This was going to be a normal chapter, I swear, but combined with a freaky-deaky plot bunny and the depression that came along with the 3rd Hobbit movie, it just . . . turned out this way. I can no longer promise that this story will end well. :-/
"Can a day be normal and boring just once with the Peredhil around?" Glorfindel asked his horse. His stallion snorted without breaking stride and didn't answer, typically. "I didn't think so."
The Balrog-slayer had just found the tracks of Elladan and Elrohir at a stream near the borders of Imladris. He had been riding hard for the past two hours, trying to catch up to the twins, and figured he was less than a half hour behind them now. It looked like they had dismounted their horses back by the stream after finding the orc tracks, remounted, and continued on. Their horses' footprints were so faint that only a master tracker could find them, so light-footed were the mounts. It was a good thing Glorfindel was an elf, then.
Hooves tapped quietly over the ground as Glorfindel's horse swept through the trees with his rider scanning the ground ever so often to make sure they were on the right path. The stream was left a few miles behind them and Glorfindel was assured that he was managing to catch up, when the horse tracks suddenly – disappeared.
Glorfindel clicked to his stallion and it slowed, then halted. In mild confusion, the Elda leapt from his horse's back and scanned the ground. The occasional misplaced leaf and twig pressed into the ground had ended, leaving a perfect trail of . . . nothing. The horses couldn't have just vanished, so Glorfindel started examining the edge of the path and soon he found a few branches pushed to the side, but not broken. Following the very faint trail, he was surprised to come upon two elven horses suddenly.
One snorted in greeting and moved forward to nuzzle Glorfindel's hand, its gold-red head glittering slightly in the sunbeams creeping through the trees.
"Hinnor," said Glorfindel in recognition, stroking the velvet nose a moment and looking past the stallion to see Elladan's horse standing in the trailing branches of a willow tree. It whickered to him, but stayed where it was.
"They must have continued after the yrch on foot," Glorfindel realized, and patted Hinnor once, then turned. "Come, Hinnor, Gael. We go to fetch your master." Both horses grumbled lightly, but followed him. They would obey any order from their owners, but if another elf called them to do something else, they would do that instead.
Remounting his own white stallion, Glorfindel whistled for the two horses to follow him and nudged his mount into a canter, knowing immediately where the twins would have gone. The orcs had been heading away, barely outside the borders of Imladris. Glorfindel would have immediately gone out to dispose of them, but most of his warriors were on the west watching the Trollshaws – there had been a recent flurry of activity with the few troll groups that lived there, and he didn't want to let them get out of control. The orcs were going to pass Imladris by a secure margin of a hundred miles or so, and Glorfindel was reluctantly letting them pass in peace, but only because there were almost fifty and he didn't have enough warriors near this area to fight them off safely.
Elladan and Elrohir, however, had apparently thought that they could take the whole group on. Glorfindel knew it would be hard – they were very good fighters but even the best could be taken down – and the three or more dozen orcs had split into two groups, dividing for speed. The twins probably didn't know that there were two bunches of orcs, and might be surprised.
Glorfindel had known the folly of going by himself, but Erestor had refused to the let the two guards watching the Eastern Gate go with him. "They are needed," the adviser had said stubbornly, and Glorfindel gave in to go by himself.
Now he was almost caught up to Elladan and Elrohir, and he hoped he would make it in time. The twins' horse followed close behind, not needing a lead to keep up and stay with him.
Glorfindel's head flew up abruptly from studying the ground for tracks when he heard the low resounding blast of a horn. It wasn't the clear ringing of an elven horn, but something else – the foul noise that would issue forth from an orc trumpet. One of the orc groups was calling for aid. Elladan and Elrohir must have come upon them, and they would be overwhelmed in minutes by the second group that rushed to help.
Glorfindel leaned low over his stallion and urged it forward. Pale hooves flew over the ground, barely skimming the leaves, and the horse huffed as it gave the speed its rider asked. As they galloped toward the ensuing battle, Hinnor and Gael were left behind, Glorfindel's horse far outmatching their pace. Nearing every closer, Glorfindel could hear the clashing of swords and thrumming of released bow strings with his keen elvish hearing. He dropped the reins – his horse could guide itself – and pulled the long sword from the scabbard at his waist, pulling it up and readying himself to fight. In a last flurry of speed, his horse burst through the trees and into a large clearing. The sight that met Glorfindel's eyes then seemed to freeze the blood in his veins.
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Elladan had just disposed of the three orcs beside him when he felt the shock that suddenly reverberated throughout his bond with his twin. He extended his sword in an afterthought to lop off the remaining orc's head as he turned to frantically see what had happened to Elrohir. His twin was standing upright, his grey eyes wide in surprise, the side of his tunic ripped open and a bloody wound showing through, thick liquid dribbling down his side. Elladan let out a hissed gasp as his brother's fingers slowly loosened on his sword and the slender elven blade clanged to the ground. He was terribly wounded, Elladan knew, and there were still two orcs to kill, leering as they stalked closer to the wounded twin. One still had a dripping red blade; the sword that had sliced delicate elven flesh open.
Elrohir suddenly jerked, still standing, and his eyes flickered. A short crossbow bolt protruded from his back, deadly and sharp. The archers! Elladan had completely forgotten about them - how could he?! He turned furious grey eyes to the orcs standing near the trees, but knew he had to dispose of the remaining sword-orcs first. In a wild burst of speed, Elladan flew over the trampled ground toward his brother and the two orcs. His vision seemed to blur around him and it seemed like he had somehow killed the orcs with swords, their bodies littering the ground like fallen leaves.
Anger roared in Elladan's veins, and all he could see was the two filthy yrch across the clearing. One of them had shot his twin! His arm moved violently of its own volition and his sword left his hand, flying wildly across the yard to slam up to the hilt into the orc that was still reloading. The slender hilt poked out between two beady eyes as the orc collapsed backwards, crossbow dropping from lifeless fingers. Elladan spared a quick glance to Elrohir - he was still standing, staring into nothingness, pain overcoming his senses. He would be fine - he had to be! But there would be no safety until the last orc was dead.
Elladan felt something welling up in his mind. It was a numbing dead black - not the kind that would pull him into unconsciousness, but something that promised power and strength, if only he would succumb. It whispered earnestly that Elrohir would be saved, if only he let it take over . . . and Elladan finally released the last of his control, receding into his mind and letting the black cloud swarm over him.
Everything became crystal clear suddenly. His elven vision let him see miles away, examine the tiniest leaf on a tree far from him, see the smallest ridges on an ant's back - but this . . . this was different. Angles were sharper, tree trunks curved delicately, leaves fluttered in slow motion with the faint wind. The smallest drop of blood dripping from a dead orc's nose was as clear to him as if he had been right next to it. A primal urge overcame him suddenly and he felt himself leap forward in utter fury toward the remaining orc archer.
His sword was left abandoned, still in the other orc's skull, and Elladan simply landed in front of the last archer. It backed away in terror - its bow wasn't loaded - and whimpered. In a swift violent motion, Elladan lunged and grabbed its head, twisting in one quick flash. There was a loud crack and the orc slumped. He let it fall to the ground, and turned. There was something important he had to do . . .
Unbeknownst to Elladan, who thought himself still perfectly normal, his hair was wild and tangled behind him, his eyes a deep black pool of darkness. His usually fair face was cracked with an angry leer, and eyebrows drawn low over eyes almost dripping with black fire. It was no wonder the once-brave orc archer had cowered before him.
Ah! Elladan saw someone standing in the middle of the clearing, a few orcs lying dead at his feet. His eyelids were fluttering, a look of confusion on his face. Did Elladan know this . . . person? The 'person' looked very odd to Elladan's enhanced vision. His skin was almost a perfect white, alabaster and drained of color because of the blood draining from two wounds, one on his side and one in his back. Even through the pained expression he wore, his skin seemed to glow with an unearthly light, declaring him one of the Firstborn. His eyes were a pale grey, watching something nonexistent with a faint glaze over the pupils. A light green tunic was stained with crimson, leaking red liquid down the shirt and onto his leggings.
Blood. Elladan could smell it all around him. The acrid tang of foul black lifeblood of the orcs, and the sweet-yet-bitter tang of elven blood draining from the 'person.' There was even some of the sweet-yet-bitter on his own cheek, Elladan realized with some confusion, touching a finger to the marred flesh over his cheekbone. He had been wounded himself?
Returning his attention to the 'person' across the clearing, Elladan started toward him. He felt a strange pull tugging him toward the 'person,' telling him faintly . . . somewhere . . . that everything would be well if only he could be closer. And closer he came until he stood before the 'person,' looking into eyes that were a stark contrast to his own black orbs. Elladan saw recognition in those eyes, and was bewildered. How did the 'person' know him?
It mattered not. There was an acceptance that flashed in the grey eyes, and then eyelids slid shut, veiling the piecing irises. Muscles relaxed and breathing became even, just as Elladan's arms flew out without permission to catch the 'person' himself. His hands held up the light burden, and he wondered what to do with him. He was obviously unconscious now.
His dilemma suddenly increased – he could hear jangling of weapons and the thud of heavy feet coming toward him through the trees. More of the foul creatures that he had just killed. Well, there were many solutions to this, but the black cloud swarmed again and pushed aside reason.
Elladan could have dropped the 'person' but a small tug ordered him not to, so he bent slightly to place him on the ground, on his right side because of the arrow and the wound on his left. Straightening back up, Elladan turned to face the direction the other orcs were coming from and waited.
He didn't have to stay there long. A very short time later, there was huffing and snarling as more than two dozen orcs plowed through and over bushes, hefting large scimitar and a jagged knives. More than five had crossbows, already loaded, in their large filthy hands.
Elladan still made no noise, but his eyes darkened further. And he moved.
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Glorfindel cursed low under his breath when he saw the horrible spectacle before him. Oh yes, the twins had somehow managed to kill almost fifty orcs – the foul creatures were scattered all over the clearing – but the price they had payed . . .
The first thing he saw was Elrohir. The twin wasn't moving, lying on his side and facing Glorfindel. His eyes were shut, dark eyelashes against ivory skin, and thick blood seeped from his side to join the forming puddle around him. Orcs littered the ground all around him. But that was not what caught Glorfindel's eyes next.
It was Elladan.
The elder twin was kneeling in the midst of a tangle of bodies, his head bowed. Black filthy blood streaked his arms and hands, and licked up his legs to dirty his leggings. His hair was falling over his shoulders to brush the ground, blood matting the dark locks. His tunic was ripped in places, showing small scratches and drops of blood dotted on pale skin.
This was a disaster.
Somehow Glorfindel could sense that the worst trouble was not with the deathly pale Elrohir, but with Elladan. Why was he not with his wounded twin? Surely he could feel the pain that was evident in the fine lines even now crinkling around Elrohir's closed eyes.
So Glorfindel nudged his horse once more. It snorted in disgust at the coppery smell invading its nostrils from the dead orcs, but went forward nonetheless. "Elladan!" called Glorfindel, and wished immediately that he hadn't.
Glorfindel had not forgotten what had happened the day before. He knew it wasn't just the result of a mild concussion that had caused Elladan to attack Lindir and himself. It was something different, but he didn't know what it was, and it was no use convincing Elrond to put Elladan in the Healing Rooms for safety. How could he prove anything? Lindir had vanished somewhere and hadn't said a word about that Elladan had done. There was nothing Glorfindel could do, so he left it alone, and said nothing when Elladan and Elrohir left – but he had gone after them.
And now he was here, in the middle of this completed massacre, and wished he had left earlier to catch up with the twins, because obviously something terrible had happened. That much was evident in the unconscious younger twin, and the sight of Elladan kneeling between dead orcs with his head hanging. When Glorfindel had hailed Elladan, the twin's head came up, and Glorfindel reeled back automatically.
Those eyes . . . they were the deepest and darkest black he had seen – but for yesterday! And Glorfindel knew the same thing had happened, but it was still going on.
Elladan's face was pale, his mouth in a tight line, but the worst part were his eyes. Usually a cheery grey – but in anger or battle, when they turned stormy – they were now that same terrifying black as the day before. His dark hair framed his face, making it seem all the more intimidating.
Glorfindel gathered his stallion's reins in one hand and slowly lowered his sword. He was wary, though, of what the twin would do. Would he attack like he had last time?
No, Elladan stayed where he was, long legs folded underneath him, but with an empty expression on his face. Nothing revealed itself – not anger, pain, shame, or fury. There was nothing; it was like a blank slate.
And then Glorfindel started noticing other small details. The blood caked under Elladan's fingernails, his missing sword . . . the black blood smeared around his mouth, and dripping from his chin. The emotionless face. In increasing horror, Glorfindel scanned the dead bodies of the orcs. There were no blade-inflicted wounds upon the foul bodies. But their limbs were twisted and torn, necks broken and bodies splayed across the bloody ground. An arm was ripped from a body there, a leg severed with tendon and bone showing from the gaping opening in another place. Gashes Glorfindel identified as coming from hands were slashed across grotesque faces, black blood seeping from the wounds.
Glorfindel slowly turned his head back to Elladan and dismounted his horse with nary a whisper from clothing brushing against saddle. His feet hit the ground without a sound, and the only noise heard was a low shing as he sheathed his sword, but kept his hand on the hilt as he cautiously went toward Elladan. He cast a worried look over at Elrohir, who hadn't moved, and back at Elladan. Nearing the older twin, he held a hand out warily. "Elladan?"
Elladan's eyes had followed him – as far as Glorfindel could tell, since they were still the color of obsidian – to where he was now, but still made no sound.
"Elladan, what happened?" tried Glorfindel, hoping the twin wouldn't go wild again.
The ebony-haired head lowered as if in thought, and raised once more. There was no difference in expression, but then slowly a look of anger came over Elladan's face, and his lips curled back to release a silent snarl. Blood-stained teeth were revealed at the growl.
Glorfindel backed up a few feet, still watching the older twin, and decided to check on Elrohir, since after a few moments, it still didn't look like Elladan was going to move any more than he just had. Moving away slowly and cautiously, Glorfindel went the dozen or so yards to Elrohir.
He crouched behind the younger twin, still keeping a wary eye on Elladan, but looked down to see the extent of Elrohir's injuries. The worst of the two injuries was most definitely the gaping wound on the side of Elrohir's chest. He was lying on his right side, the still-bleeding gash along the ribs on his left side, and his back to Glorfindel. The other that he could see was the rusty tip of a crossbow bolt peeking through the folds of Elrohir's tunic in the back.
Bandages, water . . . herbs. He would need a lot of supplies to help here . . . raich, he wished Elladan wasn't like - that. Well, if he was wishing for things, he might as well wish for Elrond to be here. Sparing a brief moment, Glorfindel tipped his head to the sky. "Beloved Lady Estë," he started, then stopped and shook his head. The Vala of rest and healing wasn't going to help him. He shot another quick look at Elladan, who hadn't moved, then whistled for his horse.
The white stallion huffed from the edge of the clearing but started toward him, picking his way daintily over or around corpses. When he reached Glorfindel, the Elda stood to his feet and patted the horse's neck once and started pulling out the ties that held his saddlebags closed. He knew there would be trouble, and at least one wound, so as a habit had packed piles of healing supplies. Glorfindel had pulled out the two waterskins and a large pile of bandages and laid them next to Elrohir. He could only deal with one problem at a time, and since Elladan wasn't doing anything . . . life-threatening at the moment, Elrohir was his priority.
Just as Glorfindel had gotten out the herbs he thought he would need, including generous amounts of athelas leaves, when he heard a low groan coming from Elrohir. Elladan's head turned at the sound, but he didn't move other than that. Glorfindel let the healing herbs fall next to the bandages as he hurried to Elrohir and crouched beside him.
"Stay still," the Balrog-slayer cautioned, putting his hand on the twin's shoulder to keep him from moving. Elrohir's eyes flickered open, and pain lanced through them at that smallest movement, but his grey gaze came to bear on Glorfindel's face. He didn't say anything.
"Don't move," said Glorfindel once more, carefully taking his hand off. "Do you remember what happened?"
Elrohir simply stared at Glorfindel for a moment, and his mouth worked briefly, but still nothing came out of his mouth. After a minute of meeting Elrohir's pained gaze, Glorfindel tired of waiting and leaned forward. "Elrohir, I'm going to bandage your wounds. You need to lie still, penneth. I'll have to pull out the arrow in your back."
There was no affirmation or recognition of his words, yet Elrohir's eyes fluttered shut as if he was bracing himself.
Taking a deep breath, Glorfindel shifted the younger twin ever-so-slightly and pulled out the small knife in his boot to cut the back of the tunic open. It was done in one swift movement, revealing Elrohir's back and the dark arrow embedded in it. The skin was bruising rapidly around the site, blood trickling out of the wound and down pale skin to meld with his tunic. There was only an inch or so of the crossbow bolt showing, and Glorfindel winced in sympathy. This was going to hurt.
The arrow was yanked out in a flash - Glorfindel didn't want to prolong the twin's pain. Elrohir tensed, but didn't move, as instructed. Glorfindel laid the arrow aside and rapidly bandaged the wound, his fingers flying. There would be no point in stitching it since they would probably rip during the ride back to Imladris. The puncture seemed very deep, and Glorfindel was afraid that it might have hit a lung, but there was nothing he could do to find out, unless . . .
Glorfindel finished the bandage with a last tie and gently pulled Elrohir onto his back to examine the side wound. A low groan emitted from Elrohir's lips, and Glorfindel looked up quickly just as the twin coughed. A dark fear filled the Elda when he saw the bright red blood staining his lips.
Another cough wracked Elrohir's slender frame, a violent cough, and more blood dribbled from his lips to stain his chin red. He let out a low gasp after and his back arched, trying to get away from the pain of his side wound. Glorfindel immediately pressed down on his chest to keep him from rising and watched helplessly as crimson drained from the wounded elf's side and mouth.
After scrabbling for purchase, Elrohir slowly relaxed and looked up slowly at the golden-haired Balrog-slayer. His right hand rose and he wiped away the liquid staining his mouth red.
"Glor - " Elrohir started, but his voice was so low and torn that Glorfindel could not hear him, so he leaned forward to listen better. Elrohir cut off mid-word and said something else, a plaintive question as he searched futilely, roving with his pained grey eyes. "El?"
"He's nearby," assured Glorfindel, glancing up to insure that the elder twin was indeed still crouching about twenty yards from them. Elladan's eyes were trained on his younger brother, yet no recognition entered his own empty, dark eyes.
"Can't . . . feel him," Elrohir managed to gasp out, choking momentarily, but regaining his breath. His hand dropped from his mouth and pressed over his heart. "Hurts."
"You've been shot," Glorfindel said, almost choking himself, but for a different reason. Elrohir's lungs were most certainly punctured, at least one of them, and there was no way Glorfindel would be able to heal it. There was no cure for that. With a most terrible certainty, Glorfindel knew Elrohir was dying. He had seen death before, far too many times, and this was another add-on to the horrible list. The only thing he could do was comfort him as he passed - but no! The Firstborn were not meant to die! Why would this happen to Elrohir? How could he - a warrior, nonetheless - ease the passing of one of the Peredhil he was sent back to Middle Earth to protect? There was no time to think of such things, though.
Glorfindel bent closer as Elrohir tried to force out something else. The younger twin failed and instead broke into a fit of coughing, his head tucking in and legs curling to ease the pain. It did not help. Glorfindel pulled up Elrohir's head to help him, though fire screamed down the twin's back at the movement, and a few seconds later, he let out one last dry cough and stopped. Red fluid coated the side of Elrohir's mouth now, and drops flecked the front of Glorfindel's tunic. He didn't even notice.
"Have - " choked Elrohir, his eyes losing focus for a moment and then determinedly coming back to bear on the Elda. "Have - the dark . . . c - " He broke off and another convulsion ripped through him. Glorfindel caught the twin's shoulders and held him tight while more blood broke with each cough and stained the front of both shirts red. This time Elrohir let himself be forced still and fell back to the ground when it was over, barely registering the pain that shrieked up his back at the jolt.
' "Ada," tried Elrohir again, forcing back the coughs that threatened. "Tell Ada - it's a . . . " He trailed off and fell to short gasps, trying to hold in another convulsion.
Elrond! Glorfindel shook away the awful images that came with that thought - how Elrond had been when his beloved wife had died - and shifted his legs to pull Elrohir onto his lap. It would be far more comfortable for the twin this way.
"He's . . . " came a wheeze from Elrohir, and then his whole body shook as his life fluid poured into his lungs and he choked. His arms spasmed and Glorfindel once again pushed the limbs down while he struggled. The fit passed, but lasted much longer this time, almost twenty seconds. Elrohir's shirt was coated in blood now, both from the still-gaping wound in his side and the liquid now dripping from his nose and mouth.
Elrohir relaxed in Glorfindel's grip and stared up at the Balrog-slayer with his almost childlike eyes. For a moment, Glorfindel could remember him as a tiny little elfling, standing with arms outstretched and visibly pleading to be picked up. The eyes were still so much alike, but now . . . now they were filled with suffering. Glorfindel watched as Elrohir gave up the effort to speak and his whole body loosened. The pain in the grey orbs didn't decrease, but there was an acceptance there too, one Glorfindel knew all too well. A small tinge of pain and regret tinted Elrohir's eyes too, but he knew what was to come and he yield without a fierce pull.
"No." Glorfindel didn't even realize he had spoken as he leaned closer, fearing to see what would happen next. An apology creased the fine lines around the calming grey eyes, but then Elrohir's breathing became staggered and stopped altogether. His eyes stayed open, yet unfocused. The brilliant light in them faded and a glaze crossed over his eyes as he breathed his last.
"No!" Glorfindel shuddered violently, his breaths short and jerky. A slow appalling realization came over the Elda as he felt Elrohir's fëa flutter loose from his body and sail away into the sky.
Then the great Balrog-slayer bowed his head over Elrohir's body and wept - he wept for the loneliness Elladan would suffer, for the deserted Elrohir who had been left by his brother at the time of his death by some strange malady affecting Elladan, for the horror Elrond would feel seeing a lost family member, for everything Elrohir's family and friends would feel, for Glorfindel's own failure at protecting him, and most of all, for Elrohir who had been taken for some reason far too early.
And the trees bent their branches in grief and the world quieted around the mourning of a Firstborn, while a darkling elf who once knew himself as Elladan watched with curious eyes; eyes black as midnight and roiling with darkness.
/Throwing the plot bunny to you for sacrifice/
FYI, killing the writer will not get you the next chapter! So just . . . uh . . . /hiding behind nearest large object/