undisturbed by nightmare, I can attest to that."
"Ah, the famous second opinion," Glorfindel quipped, sitting on a chair, cup in hand. "I slept well, my lord."
Elrond smiled, a slight blush rising in his cheeks in spite of their years and closeness.
"You blush like a maiden," Glorfindel replied, grinning. "I am ever amazed at you. For all your life and years, there can still be embarrassment raised in you by the odd stray comment."
Elrond sat, setting his cup down on a small table. He gazed at his friend. "I have dreams now too."
"What sort of dreams?" Glorfindel asked.
"Dreams of other times and other places. I am dreaming of my king of late. I don't know why that is so. I have made the middle path with that painful loss. I only see him when I summon him from the sacred place in my heart where he lives on."
Glorfindel nodded. "He lives elsewhere, Elrond. We are blessed in the assured knowing of that simple truth."
Elrond nodded. "I don't know sometimes whether that is a thing of comfort or torment. He exists some place and I know he is safe and in a good place. But I am here and he is not. Sometimes I awaken and sense something in my muscles, some touch that is so real I can feel it. I think sometimes it is worse to know with surety that he is in an actual place, existing, than in assuming he is and not really knowing."
"You would be as a man, then?" Glorfindel replied.
"I am, to some degree. Sometimes I feel it, the crush of mortality and their frailty."
"You still have not resolved your ire over Isildur," Glorfindel observed.
Elrond glanced at him sharply. "I never shall. I cannot because that weakness, that stray moment will come back and haunt us again."
"What if it has already?" Glorfindel posited. "What if it is reaching out to us now and the very elder among us, you and I for example, are feeling it? What say you to that?"
Elrond shrugged slightly. "It would explain your disquiet. Do you feel a presence?"
"I do," Glorfindel replied. "I have a unique advantage over you, my friend. I have been in the blessed realm and I have slipped in and out of death's cold grip. I have seen the demon face-to-face and I know its fiery touch. I feel something amiss in the world and I know not what to say or do about it. Something is out of sync and we shall feel its cold steel sooner rather than later."
Elrond felt icy fingers of anxiety born of similar thoughts penetrate him, crawling up his spine as he considered Glorfindel's words. "I hope you are wrong, my friend, though my heart tells me that is not likely."
Glorfindel sighed. "I hope I am wrong too but my heart counsels me even as my intellect searches through the sensations for a coherent thought."
It was silent a moment.
"When will Mithrandir be returning to our doors?" Glorfindel asked, his voice soft and whispered.
"Not soon enough, perhaps," Elrond replied, staring into the cup in his hand as if it had answers to his questions.
Glorfindel rose and walked to him, leaning down and kissing him on the lips. "I didn't mean to drive harmony from your day. I could be completely wrong about what I feel. I have not been myself of late."
"Perhaps," Elrond replied, smiling. "However, you have never been wrong yet, my brannon. I can't imagine that you are now."
"Pray to Elbereth that I am, peneth-nin. I do," he replied, turning and walking out the door.
Elrond sat a moment, considering the complex moods of his lover. For over a month Glorfindel had been struggling with a depression that lifted but for hours before descending once more. Night was a struggle, the intercession of difficult dreams and remembered days of suffering from the past intruding. Even sleeping with him, touching and loving him did little to assuage the misery of his torment.
Gandalf might help, he considered. Even if he, Elrond was the greatest healer in the known world, Gandalf would know more. He resolved to breach this private thing with the Istari when he arrived in the next few days. Turning, he returned to the matters at hand.
The Shire...
"More tea?"
Aragorn shook his head, smiling at the fussy little man that was granting hospitality to him in such a fabled hobbit manner. He was filled with good food and the warmth of the fire was welcomed as his cloak hung nearby, drying. Frodo sat across from him, sipping his own tea, his blue eyes fastened upon the tall man with intensity. Bilbo sat and they stared at each other.
"Frodo has told me of Farmer Bartlebury's story of murder on the highway. What can you add, Mr. Baggins? I would imagine you would be a man with his finger on the pulse of things in these parts."
Bilbo grinned, gazing at Aragorn with amusement. The human's soft voice was intriguing, the hint of a vast education peeking through the careful veil that this man had drawn around himself. He, Bilbo, was a very learned hobbit and he considered the potential for stimulating conversation with this one very high. If he could ever get him to come out into the open, that is. That had a low probability, he considered. Low, indeed.
"I have heard many strange things, my friend. The world is awash in oddities."
"Such as?" Aragorn asked.
"Master Strider, I have heard that dark riders move around the countryside searching for something that they will do anything to take. What that is, however, I know not. Such is the scant news I have heard."
"This murder, that one that Farmer Bartlebury overheard... it wasn't surrounded by any unusual circumstances, was it?" Aragorn asked.
Bilbo considered his question for a moment. "No one saw anything unusual or out of place." He paused. "There were no sightings of dark riders or winged murderers. It was just an event that transpired in the middle of our little perfect world here in the Shire. That in and of itself makes it unusual. Even if we indeed are a peaceful people, something evil could steal in and did."
Aragorn nodded, sighing. "You have a safe life because many work out of sight to make it so."
"So it has been said, however, I would say that your kind is not welcome in our little neck of the woods." Bilbo cleared his throat when he noted Aragorn's consternation. "That's the general consensus of my rather stodgy and unwordly compatriots. It is not my own personal thoughts on the subject."
Aragorn nodded. "A lot of people make it safe for you. I cannot expect you to know or even appreciate that. But it is a fact."
Bilbo nodded. "I have seen men on the edge of the Shire and I have seen and talked to trooping elves crossing the wilderness toward the sea."
"I haven't," Frodo said with a sigh. "You have all the adventures."
Aragorn smiled and then paused, turning his head as if to listen. For a moment there was no sound and then he rose, pulling his sword from its scabbard. Turning to the hobbits, he gestured for them to be silent. Pointing to the kitchen, he gestured for them to both move swiftly and they did, alarm on their faces. Moving back against the wall, they turned and watched as the big man stood in the middle of the house, sword and long knife in hand, listening. As they watched him, Bilbo and Frodo heard footsteps outside, heavy ones heading toward the house.
A figure moved past the window, its silhouette flashing past and then more followed. Bilbo reached behind him and picked up a knife, staring with terror and determination at the man poised nearby. Behind him, stunned at the turn of events, Frodo Baggins stood in appalled and terrified silence.
In the White City...
Boromir paced back and forth in his chambers, the dream that had come to him in the early morning hours lingering in his mind. It had been vivid and straightforward. It had also been the third night in a row that he had it come to him in the same fashion. Pausing, he stared into the fire, the images coming to him once again...
"Boromir!"
He heard his father calling to him but he didn't know where he was. His father sounded frail, tired and frightened. Boromir was standing on a grassy plain, the wind moaning softly as the sound of his father carried to him. He moved toward a tree, one in the distance but no matter how much he traveled, it never got any closer. It was a white tree, one that was very tall and he knew it meant something to him but he couldn't tell what it was. Always in the dream, the tree burst into flames and disappeared into a pile of ashes that would blow into his face. He would sputter and brush them away, aggravated frustration rising in him as he struggled.
He would call but his voice didn't carry past his thoughts. There was no sound emanating from his mouth. He would rush forward, running faster and faster toward the sound of his father's voice but he would never find him. He passed strange tableaus, small people and elves... he recognized elves, but he didn't know who they were. He would pass them and rush on, each of the visions turning to him as he did and he could see them laughing at him.
The terror of the laughter, the derision that he received would awake him and he would sit up in his bed, drenching in sweat, his chest heaving. Then sleep would be impossible, fleeing him for the rest of the night. He was fatigued and getting worse but he didn't tell anyone. He did feel the need to find someone who could help him, someone who would interpret his visions.
There would be no one in the realms of men that could do that. Only one person was considered wise enough. Elrond of Imladris was the person he would have to see about the terrors that filled his mind. He would have to go to see him and he made a decision in his mind to leave when the light was strong enough. It would take a long time to reach the western lands but he had no choice. He had to know what it all meant.
Resolved, he sighed with relief. He had a plan now and that was a help. Perhaps the great Lord of Imladis would be able to give him peace. Sitting before the fire, he closed his eyes to rest. It would be half the night before he could leave for Rivendell.
Near Bree, moving through the back country...
They rode silently, one after the other and stayed out of sight. Elves traveled often in the wilderness and they, themselves, had met a couple of parties out hunting. The news was always the same. Orcs were moving about in the back country of the Shire, always heading toward the west. Elladan had considered the lay of the land, terrain he knew as well as any Ranger and had decided that the focus of the enemy was trained on the land of the halflings.
They moved on, riding through rain and darkness, ever moving toward the hapless little land beyond the mountains. They would get there in a day or so, given any encounters along the way, and then they would be close enough, he hoped, to see what the beasts had in mind. It couldn't be good, he mused, pulling the hood of his cloak closer to his face. The steady drip of water complimented his mood of growing disquiet as they continued on through the foggy countryside, ever moving west toward the Shire.
Far away, in another time...
They crested a hill, gazing down into the rolling plain before them. Dotted all over it were the unique homesteads of the people known as hobbits, lights twinkling here and there as the sun began to set. They sat upon their horses, their keen eyesight roving over the landscape as they searched for the direction massing sets of footprints had taken on their westward tramp.
It appeared to Elladan that orcs were moving swiftly through the country, seeming to be converging upon a singular place. He stood up in his stirrups, peering farther afield and then he saw it, a strange light flickering in the darkness nearby putting form to his unease. He glanced at his companions, pausing to turn his horse around. "There's a fire nearby. We'd better go see to it."
They nodded and together as one, they spurred their horses forward. The wet grass muffled their horse's hooves as they galloped through the night, moving as swiftly as they dared toward a house set into a hillside. A winding road wove past it and they paused at the top of the hill near to it, looking with concern. A small group was congregated in front of the place, watching as flames licked out of windows, sending illuminated sparks high into the darkening sky. Spurring his horse forward, Elladan rode boldly forward, halting just before the crowd of surprised hobbits that turned and looked at them, cries of alarm filling the air.
"What do you want?" a stout fellow cried out, standing before cowering children and women.
Elladan dismounted and studied the ground, finally turning toward him. "There are orc footprints here."
"They just left, gibbering mobs of them and they are good riddance. They've killed our Bilbo, they did."
Elladan started at the sound of the name and then he saw the small tengwar that was written into the yard post near to the gate. It was the sign of a Ranger, of a particular Ranger dear to his family. Moving past the hobbits, he stepped toward the door and then turned, driven back by the heat. He turned and looked at the crowd.
"Did any of you see whether the inhabitants were killed? Did the orcs carry off anyone?" he asked.
"I didn't see. I don't know," a woman asked, wringing her hands. "I don't know if Frodo or Bilbo got out or not. Nothing has moved since the murderers left."
Elladan stared around in frustration, searching for any clue that might help him. Then he nodded and turned, moving toward his horse and mounting with a light bound. Before he turned, the heavy fellow stepped forward.
"What is this? Why would the elves care about this?" he asked.
Elladan looked at him, shaking his head. "Why, indeed," he whispered, turning his horse and spurring his flanks. With a flourish, the party turned and disappeared into the darkness, the sound of their horses' hooves fading in the light rain that fell. The hobbits stared, shaken and afraid. Then they turned and watched as the last great beam in the roof of Bag End fell in flames to the floor with a crash.
Imladris...
"It is good to see you again, old friend."
Gandalf smiled and grasped Elrond's outstretched hand. "And it is good to see you too, Elrond of Imladris."
Elrond smiled and the two turned, walking into the foyer of the great house. Coming down the stairs, smiles on their faces, Glorfindel and Erestor greeted him as well. They stood together, exchanging pleasantries and then they turned, walking into the Great Hall of Fire where the fireplace was kept burning day and night. Sitting on chairs, a small glass of miruvur in hand, Gandalf sighed in contentment.
"Allow me a moment to feel well and relaxed before the woes of this world are spun between us."
Elrond smiled. "A moment is a small measure. I would think you would like food and drink and a good soft bed. I wager you have come from faraway lands."
"You would wager right, Lord Elrond," Gandalf said, draining his glass. "Most excellent. Your skills as a vintner are only exceeded by your hospitality to old friends."
Glorfindel chuckled. "You appear to be in good spirits this journey, Mithrandir. What good tales do you have to regale us with?"
"Many are the tales, Lord Glorfindel. Though I am sure none of them as stirring as those of your own gallant life. I do bring word that there is much orc activity in and around Isengard."
Elrond frowned. "Saruman... what means this, Gandalf?"
"I believe that Saruman is no longer on the side of light."
For a moment it was quiet.
"This is bad news," Glorfindel mused, rubbing his chin with his fingers. "This would be a blow to our general security to have a traitor in the middle lands between men and elves."
"It would," Gandalf agreed. "Saruman was once a great man with skills and powers beyond my own. He is the greatest of my order."
"And a dangerous foe, if what you say proves true," Elrond replied.
"It is true, all right. Orcs, lesser and greater, have been issuing from his tower both day and night for weeks now. I have seen it with my own eyes. He is not aware that I know of his actions. I am studying them for clues as to what his designs are. I am fearful for us all that he would be so brazen and bold."
"The Dark Lord... he is in league with Sauron?" Elrond asked, ignoring the frowns on the faces of his comrades at the mere mention of that name in Imladris.
"It would follow," Gandalf agreed. "I do not see him being independent of the evil one. He has studied the dark lord for years and I fear that in the doing of this thing, he has been ensnared himself."
Elrond stood up and walked to the table, putting his glass upon it. He stood a moment in silence and turned, considering his companions. "Let us try and figure out what it is he seeks, beyond the obvious desires of power and control. What would have made him do this so brazenly? What does he seek?"
Even as he spoke, the answer suggested itself to all. Gandalf stared at the fire. "It might have been found."
"The One Ring," Glorfindel said, his voice a whisper. "There were rumors... there were stories abounding but no one saw it nor did they have a place for it to be found."
"It would be enough," Erestor said, glancing at Gandalf. "If Saruman wanted to rule with absolute power, what better tool to use than the One Ring that can control us all."
It was silent a moment and then Gandalf rose. "There is one story that has held the most promise of where the Ring could be." He turned and looked at the three ageless and beautiful men as they waited for him to speak, the stillness stifling in the silent room. "I have heard told that it is in the Shire."
Near the Shire...
His head pounded furiously as he bounced along, bound hand and foot with leather straps and draped over the shoulder of someone big and smelly. He didn't really remember what had happened, the blur of violence and flashing light too muddled for him to sort out. He just wanted to vomit. The gorge rose in his throat and then he did. A cry of guttural rage surrounded him and then he fell onto the ground, landing with a bone-jarring thud. He groaned and rolled over, vomiting once more as a foot kicked him in the midsection.
Frodo cried out, coughing as he choked and then blessed darkness came over him. Sprawled face-first in the wet mud, his hands tied before him, Aragorn stared at the little halfling through bleary eyes. He had been overpowered, his body thrashed and gashed with cuts. He had been bound by the hand and pulled by a rope, running as best he could with the Uruk-Hai that had taken them prisoner at the hobbit's home.
They had been dragged out into the yard by quarreling orcs and the house torched in an orgy of pointless vandalism. Screaming and shouting, they then picked up Frodo and tugged him to his feet, moving off into the night as fast as they came. He hurried along, unable to do anything else and as he did, he wondered where Bilbo was. If he was lucky, he considered, the hobbit was dead and out of his misery. The two of hem weren't going to be that lucky.
In the White City...
"You just got here."
Boromir glanced at his father, the fatigue and fear that animated his tired face clear to be seen. Boromir turned to him, pausing as he filled his saddle bag. "Father... I have to do this. Something in my dreams is seeking me and I have to know what it is saying. If I don't go to Rivendell, I will never know. What if someone or something is trying to warn me of a fate that might harm our people? What kind of leader would I be if I didn't seek an answer from the Wise?"
Denethor sighed and sat down, his pale and haggard face filled with resignation. "Then do not tarry. I need you here."
"You have Faramir," Boromir replied gently. "You must trust him more, Father. He is growing into a fine man."
"You are my heir," Denethor said, looking at Boromir with anxious eyes. "I have come to depend upon you."
"Then you must depend upon Faramir while I am not here," Boromir said, squeezing his father's shoulder. "I must go. I will hurry."
Denethor nodded and watched as Boromir gathered his things, moving toward the door where he paused, turning and gazing upon him as he did. "I will not let you down, Father. Believe me."
Denethor nodded and sighed. Boromir, a strained look on his face, turned and walked out of the room. Faramir, waiting out in the hall for him, rose and walked beside him toward the staircase and courtyard beyond.
"Take care of Father," Boromir said, glancing at his brother. "I fear for him."
"I will take care of him, Boromir," Faramir replied, giving Boromir a leg up on his horse. "Take care in the wilderness and come home soon."
"I will," Boromir said, a smile flickering across his pale and worried features. "Farewell."
"Farewell," Faramir replied, watching as the big man rode out the gate and onto the winding road beyond. For a moment, he stood in the sun, absorbing the warmth, and then he turned and walked into the palace once more.
Isengard...
He stood in the dark room that was the heart of his home. The pilantir had informed him of the Dark Lord's designs. He wanted to assert himself again once the Ring was in his possession. Find the ring, he demanded. Find the Ring and let him have it once again. A simple task, he appeared to believe and one that Saruman struggled to complete.
He had searched the world, sending emissaries, using the Elf seeing stone that was his alone, and using every ounce of intimidation, persuasion and bribery at his disposal to find that small glittering key that would unlock the world to him and him alone. Sauron felt it but he couldn't place it, his disembodied state cutting down the amount and kinds of sensations he could employ. The longing and neediness was there and so were powerful emotions like hate, desire and greed. The lighter touch, the rational side of thinking and acting were more elusive and so he depended upon Saruman to be his body in the real, solid world.
"Find the Ring. Bring it to me. Send into the world all that you need, all that you must. Find it and bring it. Find it!"
Saruman had sensed the fatal weakness in the monster at that moment, his disability if that can be said and knew in a flash that he could prevail if he was careful and brutal enough in his focus. He knew that he could do that. It was as if all his life had come to this moment.
He turned and walked through the big doors to the stairway beyond. Going down the winding steps, he entered one of many subterranean rooms below and in the flickering light of a fire, he saw the one he had come to find. Lurtz was there, his terrible beauty Saruman's personal magnum opus, and he often came to admire him once more. Elves were his forebears, Elves and goblins. He was sure that few if any Elves would find Lurtz beautiful but he did.
The big demonic creature stood up and watched him, utter devotion glittering in his dark eyes. Saruman was his control, his father, his mentor. He would do anything that the Istari demanded of him and do it without a thought or care about himself or anyone else. All that mattered was obedience to the will of his master.
Saruman considered the figure standing before him, the brutal sculpture of his body and the fierce animalistic cast to his face. His teeth were jagged, like his persona and if they bit you, it was terrifyingly painful. If the big monster hurt you in any way, it was terrifying. And it would be fatal. That much was etched in every smooth curve and powerful movement.
Knowing that, flirting with the void that Lurtz represented, Saruman reached out over and over, moving around the beast and flaunting himself before the flame of potential destruction. He enjoyed it in a way he had never felt for anything else before. It excited him, this beast cast from the earth and given to him alone. Lurtz had come out of his imagination in response to the demands of Sauron. The Dark Lord wanted an army worthy of him. He had created it. But he had kept the control and possession of the beast his own. No one would have dominion over the Uruk-Hai born here but him. Sauron wouldn't. He would. That was the first step of independence he had taken. He had transformed a demand by his master into a triumph of his own will.
Walking around Lurtz, looking at him as he did, feelings rose in him, intensely powerful feelings, sexual in nature. He stopped and rested his hand on the monster's back, slowly sliding it over the mass of muscles bunched on the broad back. Down his hand went, rounding the powerful ass of his creation where it paused. He could feel the chaos Lurtz kept under tight control and it both exhilarated and terrified him.
This beast was his, all of him... his entire being. He touched the smooth skin of the monster's body and found desire rising in him. He had stepped away from the light and found himself flirting with things that were once impossible to his mind before. He wanted them, all of them and so he came here, facing the one thing that filled him with a sensation he had never thought would be his. Together they would do things, ever under his direction and when he walked back upstairs, he was relieved and refreshed in a way he had never known. He craved it, this release, and so he kept Lurtz close.
He turned and put his outer robe on a chair nearby, taking a huge cleansing breath as he did. Lurtz growled behind him, his dark eyes looking at Saruman with intensity. Powerful feelings of his own were beginning to rise again and he waited with barely contained enthusiasm. Saruman dropped the girdle that encircled his waist and smiled. With a sigh, he reached for the fasteners at his throat, his mind filled with images unthinkable in other times. It would be a long, intense afternoon.
On the road...
They followed the footsteps, traveling quietly, their dark eyes watching the ground. Elladan counted many, too many to make an assault against. They would follow the troop and try and ascertain where they were going. That would be all they could do until they could get reinforcements. The prisoners, of this fact they were certain, would have to endure for now. Elladan's eyes never left the road ahead as they picked their way through the rain-filled grasslands on the road to the wilderness beyond.
In another time, far away...
He came in, tossing his robe to one side along with all his other travel garb. Turning, he smiled, noting the figure standing in the doorway of the Great Hall. For a moment they just stared, impossibly pleased expressions on their faces. Then Gil-galad moved closer, following the figure of his herald as he climbed the stairs beyond. A long hall carried their muffled footsteps as they walked to the far chambers, entering and closing the door behind them.
Elrond paused, scrutinizing the bemused face of his lord and king and when Gil-galad gripped his arm, he moved toward him, his heart racing with desire. In the space of seconds, Elrond was enveloped with a warmth and strength that he had come to crave, the press of lips and body, hard muscles meeting hard muscles casting the breath from his body. He kissed his lover back, his cares burning away in the moment of passion he had longed for all day.
Then his lover stepped back, turning and walking to the bed. He sat with a bounce, grinning at the surprised and exasperated expression on Elrond's face. He reached down and began to pull off his boots. Elrond, shaking off his ennui, walked over and took a foot, tugging a boot off with effort.
"Your feet either have swollen from your travels, my Lord, or you need bigger boots."
Gil-galad chuckled, leaning back on his elbows. "You are fetching tonight, my treasured one. I like the way the light brings out the frustration in your eyes."
"You come in and possess me, taking from me what I long to give you and then you turn away, tarrying with your boots," Elrond chided, pulling off the other boot. "You expect to see anything less?"
"I expect to see you on your knees, melme," Gil-galad purred, watching as Elrond paused. He saw his partner's breath catch, his tongue lick suddenly dry lips and then slowly and deliberately, his eyes never leaving Gil-galad's, Elrond knelt between Gil-galad's powerful legs.
"What else do you expect to see, my Lord?" Elrond asked, his throat tight with emotion.
"Show me," Gil-galad said, his voice barely audible.
For a moment, Elrond couldn't move, so transfixed by the dark-eyed gaze of his lover was he and then he slid his hands up muscular thighs, moving to the fasteners that held his lord's garments in place. He leaned in and pressed his face against Gil-galad's chest, closing his eyes as he inhaled the fragrance of his manly essence. Gil-galad's arms surrounded him as his lips nuzzled Elrond's hair.
"You desire to smell me? I have been all day in the saddle," the king chided gently.
"You smell of home to me, my king," Elrond said, sighing. He sat back, his hands resting lightly on Gil-galad's hips. "You wish me to be yours now?"
It was soft, a breathy whisper and Gil-galad felt his heart skip a beat. He nodded and sat quietly as Elrond unfastened the ties that held his breeches in place. He rose slightly, allowing Elrond to tug them down, shoving them into a pool at his feet. Strong hands pulled Gil-galad's tunic apart and the silver shirt beneath, baring a muscular abdomen and a smooth chest, scarred here and there from conflicts long past.
Elrond paused, staring at the splendid beauty of his lover's body and when he bent down, taking into his mouth all that was his to possess, he heard the sigh of pleasure his lover gave around the roar of blood in his own ears. Strong hands held his head, guiding him in a rhythm that would make short work of their interlude. When he was rewarded with the essence of his lover, he felt a tidal wave of emotion flash through him.
Gil-galad stared at Elrond, at his flushed face and his smoldering eyes. Pulling him close to his body, he smiled as he brushed his lips against Elrond's, stilling him with a single touch of his tongue. "I want you beside me. I want to feel your body against me. I have ridden a long way to hold you, melme. I want you without interruption tonight."
Elrond nodded, swallowing hard. He would remain at the side of his king, caring for him and loving him through the long night before them. Only in the morning, when they were well and truly satiated would the hard realities of the world be allowed to intrude into their private world.
Far away, staring into a pool of water, Galadriel of Lothlorien, watched them as they moved together. She sighed and looked at the sky, at the same stars that shown down on Gil-galad's bed as well. She thought about her vision, at the intimacy between the two and the vision that she had seen of the future. Turning away, she walked up the steps to the house where she lived with her husband and only daughter.
Celebrian, the stars and light of her life... she would see to her comfort this night. The rest could wait until another time. As silent as a swan, she glided away into the darkness and the glade was empty once more.
In the Shire...
The steady drip of water fell in the pool where it lay, shining brightly against the ash that littered the floor. The house had burned and all within it was destroyed. All but for it. As the hunched figure nearby picked through the rubble, it gave its clarion call, willing the dark and huddled creature to come for it.
Pausing, turning toward it slowly, a ravaged face peered out of a singed hood, bandages -makeshift and ragged- covering reddened skin, swathing its full horror in dull gray. Maddened by pain and pulled by the demands of the Ring in the pool, a ravaged hand reached down and picked it up. As it did, a voice called out.
"YOU! YOU THERE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!?"
Sam Gamgee watched a figure hobble away into the bushes, scared off by his shouting. He stood grief-stricken in the burned out wreckage of his friend's house and decided against chasing whatever it was that had been there poking about. He was too sorrowful and he still had more to search as he looked for the remains of his friends.
And that is how Bilbo Baggins got his ring back and began the last great adventure of his life.
On the trail...
They had spotted the group moving across country, noting that the prisoners, two in number, were still alive. Elladan quashed a rash urge to intervene as he led their pursuit with skill. Aragorn was moving with the group, his injuries obviously not life threatening. The halfling was being carried like a sack of flour and his condition was hard to ascertain.
They moved in relation to the group, a member of their party already well on his way to get help. The rain was falling and the going was miserable but even as he rode along, he knew his lot was infinitely better than that of the two prisoners ahead of them.
Rivendell...
He stood at the doorway of his room, watching as a bird sat on the rail of his balcony. His sister was nearby, he could hear her singing and he smiled as she appeared in view.
"Good morrow," he said, bending down to receive a kiss on the cheek. "You appear to be very happy."
"I am," she said. Tugging his hand, she slipped into his room and pulled him to sit beside her on a divan. Smiling broadly, she sighed. "Can you keep a secret?"
He nodded, bemused by her enthusiasm. "Of the two of us, my brother and I, it is clear that I can."
She considered his words and smiled. "I'm in love with someone and I have made my decision about my heart."
He smiled, caught by surprise. "You hide your intentions very well, Arwen. Does this person return them?"
She smiled, squeezing his hand. "I have to... hide them, that is. Father wouldn't approve if he knew. And yes... he returns my feelings."
The smile faded from Elrohir's face. "Why would Father disapprove? Is he a bad person?"
"No," she said, smiling slightly. "He is the best person I know. He's handsome... he's wise and good, a strong and kingly soul... and someone to be reckoned with, Elrohir. Goodness sits on his brow and he is gallant in the best ways of men."
"Men?" Elrohir asked, the smile gone from his face. "He is a man?"
She nodded. "I must ask you to promise not to tell anyone. I had to share this with someone. Please... promise."
He nodded. "I promise. Who is this person?"
She smiled, her happiness rivaling the sun in splendor. "Elessar."
For a moment, for a single instance, the world stood still, made mute by the pain that pierced his heart. It was a dagger that penetrated deep within, cutting and slashing its way to the core of his being and then it passed, numbness entering his spirit as he stared at his sister. She was talking but he didn't hear. She was happy but he was numb. Nothing penetrated the veil of red that fell over his heart.
"Elrohir?" she finally asked, staring at his pale face and half-shuttered eyes. "Are you all right?"
He sat, unhearing, as the river flowed by. He had no words to speak.
In a forest cave near the Shire...
He lay on the cold earth, the water that trickled in through the opening near to him soothing. His burns were relentless and he felt a desperation from the pain that he had never felt before. It was constant and he felt himself falling in and out of consciousness as he lay in the shallow puddle that surrounded him.
The Ring was in his hand, clutched by burned fingers and he could feel it reaching out to him, feeding on his tormented psyche. He had come back for it, having crawled into the bushes behind his home during the attack. The fire had been horrific and he had tried to find Frodo in it, burning his hands and face in the process. He was in a bad way but somehow he didn't feel that his life was endangered. The Ring would keep him alive. This he knew from a gut level.
He sighed, closing his eyes as he lay in the cool water. It would be dark again and he would run away. Where he was going, he only had a slight idea. Maybe he would go east, heading toward Mordor. He could hide there, he thought in his weakened mind.
He could hide there and no one would find him.
The soft sound of water dripping was small counterpoint to his labored breathing as Bilbo Baggins lay face down in agony in the cave.
Imladris...
He stood on the balcony, his books forgotten. His sister had been concerned about him but he had demurred, telling her that his studies and writing had made him feel tired. She had looked at him, considering his words and then she nodded, so wrapped in her own happiness at sharing her good fortune that she accepted his words at face value.
She talked on, telling of her growing passion that was finally reciprocated by the quiet man that had grown up in their family as another son to their father. He had come to love Aragorn as well, finding in his company a focus for intense passions and mutual interests. She had no idea that Elrohir loved Aragorn equally passionately.
How could she, he considered? How could Aragorn know? He had never had the courage to say anything, instead relying on the contentment of their friendship to tell to the tall handsome human what he found so difficult to say with his lips. He made time to be with Aragorn, spending hours in conversation with him... walking with him, riding into the wilderness with him... in short, courting him without saying so out loud. Of course, now it was clear that this had been folly. His sister was madly in love with the Dunedain and he was on the outside, alienated from the one he sought, as she had told him of Aragorn's returned affections. He loved her too, she had said. Aragorn loved her.
Elrohir sighed painfully, rubbing his chest with his hands. Was it possible to die of sorrow? He had heard that is was among their kind. He wondered if this hollowness, the emptiness that filled him, were the first footfalls on the path that led to the Halls of Mandos.
"You look pale," a voice said, emanating somewhere from behind him.
Elrohir turned, glancing with a blush at Glorfindel. The tall elf stared at the youngster, recognizing the pain of anguish in his beautiful features.
"What is wrong, Elrohir?" he asked, closing the distance between them.
"Nothing, my Lord," Elrohir lied, turning and facing the river once more. "I just feel..."
"Broken hearted?" Glorfindel suggested, turning and leaning against the balcony.
Elrohir glanced sharply at him. "I am not sure what you mean, my Lord."
"Do you? It is as clear to me as can be, this sorrow that clings to you like a haze."
Elrohir stood silently, his face flashing through a tumult of emotions. "You must have me confused with someone else."
"Do I?" Glorfindel reached out and gripped Elrohir's arm gently, rising and tugging him to follow. The younger elf reluctantly did, the two walking down the winding staircase to the river's edge below. It was cold and they stood quietly, watching the sun shining weakly through the thick but broken clouds. Glorfindel sighed deeply. "You look as you did when your brother took your best toy away from you."
Elrohir moved to sit dejectedly upon a bench nearby, folding his hands in his lap. "I feel that way, Master. I feel unlike I've ever felt before, infinitely more wretched indeed."
Glorfindel looked at him, considering his sad demeanor. "I wager that this is an affair of the heart then..."
"It doesn't matter." It was silent a long time and then Elrohir looked up with anguished eyes. "Can you keep a secret, my Lord? A secret between us?"
"If it doesn't abet harm to you, my young one," Glorfindel said, sitting beside the sad young man.
Elrohir sat a long time without speaking and then he sighed. "I have lost my heart to someone who will never love me, to someone who will never even know that I am theirs but for a single word."
Glorfindel sighed, slipping his arm around the youngster. Elrohir rubbed his eyes and leaned against Glorfindel, finding comfort in his simple gesture.
"You didn't tell them, did you."
Elrohir shook his head. "I didn't know how. I'm not like Elladan or Arwen. I can't say what is in my heart. It sticks in my throat and I could strangle on the longing but it doesn't pass my lips."
Glorfindel nodded. "I know. I had the same problem once but I was thwarted by the dangers to our people. I have never married and I don't know that I shall. My duty lies to your father and to you children."
"You should marry, Master," Elrohir replied, settling closer to his mentor. "Or at least have someone to love you. It is so terrible being alone."
Glorfindel smiled, kissing Elrohir's cheek. "You are young. There will be many others."
"For Elladan, maybe. Not for me. I don't know how to find what I crave, this thing of love... it's a torturous path. I found the one road and now its blocked and it will never be mine to travel again. It hurts..." He paused, swallowing hard as his eyes glistened. "It hurts."
Glorfindel felt a lump form in his throat, painful and large and he squeezed Elrohir's shoulders. "I know, little one," he said with a sigh. "I know."
They sat by the water for a long time.
On the road...
They paused and camped, the steady downpour not bothering the monsters very much. They sat around a sizzling and popping fire, barely kept alive by two very grouchy orcs whose names Aragorn couldn't understand. They rumbled together, the two of them apparently close.
"The human is a dead weight."
"Kill him," the other said. "We could eat him."
"The Master told us to bring anyone we found back in one piece."
"He didn't say anything about that human."
"He said in one piece, unspoiled."
They were quiet a moment, the others in the party arguing and talking together. Aragorn listened and then turned to the hobbit lying on the wet ground nearby. He was unconscious, a big bruise on his face. Aragorn tested his bonds and found them unbreakable, relaxing at the realization to conserve his strength.
"I wonder what he wants them for?"
"You shouldn't wonder. No one asked you to think."
A rage of anger blew up, Two behemoths arose and there was a short and violent interlude that resulted in the eviscerated agonizing death of one orc and the shrill screams of victory of another. The camp erupted in arguments, screaming and fighting before settling down once more. As he watched, Aragorn wondered what it would take to survive in such a dicey atmosphere. It would take a miracle, he concluded, as he willed his body to relax.
Nearby...
Elladan listened to the horror sounds below and made up his mind. They would hunt them the way he liked to, picking them off when one wandered away from the group, 'disappearing' them so that no one in the troop would know that they were dead. Dividing up, he moved with his knives to a place much closer and waited for a break. It wasn't long in coming.
A big orc, tossing away the bones of a deer that had been killed and butchered in the course of their journey, rose and walked to the bushes. He moved out of sight and the group didn't notice his absence. Elladan did, however, and when the orc knelt down, preparing to relieve himself, he struck.
Stepping out of the darkness behind the orc, he flashed his knives in front of the big creature, neatly slicing his throat in one smooth practiced movement. The orc sat thunderstruck for a moment and then clawed at its throat, gurgling almost wordlessly as it fell face forward. It was dead before it hit the ground.
Elladan melted back into the darkness, moving toward the group and a clump of small trees. He crouched and waited, hoping for more luck. By the morning, three orcs would be missing, killed and carted off by the Elves that were stalking them. They wouldn't notice anyone was missing for about an hour. By then, it would be too late to concern themselves with the orcs that were no longer among them. They were too consumed with saving the ones that were.
Imladris...
"Your son has a broken heart."
Elrond stayed his slow downward progress over Glorfindel's chest, raising his face to peer upward at his lover. "Elrohir?"
Glorfindel nodded, moving his legs farther apart. "Yes. He apparently is in love with the same person your daughter is."
Elrond sighed, moving back up to Glorfindel's face once more. He shifted and relaxed alongside his lover, propping himself up on an elbow as he did. His fingers drifted over Glorfindel's chest, lingering on a dark nipple. The older elf sighed and closed his eyes.
"That feels good."
"It's supposed to," Elrond replied. "Elrohir is in sorrow?"
"He is. He loves the same person Arwen loves."
"Aragorn," Elrond said with a sigh. He leaned down and nuzzled Glorfindel's nipple, the tension in its taut circular dimensions almost painful to the older elf. Kissing it gently, Elrond lay back, rubbing his own chest idly with his fingers. "I was not clear who Elrohir felt attraction for. I am sorry for that. Arwen has talked to me about her relationship with Aragorn. I told them both that he would have to have a kingdom before he would have her."
"Reasonable request," Glorfindel replied. He glanced at Elrond, then moved with the litheness of a cat to straddle his body. His golden hair cascaded down his shoulders as he leaned in to kiss Elrond's lips. Strong hands slid up the curve of his pale back, pulling Glorfindel closer. He broke the kiss, sitting back up, sighing as Elrond's hands stroked his legs. They sat quietly a moment. "Elrond, your son is in pain. He is sad beyond words. I am sure he feels the call of Mando's Halls. Such is the suffering of young men in love."
"I would hope not. I will speak with him," Elrond said, a slight twinge of surprise in his voice. "He's a young man caught in the folly of love. All of us endure it. Almost none of us die from it."
"That is amusing coming from you."
For a moment Elrond didn't speak and then he sighed. "You drive the knife deep, my friend."
Glorfindel raised Elrond's hand and kissed it softly, his blue eyes shining in the light of the candles nearby. "You have never spoken of him, my Lord. You have never said his name in my presence since that dreaded day."
"I do not intend to, Glorfindel. The pain is as fresh as the day it happened."
"You must learn to let it go," Glorfindel replied, leaning down as he kissed a soft trail from the center of Elrond's chest to his chin and then his lips. He lingered there, sucking and nibbling until the sigh of his lover signaled his pleasure. He looked into Elrond's eyes, staring at him with a gentle expression. "You tell me, my friend, that I must unburden myself to you but you do not extend the favor to me. I can do more for you than care for and love your body. Your heart and psyche is also of my deepest concern."
"You serve me well, Glorfindel. I don't know that I can ask more of you than I already do. You are an unbroken path backwards to times prior to the beginning of my life and I owe you everything."
Glorfindel stared down at him, sighing. "You are a man of great insight, Elrond. I admire that greatly of you. But you are a man who cannot recognize what is obvious in front of you."
Elrond stared at him, pondering his words and then he reached up and took Glorfindel's face into his hands. His blue eyes, wise and tender, stared at Elrond and then they closed slowly as he leaned forward, his lips brushing Elrond's. Strong arms slipped around him and Glorfindel felt himself on his back, the long body of his lover covering him. Elrond looked at Glorfindel, studying his beauty as he entangled his fingers in the long silken gold of his hair.
"You ask me to tell you things that I haven't even told myself yet. Even after all these years I still expect him to walk through the door and talk to me. I see him in my dreams and I don't know how to bid his ghost goodbye. He comes to me, melme, and I don't know that I have the strength to send him away. The world is so lonely."
Glorfindel sighed, a look of sad understanding crossing his perfect features. "You do not have to tell me, Elrond. I know."
"Are we here like this because there is no one else?" Elrond whispered, kissing Glorfindel's lips gently. He lingered, rubbing his cheek against Glorfindel's, even as he felt fingers wandering around his back, stroking and brushing sensations of pleasure into his tense body. "What do you feel, Glorfindel?" Elrond asked, his voice hushed in the quiet of the room.
"Contentment with you," Glorfindel whispered, raising his legs and wrapping them around Elrond's body. "I feel contentment like this. Love me..."
Elrond sighed and smiled slightly. "You ask so little of me. You ask the easiest thing that I know to do for you."
Glorfindel smiled and gave himself over to Elrond, the movements between them tender and familiar. Elrond would love him, taking him in the soft glow of the candle light. When they were completed, lying entwined together, they would fall into reverie, safe and comforted in the company of the other. Elrond would sleep, Glorfindel knew, and dream of another who he loved before. He would dream of a great king, a masculine and intense force of nature whom he gave his heart to many centuries before. He would dream of their life together, of conversation and joy and love.
Elrond would not reach the end of his memories, this Glorfindel also knew. He was much too disciplined to delve into that ocean of agony and before it would happen, he would will himself to wake up. The dawn would come and he would slip out, disappearing into the house for the start of the day. He, himself, would lie in the bed alone. His own dreams would be the same, the dread of something coming and the haunting evil of another time and place. There would be no lovers in his personal dreamscape, no loving touches and smoldering looks. There would only be the past and some nameless evil that stalked him even yet.
Moving with his lover, his eyes closed and passion pooling in the middle of his gut, he pushed it all out of his mind. That curse would find him. It always did. For now, it was enough to be loved by this man, even if Elrond could not return to him all the hope and emotion that he gave back so completely. It would be enough for now, to be together like this. When they were, it was less lonely for them both.
On the trail...
He made the Ford of the Isen and stared into the distance, aware that the tower of the wizard was nearby. He didn't pause, his mission clear, and spurring his horse, Boromir of Gondor continued onward, heading toward Imladris and an audience with the great Lord Elrond. If anyone could dispel the dread that suffused him and explain what the cryptic symbols in his dreams meant for both him and his people, that Elf could. Tucking his hood around him, he rode on through the rain and gloom, ever heading northward toward the Bruinen Valley and Rivendell.
On the trail...
Aragorn was aware of the missing before the mob of orcs were, noting that there were fewer surrounding him than the day before. When they noticed, they stopped, arguing among themselves violently in the dark language of Mordor. He listened, catching the general drift and knew they were in for a tough trip with invisible attackers making short work of his keepers. He was all in favor of it.
They quarreled, several of them coming to blows before the defacto leader asserted himself, bringing order to chaos once more. They tugged on his ropes and off they went, eyes casting around for danger as they made their way east toward the Isen.
Nearby...
Elladan watched, jogging along with the group as they made for more open land. He was on foot, waiting for any opportunity while his companions rode behind and off to the sides, watching the mob for any chance to make the coming confrontation more equal. His keen eyes missed nothing and he already singled out two more for extermination as they moved swiftly and steadily through the bushes and brush of the wild lands before them.
He was in his element, enjoying the chase with an almost sexual intensity. He never felt more alive than he did when pursuing some evil beast. He would notch points, evening the score for his mother, making some small dent in the eternity of rage and sorrow that stretched before him. They had hurt her, his lovely mother. The idea of it spurred him on. They had reached out to her and touched her, making her feel so much pain and anguish that she left him behind.
He would never be able to sort that out, the idea that his beautiful, sweet and loving mother could leave him behind, never to see him again. It was worse than the death that mortals suffered. She was alive some place else, living every day in a world where he could never come. He had no plans to leave Middle Earth, not for a long time and maybe never. The pull of this place was too powerful. The lure of his mother in paradise only made him suffer. It didn't make up his mind for him, to leave and join her. It made only it worse, the decision before him. For this alone, he would hunt orcs until they ceased to exist in the world. Maybe after all of that, after all the suffering and exertion, he would find peace in his heart.
Not that far away...
They rode along the stream bed, moving toward the coast with languid speed. He was going to visit friends, traveling in a small group, when the beasts poured from the trees, roaring forward in an ambush designed to kill. They were startled, not expecting to see orcs this far inland and so they milled for a moment, their horses twisting and turning as they reared in fright.
Legolas pulled his bow and fired three arrows before he was dragged from his horse, the others with him giving equal punishment but it was no use. There were too many and they were overwhelmed. The fight was furious but brief and in the end, it was a foregone conclusion.
The dust settled and it was silent for a moment, the cries and screams fading away. All that could be heard was the swift rushing water nearby.
Isengard...
He watched with satisfaction, the actions of his parties as they wove their way around Middle Earth pursuing his goals. They had gone in large packs, led by his most dependable Uruk-Hai commanders. They had penetrated far into elf country, passing by targets that normally in their limited range of intelligence were considered destructible, all the while heading west for their assigned goals. This was an improvement, he considered and he congratulated himself for the cleverness with which he had approached the problem of controlling orcs through to a successful conclusion of a problem.
He smiled, his latest conversation with the frustrated Lord of Mordor still lingering. He had become very adept at shielding his mind from Sauron, the creature's single-minded pursuit of the Ring blinding him to lesser problems that in the end would amount to greater traumas and triumphs. He walked to the door, pausing before the diminishing greensward that was his palace grounds. It was soaked in rain from the night before and the weak sunlight did little to dry out the small pools here and there.
It was cleansing, this rain. It fed the streams that allowed him to work on the task at hand. He was creating orcs, greater and lesser, in profusion, even if it meant the surrounding area would be denuded of trees. That part could be repaired, if he cared enough in another time. He would have his choice of habitations when he got possession of the Ring. His beautiful Uruk-Hai were bringing the halfling who possessed it and another as well. He knew of him, this small creature who held the fate of all in his hands. He had watched him through the pilantir, watching as his band of handmade monsters brought him ever closer. He would have to be very careful now, careful not to let his nominal master know of his designs and machinations. If Sauron did find out, there wouldn't be anything left of him in the conflagration that would follow.
He sighed, considering what he would do if he ruled the world. The first task he would undertake is go to Rivendell and take from the Elves the beautiful spectacular sanctuary of Elrond. Then he would go to Lothlorien, destroying the last Ring of Power that might stand between him and total control of everything and everyone in Middle Earth. The Elves would have to be neutralized. If they could be made servants of his household, taking care of his daily needs, then that would be a bonus item. If they wouldn't agree, then death would be the only option available. He would see to it. With a smile, he turned and walked toward the lower levels of his installation to check on the progress of his creations.
On the trail...
He walked as far as he could, preferring darkness to the daylight. It was colder at night and his pain was lessened by the cool air that surrounded him. The rain made him miserable, even as it soothed his burns. He was afraid of the light, the misery that enveloped him so completely clouding his judgment. Every sound he heard was the enemy coming to kill him and so he clung to the shadows, finding a place to hide during the day and eating what he could find with his own two hands.
The moon couldn't be seen through the thick clouds overhead. Rain drizzled steadily and he was soaked through and through. He had never been so miserable in his life. He had never been so alone. His home was gone, the beautiful house that was his family heartland for so long. He mourned it, the Hobbit love of hearth and home oppressive in his muddle thinking.
The Ring was in his pocket, every present in his thoughts. It thrummed in his brain, driving him forward and he stumbled onward, moving toward the east even as he scoured the ground for anything that might sustain him. He was very hungry, more hungry than he could remember and all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and go to sleep, never to awaken again. Bilbo stumbled onward, his burns aching with every step. It would be a long night until he found a place to lie down and sleep as best he could.
On the road to Isengard...
They hurried onward, burdened down by their new finds. The horses had fled, running away from them in the pandemonium of fighting. It forced them to carry the one elf who wasn't dead. The others had fought valiantly but futilely before dying in the onslaught. It had been unfortunate but a fact that even though they were tough, elves could be killed if the numbers were right.
The one they had taken was well dressed and appeared to be wounded near his right temple. A strong blow from a flat Mordor sword had dropped him and probably ensured that he would survive. They trussed him up and carried him in relays, trading him off to lie over a shoulder every few miles.
As they moved toward Isengard, they brought conflict on the large scale just a little closer to reality. Moving toward Isengard, they scrambled on, unaware that the figure they bore was the son of the King of Mirkwood the Great, Prince Legolas. It would be a long straight road to Saruman and the next phase of his plan.
Lothlorien...
He paced to and fro, waiting for the rider to come. He had sent them here and there, seeking information about the orc incursions that were becoming more and more bold. From the Misty Mountains to the southern edge of his kingdom, Celeborn had tracked the ebb and flow of evil against his lands. They were looking for something, he had gathered. The news of revived interest in the One Ring was disturbing in the extreme, even as it explained to an extent the rising chaos in the land.
The situation was murky, few venturing too far into the borderlands between his kingdom and others. Activity was up, the orcs seen in places they had not been before. Galadriel had seen only oblique images in her pool of reflection. He had come to rely on her prescience but it had been of little help. A dread had suffused them, a faceless and nameless thing. She could tell him no more than that and he therefore was left to fill in the blanks with his own nameless worries.
Could it be that the One Ring had been found? She had felt that fear for a moment before it flashed away. She had told him that events were on the move and that they were out of anyone's control. He had rejected that notion, the idea that they could not protect their kingdom and that of the other free peoples of Middle Earth. They had done it before and they would do it again. But for now, feeling around blindly in the dark, they would have to wait for their messengers.
Waiting was something he was good at. He had done it all his life. But this time, the sense of urgency that haunted him day and night was different. Something very foul was underway and he couldn't define it. That was the part that was the worst thing of all. He, Celeborn of Lothlorien, was truly and well in the dark.
In the wilderness...
He followed, keeping his distance. He could see the elves and he could see the orcs. He knew that getting too close to them would be more danger than he was willing to borrow. The trail of bodies behind him was long and convoluted. The rage that filled him was nearly overwhelming. He had left a bloody trail from one end of Middle Earth to the other. No one knew it was him. He would keep it that way.
It was slow going in the mud as he followed the two groups toward the mountains. It was cold and he was hungry. Whatever he could find, he would eat. If anyone got in his way, he would kill them. If he needed something in his quest, he would take it. At this point, there was nothing between him and the anger. There was no moderating influences of morals, ethics and compassion. That was gone forever. It was burned out in the trail of bodies he had left behind him in his wandering and so far futile traveling.
He would follow them, keeping his eye on the prize. Perhaps they would make a mistake and he would strike. The elf following them on foot was a problem. He might have to take care of him in the dark soon. Eliminating one problem might ease the burden of what to do overall. He would consider the consequences carefully. No one must ever know he was here.
With a sigh, he continued, his keen eyes shifting from the orc horde moving ever eastward and the deadly silent elf stalking them on foot, his companions following on horseback nearby.
In a mountain pass...
It was very cold and Boromir rode as best he could through the windswept, rainy pass. He was coming west at a bad time all around. The winter would be coming and he would have a hard time returning. But return he would. His family, his people and his father needed him. He needed some kind of peace of mind about the dreams that came to him every time he closed his eyes. Demons were there, moving through his psyche and it was getting to be frightening.
He was a lone figure traveling through the mountains but he was not unseen. Far away on the other side of the pass, a man in a tower watched him. He saw the son of the Steward of Gondor as he moved westward toward Imladris. As he watched, he considered how this might be useful and filed it away in his mind. Boromir wouldn't know that he did this, that his progress was being watched, as were all things in the general area. He just knew he had to speak to Elrond.
Pressing on, the wind blowing coldly against him, he hunched over his saddle in misery as the steady rain fell all around him.
Near the Ford of Isen...
It was falling into evening when they reached the flat plain that led to the Ford of the Isen. The tower would be nearby, not that far in relation to what they had covered in distance but far enough away to necessitate another night in the rain. Aragorn sat on the hard ground, soaked and cold. He was hungry and tired, the figure of Frodo lying nearby a worry. The hobbit had been in and out of consciousness the whole journey and his wounds and hurts were of indeterminate urgency.
He sat and stared into the middle ground, listening to the almost unheard footsteps of someone nearby. He had heard them for days and knew he was friend, rather than foe. Someone was following them, someone with the stealth of an elf and that someone had picked off four more orcs. The orcs had stepped into the bushes and not come back. No matter how hard the others might search for them in the light of day, they were never found. It was a much diminished band that camped that night, irritable and enraged, arguing and waiting for the safety of the coming dawn.
He was ignored, so intent were the orcs to listen and argue among themselves that he tested his own bonds, the shrinking leather cutting into his wrists. They were too tight and without help, he would not be getting free any time soon. He felt, given the circumstances, that he could try making a break for it but that left Frodo alone. The youngster ranged from drowsy awareness to unconsciousness and the two times they were close enough together for him to speak to the hobbit, Frodo had been too out of it to reply coherently.
Darkness was falling and soon it would be still, the orcs listening nervously to the world around them. Maybe the one who was following would be able to do something to get them freed. All he had to do was sit and wait, every muscle ready for what would come next. With a sigh, he leaned against a fallen log and was silent.
Fording the river...
They crossed and clambered up the other side, carrying their prize with them. Behind them, unseen, a silent force moved low too. It was drawn to them and their deep malevolence and so it too crept forward, heading with the forces of chaos toward the tall tower in the distance.
The orcs pressed onward, moving across the flat plains as the sun shown weakly through thick gray clouds. Their burden was unconscious, hanging bound hand and foot over the shoulder of an especially big and strong orc. Saruman watched them approach, warned of their proximity by black crows. He tingled with pleasure at the possibilities before him. The son of the King of Mirkwood was in his possession and now he could, given careful planning, have an inside view of the enemy.
He walked out the door, standing on the wet steps of his home and considered what it would take to make Prince Legolas an ally instead of an enemy. As he did, the work of creation went on in the underground cells that he had sprouted months before. He was pleased. Well pleased. With great care, he walked down the steps to greet his party, bearing their burden toward him with the greatest possible speed.
On the trail...
He felt a hand on his, familiar somehow and strong. Freezing, startled by the touch, Aragorn turned his head. He saw dark eyes and a cocky smile, the face of his near brother and kinsman, Elladan of Imladris. A knife made short work of his bonds, even as it had the orc's throat, that had been assigned to watch him. Taking a sword offered, he rose silently and together they scanned the camp.
An orc yawned and turned, staring with disbelief as the two stared back. Rising, stunned into silence, an arrow pierced his head. He fell with a groan and the others turned, rising. As they did, arrows and sword assailed them from all direction and after a short, brutal battle, they all lay dead.
For a moment, there was no movement or sound, beyond eyes searching intently and the harsh breathing of exertion. Then Elladan turned and smiled at his brother, the heir of Isildur, Aragorn of Gondor.
"You just can't stay out of trouble, can you."
Aragorn grinned, shaking his head. "I didn't really need your help."
"I can see that," he said, noting the carnage around him. "You were just waiting for an auspicious moment."
"But of course," Aragorn replied smoothly, moving swiftly toward the little figure that lay between two dead orcs. He knelt and checked Frodo, frowning. "We better get him to your father's house. He looks terrible."
Elladan nodded and turned, giving short orders to the band with him. Horses were brought forward and the little bundle gently raised up to waiting arms. They gathered their party together and then, without a backward glance, moved onward toward the mountains and sanctuary in the House of Elrond.
Isengard, at last...
"He is very fair."
An animalistic grunt from the darkness nearby gave voice to the beast of his opinion. Saruman smiled, glancing over his shoulder at the tall creature waiting patiently nearby.
"Do not fear, my chosen one. I am merely admiring his beauty. There are many kinds in the great world and his is merely the most elusive."
Saruman stared at Legolas, himself lying on a bed, his head wrapped in bandages. He had been struck hard and had been mostly unconscious during the long travels to the fortress. An orc stood nearby, guarding the figure lying so still and pale. Saruman had cared for his wounds with his own hands, ensuring that the bruised and battered figured survived his ordeal.
The orcs and others who had watched did so with the mixed loathing, hatred, envy and fear that drove them in the company of their defacto brothers. They watched, noting the tender regard Saruman had for the alien but related creature. It disconcerted them but they were silent, watching and considering the strange figure of their master with interest.
He lay silently, his lashes dark against his pale cheeks. The blow had been hard earned and in the chaos of battle, he had fallen. That he was not dead was a miracle. His fate would be in the hands of the Istari who stared at him, a slight smile on his face. Saruman would have a spy in the midst of the enemy camp, someone with unprecedented access to secrets untold. All he had to do was play this correctly. His mind raced with the possibilities.
On the trail...
They marched onward, heading toward the Bruinen Valley, the small injured figure of Frodo Baggins carried gently on horseback, shifted among the Elves as they rode. Aragorn sat behind Elladan, his mind roving over the implications of what had happened here. Orcs were roving deep into places they had never been before. Perhaps they were the cause of the murders that seemed to have been done around the fringes of settled society. He didn't believe it really, not down deep. There were no other telltale signs that the beasts of Mordor were the ones.
Something else was happening and it disturbed him. He needed to talk to Elrond, to get Frodo the medical attention he could only give in limited quantities and he wanted to hear of the news in the lands beyond. Things were amiss and he was uncertain what to make of it. It would be good to get back to Rivendell, he thought, leaning back as the horse he rode with Arwen's brother picked its way carefully down a steep bank.
Only a few more days, he thought... only a few more hours.
Isengard, at last...
"He is very fair."
The words lingered in his mind as he stared at the beautiful figure of his enemy lying on the bed across the room from him. He was recovering, sleeping without awakening for more than a second or two at a time. Saruman had already begun his 'treatment', the corrupting spells and incantations that would bring the golden figure under his control. It wasn't that hard, really. All he needed was an opening with which to walk through. That door was the head blow that had been delivered by his minions. It had been concussive, vomiting and nausea reflecting that state of the elf's being.
That was good. The trauma would give him entrance into the creature's mind and there he could plant the tethers that would make him a part of Saruman. He walked closer, moving from the light of the window to the dimmer portions of the room that sheltered the elf. Pausing by the bed, he noted once again the elf's lovely features.
Blond hair, golden as the sun. A contrast to the tumbled strands of earthy hair that adorned his Uruk-Hai, to be sure, he considered. Lovely stuff... spun from the sunshine...
Saruman sighed and moved to sit, picking up a strong hand and examining it. Long fingers, well made hands... strengthened by a lifetime of physical exertion. Pale skin, smooth and flawless. Again, it was the opposite of his beloved Uruk-Hai. The arm beyond the hand was lean and muscular, fair of coloration and very strong. A bowman, he considered. They would be strong, inordinately strong. But then, elves were very, very tough people. Orcs were testimony to that truth.
He put the hand down and reached up, touching the bandage. As he did, he touched the elf's cheek. Smooth and cool was his skin to Saruman's fingers. He lingered, delicately stroking the soft surface before tracing a finger over red lips. The creature stirred, a sigh escaping even as dark lashes fluttered and then subsided. It reached Saruman, pooling inside his gut and he moved his hand, resting on the prince's bare chest. It was smooth and rock hard with muscles, muscles made strong and long through years of practice with bow and knife. This one was a prince but his life, although privileged, was still one of work and service.
Saruman traced the line of Legolas' chest, around and up and over the muscles, watching as the figure shifted slightly, aware but unconscious. Saruman smiled, watching the beautiful face shift expression as his hand traced pathways along the contours of his body. It was easy to sit and do this, learning something of this creature under his hand even as he felt pleasure in touching forbidden territory. Control was an aphrodisiac, something so profoundly sexual in context that he found himself hunting for it in his daily routine. This was pure pleasure, he considered, pure unadulterated pleasure.
Saruman paused his hand on Legolas' abdomen, halting just at the edge of the sheet that covered him. Then with a sense of power and excitement, he moved his hand, pushing the sheet down. The rest of the elf's body was exposed, powerful thighs, smooth and white, then his genitals and his buttocks. All of it was proportionate to his body and accented his beauty even more. Pale skin gleamed in the weak light and Saruman took his time looking, his hand resting on a smooth thigh. Legolas was beautiful beyond all the ways a man could be and Saruman was filled with smug satisfaction as he tugged the sheet upward.
Rising, he stood and stared, considering what more he would have to do to compromise the independence of the figure before him. It all depended on how much he had been hurt in the conflagration of his capture. So far, it had been easy to do what he had already done. The rest would come, he considered, turning and walking to the window beyond. He peered out, the smoke of fires rising into the cloudy sky. The next day would tell. He smiled. It would be an interesting coming twenty-four hours, he thought with a sigh.
Nearing the Bruinen Valley...
He was saddle sore and tired, having ridden more than eighty days from the homeland of his family. Elrond's house would be nearby, he thought as he continued, spying only on occasion the riders that patrolled the outlying lands. They didn't try and hide themselves, flashes of their livery appearing once in a while through the gathering trees. He had never been here before, preferring to spend his time and energies protecting the lands of his family on the far side of the Misty Mountains.
He seldom came into contact with Elves but he respected them and knew that if he sought out the Lord of the Valley, he would get clarity upon his problem. The dream haunted him now, taunting him with its obscurity and he came to fear sleep. Something terrible was around him, some unseen terror and he longed to understand. Everything he did, he did for his country and his people. Everything. Somehow, someway, this had a bearing on the safety and well-being of his people. He needed to know what to do.
Pausing by a small creek, he watched as three armed Elves rode out of the trees, pausing to stare at him silently. He nodded and waited, watching as they crossed the narrow strip of rock-strewn ground that separated them. Stopping just short of them, one leaned forward. "You have come far."
"I have," he said, nodding. "I am seeking the counsel of Lord Elrond, traveling more than eighty days to reach this valley."
The Elf nodded. "Very well. You may approach, Man of Gondor."
Boromir nodded, tapping the sides of his horse to move closer. "Thank you."
The Elf nodded. "Have you seen activity of the enemy in your passage west?"
Boromir nodded. "There are many footprints through the high up mountain passes. There is sign around the tower of the Wizard by the Ford."
"So it is said," the Elf replied. "Saruman has not been heard from these many days. I know not what is amiss in his household but it cannot bode well for free people."
Boromir nodded. "I have come here to speak with Lord Elrond about matters of mutual concern. I would like safe passage into the valley."
"You have it. Follow the trail that leads into the forest. Do not tarry. Things are amiss."
Boromir nodded and spurred his horse forward, moving into the trees beyond the silent group behind him. It was a twisting trail, barely seen but he followed the most logical path into the dense darkness before him. Up he rose, following the contour of the land and then it opened up, a vista of great beauty before him. He knew he was watched but the sight before him was mesmerizing and he paused to stare.
A house stood along the length of a hill, a house with many rooms, more than he had ever seen. It was beautiful, the windows and turrets and bell tower were of amazing age and workmanship. The roof was of many levels, following the great building and covering it as it hugged the cliff side of the mountain. Trees were everywhere, some of them growing great and tall through the house, an organic addition to the stone, wood and glass craftsmen had laid down.
It was huge and obviously home to a great many people, some of which could be seen walking along the covered pathways and going down staircases toward the river below. Bridges crossed the chasm to and fro, people walking here and there along them. It was beautiful and peaceful, the counterpoint of many waterfalls cascading over the cliff tops adding a surreal splendor to the already wondrous sight.
He sighed and spurred his horse forward, moving along the path that would take him downward, over the river and into the great courtyard of the palace on the other side of the river. It would be a long ride and he would pass many dwellings, the houses of others who called the great valley home. Below him, as he crossed bridges, was the tumbling river, rolling over jutting rocks that peeked out of the river bed. Boats, swan-shaped and others more ordinary, were tethered at docks at river level, waiting to be used or being unloaded.
It was busy but intensely serene and he could feel peace enter his heart as he came closer to the courtyard. His horse's hooves were drowned out by the roar of waterfalls as he crossed a stone bridge, entering the courtyard at the other side. He pulled up, staring at the magnificent house and its ornamental design. On the steps, watching him with a hooded expression, a tall Elf stood.
He was of indeterminate age, very tall and slender. Yet inherent in his aura was great strength, intensity of character and a sense of years that was impossible to determine. He had dark hair, long and worn loose, and dark eyes. They were filled with wisdom and a strange knowing, a sense that he could read every thought in your mind. Boromir felt a slight unease as he greeted the figure patiently waiting for him.
"My Lord... I am supposing you are Lord Elrond, Master of the Valley."
A soft smile formed, a relaxation of the expression on his handsome and timeless face. "You would be correct, Boromir of Gondor. Welcome to Rivendell."
Boromir climbed down from his horse and strode forward, tired and travel weary. "I am honored to meet you, my Lord. I bring the greetings and friendship of the Steward of Gondor and all of our people."
"Good welcome to you, then, Boromir. I accept them. Come... join me for a meal and conversation. Then we shall have you retire to a chamber to bathe and change into clean clothes. I can imagine your long journey has been a trial even to your strong constitution."
Boromir grinned and nodded, following the graceful figure of Elrond into the house. "That is true. I have been more than eighty days on the road. A long soak in warm water and warm food would be greatly appreciated."
Elrond smiled and him and nodded. "Then say no more," he said, simply.
On the trail...
They reached the sloping land that stretched to the Bruinen by the fall of night. It was raining again and the group were miserable in their sodden weariness. They rode slowly, another going ahead to alert the great house and its lord of their wounded comrade. The dull footfalls of their horses' hooves were muffled slightly by the steady patter of raindrops hitting the saturated earth. Aragorn sat, his hands resting on his thighs as they rode along, Elladan before him. It was the third day on the trail since liberation and he was aching in every joint. The sky had delivered rain constantly and they had given up trying to be dry. It was a hopeless battle. The only member of their party that was even remotely dry was Frodo, wrapped as he was in the slicker one elf had tied behind his saddle.
They were weary and hungry, cold and anxious and the sooner they entered the confines of the Lord's valley, the better Aragorn would feel all the way around. The oddity of his travel, murder, orc incursions well into 'safe' territory, the tales of strangeness on the land and of course, Saruman's disappearance from the normal discourse of life... it was worrisome.
They slipped down the slope, heading for the flat land that led to the riverbank. It would only be hours before they were safe again but it seemed like an eternity as they moved forward, the sound of the river a steady roar that rose in intensity as they made their way toward home.
Elsewhere...
"You are awake at last."
Blue eyes stared at him, eyes that looked all around before settling upon him once more. They stared at him, eyes that were direct and unwavering. "Where am I?"
"You are safe. You are in my home, here in Isengard."
Legolas pondered the word, considering it carefully. It gave him a great measure of pleasure to hear that word. It gave him confidence and more of a sense of safety to know he was here in this place. He didn't know why. He just knew it made him less anxious and worried, especially since other details were foggy and hard to recall. He touched his forehead and flinched, his hand falling to the bed once more.
"You received a blow in a battle, I believe." Saruman smiled comfortingly. "You must rest and let me assist your recovery." He reached and picked up a goblet of gold, filled with a clear liquid. He turned and held it out, helping Legolas raise his head. "Drink this. You will be transformed by it." He smiled slightly as the elf sipped the sweet liquid, lying back on the bed once again. "There you go. That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"No," Legolas whispered. "What happened? Why am I here?"
"You were hurt. Remember?"
"I can't," Legolas replied, his memory a blank on a number of things.
"You do know your name, do you not?"
He considered Saruman's words. "I am Legolas."
"You are," Saruman smiled, holding out the goblet. He held it until Legolas had emptied it and then he watched as the drugged liquid worked its magic. Setting the glass down, he turned and brushed his fingers over Legolas' handsome profile. "You must listen to me, Legolas of Mirkwood. I have a number of things I want you to remember."
Legolas blinked, his mind filled with cobwebs. Like a quill pressed to paper, he committed to his mind all the softly spoken words of his mentor and new master, the Wizard of Isengard. He closed his eyes, listening even though he was weary beyond anything he had ever felt before. Soft words wend their way into his mind and took root in his subconscious. He was only half aware of the sound of Saruman's voice, lying in the twilight of drugged awareness.
Saruman paused, smiling. He took Legolas' hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on it. He lay it back on the elf's chest, watching him as he slept. He had said all he wanted to, making the handsome figure his property. The drug and the words, all the incantations whispered had found their home in the psyche of the youngster. He wouldn't remember it, not in a conscious way. But when Saruman wanted him, when he needed him to listen or to do something, Legolas would be powerless to resist him.
He had learned to harness unwilling spirits with his orcs. The principle was the same, no matter how much or how little brain matter the subject had. This free soul was now his to manipulate. It would take a dream or perhaps a whispered spell said in the proper age-old manner to make something happen, that was for sure. It was also sure that the elf would be unable to resist his demands nor even remember it when the moment passed.
He rose and took the glass, putting in on a table nearby. In a couple of days he would send the elf on his way, letting him go. Hopefully, he would head north and make his way to Rivendell. That was a proper place to test his efforts, to see if they were going to bear fruit. He turned and stared at the elf on the bed. Legolas of Mirkwood, a catch of enormous importance. This fellow would be his keyhole and his insurance against being caught flat-footed. He smiled. Things were going very well, it appeared. Very well indeed.
Rivendell...
He stood in the great entry, water dripping from him as he watched an elf give the small bundled form of Frodo Baggins to Elrond. The tall elf didn't flinch but turned on his heels and walked to the staircase nearby. Climbing it, Glorfindel in tow, he disappeared. Aragorn sighed, knowing he was in good hands. As he turned to walk to the dining room, Gandalf emerged. He paused and nodded at Aragorn, moving swiftly toward the stairs. Up he went, following Elrond and soon he was gone.
Aragorn watched him, feeling great comfort at the presence of the wizard. As he did, a lone figure stepped from the shadows and walked toward him, pausing with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
"You look drowned. You should change."
Aragorn smiled and slapped the arm of his companion with great affection. "Join me, Elrohir. Tell me of the news of the valley."
Aragorn turned and walked toward the staircase, pausing and waiting as Elrohir slowly turned, joining him on the steps. They walked up together, traversed the corridor and entered the room that was Aragorn's. He moved toward the fire that was already lit in the fireplace and sighed, tugging off his cloak and then his dark and road-weary tunic. Turning, haloed by the fire and candles nearby, he smiled. "It's good to see you again."
Elrohir, sitting on the bed, swallowed and nodded, his eyes memorizing Aragorn's chest even as he dared not look. He rose and walked toward Aragorn, picking up the wet clothing. "I'll give these to the... I'll take them."
With that, he turned and left the room, the door closing behind him. Aragorn stared at him, puzzled at his flustered behavior. Sighing, he turned and walked into the bathing chamber, noting that a pot of hot water was sitting on a shelf nearby. With a smile, he stripped naked and poured the water in the tub, settling in with gratitude. He marveled at the hospitality of the house, the only place that was home to him. It was almost as if the magic of the house extended to the events and amenities as well. Think it and it will appear, he thought, sighing with fatigue and sleepiness.
It was silent, the sound of the fire in the next room and the night birds outside his only companions. He had wanted Elrohir to stay but he had inexplicably left. It was strange but then, these were strange times.
Nearby...
The wet clothes lay on the floor, dropped from his hand as he stood on the balcony, his eyes scanning the sky above him. He sighed, his futility complete. Aragorn was home. His sister was home. They would be together. He wouldn't. It was so unfair, he considered. He stared at the sky, at the glory of Elbereth and considered his options. There were none, if he was to be an honorable man. His sister was in love with Aragorn and it seemed Aragorn returned the same feelings.
Elladan was home. The troop had been successful. They had saved the day. He was here, sitting and weeping internally with the special sorrow of the unrequited. There was no more perfect hell for him now than to sit nearby and watch the one he wanted give his heart and his private soul to someone he loved as much as he loved Arwen. If it had been anyone else, it would have been different. He would have done something about his misery. But he couldn't. Not now. Arwen was too important to him to make any sort of attempt to explain to Aragorn what he meant to his soul.
He was stuck.
He sighed, staring at the stars above. Somewhere, some place, someone knew of his misery but he didn't dare share it here. He didn't dare.
It would be a long, long night.
Close by...
He stared at the mountain, the one place he couldn't go. It was were they went. He saw them disappear into the forest that led to the big house they said lay somewhere inside. He would never be allowed there, that he knew, and so he moved impatiently as close as he could and settled in. The rain dripped off his back as he watched the river and dark embankment on the other side. They would have to come out eventually. He would be waiting. He would bide his time and then, when it was more opportune, he would strike.
He would enjoy killing them, all or any of them. Repayment was long overdue. With a sigh of frustration, he settled on the wet earth and began his wait, his eyes never wavering.
Continued...
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