Tears of the Night

The Last Homely House had been consumed, in a matter of minutes, by utter chaos.

Elrond had been in his study, intending to work on several administrative matters, but had nodded off into a light sleep instead, much to his own chagrin. But his sleep had not been a restful one. In his dreams he had seen many unpleasant things. Images of two figures riding a horse at near break-neck speed, a group of other riders surrounding them protectively.

And there were the feelings of pain. Pain of the physical body, pain of the soul and heart. Pain ripped through his senses as he dreamed of the riders.

The dreams were only ended when the sudden arrival of several people into the lands of Imladris. Awareness shooting through his body, Elrond hurtled himself from his chair and away from his desk. Running out of the study, he began shouting orders at his aide, Nolwë.

“Ready the Healer’s Hall. Wounded are being brought to the house and will arrive within the hour. Have rooms for at least half a dozen men prepared as well.”

Fortunately, Nolwë was acquainted with his lord’s sometimes unusual way of going about matters, and thus did not hesitate in carrying out the orders he had been given. He rushed away from Elrond, calling out to various Elves and assigning them various tasks.

Elrond barely took notice of the flurry of activity. His eyes drifted towards a nearby terrace that faced towards the Bruinen. He stepped out and looked out over the valley, his hearing filled with the sounds of the roaring waterfalls nearby.

He closed his grey eyes and concentrated Vilya’s power, seeking for the company that was riding towards the house with all speed. After only a few moments, Elrond’s senses were filled with both the presence of his eldest son and a feeling of pain that quite nearly sent him to the marble floor.

As he shook his himself, Elrond felt Elladan reach back.

**Adar, make ready. Elrohir is badly wounded and has nearly fled from his body.

What wounds has he suffered, Elladan?

A graze to his side and a stab wound to his abdominal region. It appeared that both wounds were caused by Orc blades. I did my best to treat for any poison, but he grows only steadily worse.

The healers are preparing for your arrival. Are there any other wounded with you?

No. Aragost took his wounded to Bree, as none were life threatening. But Ada… Elrohir… he will not awaken. He will not heed my voice.

Just arrive here as quickly as you may. Elrohir is not lost to us yet. If he were, his pain would have already been soothed by the Lord Mandos as he entered the Halls. Hurry now.

Yes Adar. We are coming.**

--

The time from then until the company arrived seemed to pass Elrond by in a blur. Several healers waited with him in the courtyard, holding a stretcher as well as a hastily-made concoction to give to Elrohir for any pain he might be in.

When they appeared through the entrance, their horses slick with sweat and breathing heavily, Elrond’s eyes immediately sought out his sons. There, in the front of the pack. Elladan held his brother tightly in front of him, keeping him from sliding limply to the hard ground, but still Elrohir’s dark head lolled lifelessly from side to side with every step the horse took.

As Elladan quickly slid from his horse and brought Elrohir down with him, Elrond and the healers immediately converged on them. Two of the healers placed him on the stretcher while Elrond himself sank to his knees beside his son’s form and began unwrapping the bandages that covered his wounds.

Sensing Elladan hovering worriedly nearby, Elrond asked quietly, “Has there been any sign of infection since they were inflicted?”

“Some,” he replied wearily. “Baran and I used what little brandy or alcohol we had with us to clean the wounds, but still the infections persist.”

“Not surprising,” one of the healers murmured. “The poison of an Orc blade needs more than alcohol to eradicate it.”

“Indeed,” Elrond agreed, nodding slightly. Finished with his light examination, he stood. “Bring him into the healing rooms, quickly. The infection is not as bad as it could have been, but we must move quickly.”

After that, Elrond began to lose all sense of the passing of time. His senses were concentrated fully on his son, who barely even flinched in his sleep when he began pouring in the acids used to destroy the poisons that coursed through his body.

Elrohir’s lack of response, in all seriousness, worried Elrond far more than the wounds themselves. Elladan and the Man Baran had done as best their circumstances had allowed them, and had indeed done a great deal to aid in the healing of the wounds. But despite the physical improvements, Elrohir still remained unresponsive and showed no signs of waking.

He had waited over a day, hoping it to be merely exhaustion that kept his son from returning to the land of waking. But when he did not so much as twitch during all that time, Elrond’s concern continued to grow. Something was wrong, something beyond Elrohir’s wounds sustained in the battle.

Elladan had agreed with him. Elrond’s eldest son had been in and out of the room ever since the healers had permitted him to enter. He had gazed down at his twin in the manner of one who is witness to a terrible atrocity, but is helpless to prevent it.

**“He is fading from me, Ada,” Elladan whispered desolately. “I call to him and he does not answer. He has always answered before, but now, he remains silent.”**

Why Elrohir would pull away from his brother greatly confused the Lord of Imladris. Elrohir knew his connection with his twin would be an aid to pull him back from the precipice. Why would he shut that out?

There was only one course to take if he wished to find out, but it was one he was greatly loathe to take. To enter into the very recesses of Elrohir’s mind without permission left him with a slightly sick feeling. He rather despised the ability, to be candid. There were undoubtedly things within his son’s mind that he wished to keep private and now he would run the risk of his own father seeing his very soul laid bare.

But what choice did Elrond have? His son was letting go of his brother, an act which could very well kill them both. No one had the desire to lose either one of them, much less both. There was no choice.

Sighing softly in determination, Elrond stood up from his nearby chair and moved towards the bed that contained his youngest son. He seated himself, then looked down at Vilya which rested innocently on his finger, twinkling faintly in the light. It would aid him, he knew, but never did he relish using the chief of the Three. Too raw were the wounds it had inflicted, directly or indirectly. He still recalled the day Gil-galad had entrusted him with it, and how he had died even as Elrond had exhaustedly commanded it to save him. He remembered how it had failed to heal Celebrían’s fear of the world around her.

Elrond shook his head violently, dispelling his thoughts. He could not afford such distractions. He had to focus on Elrohir, or he would be lost and Elladan with him.

Closing his eyes, Elrond placed the palm of his hand on Elrohir’s pale forehead. When he opened his mind, he was almost instantly assaulted with images and emotions.

**She lay on the stone ground of the filthy Orc cave-

The Orcs fell swiftly to his rage-powered blade-

He held her in his arms as they raced for home-

She barely drew breath-

She was leaving-

He was angry at himself, resentful of her-

The agony of possibly never again seeing her sweet face-

Oh to drown himself in the blood of those he slew! Let the anguish be dulled!

He welcomed the blades that cut at him mercilessly. Let them end his pain.

He could not forgive himself. She was gone. He had failed her and their family. Let him suffer in the Halls with the likes of Fëanor and Maeglin. ‘Twas nothing less than he deserved.

Ada…

Ada…**

“Ada! Wake, Ada! What is happening?!”

Elrond’s eyes snapped open to see the face of Elladan but inches from his, his grey eyes full of trepidation. Vaguely, he also felt Elladan’s hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly.

“I’m… I’m alright,” Elrond gasped, surprised that his voice sounded so dry and faded. What had happened? After taking the glass of water offered by one of the healers who now stood next to Elladan, he asked as much.

“We heard sounds of distress, my lord,” the healer explained, her eyes taking him in critically. “We feared something else had happened to Lord Elrohir, so we entered. We found you slumped by the bed, crying out in suffering. Do you recall anything that could be the cause?”

For several moments, Elrond did not answer. His eyes turned back the Elrohir and saw that he had not appeared to move at all. The only change was he seemed to have grown paler, if that was even possible.

“Yes,” he murmured. “He is dying. His grief is pushing him away from his body. He is longing for Mandos.”

Briefly, silence reigned in the room. Then, the only sound to interrupt it was the half wail, half moan that escaped Elladan’s lips as he collapsed to his knees beside his brother’s bed.