I know- it's been far too long, and the chapter is far, far too short- but I thought you all deserved to know I was alive- and pregnant. So. Number Two! ^=^ Enjoy the update and hopefully we can finish this up soon! (Hope-fully. Estel. HA. ^^) You are all amazing and I love you for every comment that shows you still care.

UPDATE: Thought you'd appreciate an ALMOST complete illustration of the twins' scene in this chapter- hope it does it justice! (Just replace dot with a period- )

emirichan317 dot deviantart dot com /art/I-had-forgotten-how-beautiful-548557797

Love to all!

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Broken Wings to Mend

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It had taken hours to convince Gimli to go and eat with the Rohirrim, but not a quarter-hour after his exit, the dwarf had rescinded his original agreement and ordered Aragorn to get him a plate as punishment and bring it back to Legolas' bedside.

Aragorn couldn't argue. From a healer's standpoint, it was the best choice, really. Gimli's presence while Legolas slept was, surprisingly, the only thing that stopped the dreams from waking him out of some much needed rest, aside from Aragorn's potions and soothing hands. A trio of fellowship they had been, and a trio they still were. The ranger never tired of visiting Legolas' corner in the Healing House, and he took his own rest next to the elf whenever he could spare it.

Whatever help the citizens of Rohan had required, Arwen had been happy to offer. A day ago, she had been playing with the children as they ate, carrying pots of stew and whatever meager fare they could give, and a few of the tow-headed girls in rags had been so enraptured by the elven maiden that she had allowed them to braid her hair for literal hours (until each one had their turn.)

A heated argument echoed up from the keep stairwell accompanied by swift footsteps, all too clear amidst Healing House's now silent eaves. Many had died in the span of the day, and the sounds of the hall had receded to make way for an all too familiar pair of voices:

"I am telling you, my lord, that you must wait for him below; they are still treating wounded-"

Gandalf's tone was quite enraged, but certainly not moreso than the chilled reply:

"And I did not travel all the way from my own kingdom in the dead of night, fleeing my own fields to the shame of my father's house, without reason. You will take me to him now."

There was no mistaking that fluidly thunderous tone tainted with Elven cadence, like a spiked iron mace enclosed in sleek furs.

Elrond raised an eyebrow in surprise and he felt his heart fall even farther. Knowing who spoke, travelling alone was a forbidden occurrence, so the fact that hewas here by himself merely showcased his panic.

He had come, as Gandalf had seemingly expected. Just far faster than he had hoped.

The Lord of Rivendell looked up at the doors to the Healing House just in time to see the wizard trailing a broad, regal elf with a fount of pale hair that flowed near to his waist. He was a tall being, and every bit the son of his father as Elrond remembered, ice-blue eyes stopping any soul he turned them upon in their tracks.

Aragorn felt his heart stop as he recognized him.

There was intense familiarity in those eyes, so like Legolas' in colour, but cold and hard in ways that the archer's never were.

The doors fell shut with disheartening finality, and King Thranduil of Mirkwood made his way with powerful, connected strides towards them.

Thranduil dwarfed the humans in every way possible: a living statue of a god treading ground beside the plainest of hobbits, or perhaps a falcon compared to dull pidgeons. A riding cloak flew out in his wake in a cascade of iridescent, forest-green and gold leaf patterns, his hair swirling about the sharp planes of his face as if recently flung into disarray by intense winds, only restrained by a wickedly curved crown clearly meant for battle rather than for holding royal court.

He was quite sufficiently armoured, and a few thick silken webs still clung to his gauntlets: obviously he had come to Rohan directly from his own warring against the spiders and other evil beasts invading his kingdom. His sword was unsheathed and in-hand as he came, and arrogance draped him as starkly as any mantle.

The King of Mirkwood ignored the humans completely in his driven pace, practically growling as he held himself in check enough to speak.

"Peredhil! Half-Elven, I demand answers."

Aragorn started in shock. One simply did not address the Lord of Rivendell thus.

Elrond looked not at all surprised, and merely gazed at the king as he approached.

"These Secondborn cannot seem to tell me the truth, so I seek other, more learned sources. Where is he?" Thranduil gave no quarter as he stalked towards them, the image reminiscent of a wall of volcanic fire creeping toward its intended destination. His chin was tucked under much like a snake prepared to strike, eyes gleaming with the promise of ruin for any undesirable reply.

Gandalf's voice was not quite a shout. "My Lord, I insist that you accompany me outside."

"No," he hissed, staring down the wizard with an air of sheer malice. "I will be put off no longer by your deceptions!" Thranduil spun toward Elrond in a motion that sent both cloak and kingly mane into a wide circle. This time the reply was indeed shouting and not without a hint of anger to the commanding roar:

"Where is my son?"

Thranduil pushed past Aragorn to Elrond, ignoring both ranger and Istar entirely, and Elladan began to stir. The healer watched in concern as his younger twin began to toss and turn as well, beginning to wake from the commotion.

"I will not ask again,Elrond," Thranduil spat, emphasizing each word slowly, building up speed as he went. "If your centuries in Imladris have not yet dulled you to senselessness, you had best speak!"

The room went utterly silent at what happened next, and even Gandalf could not help but watch with an open mouth as his friend and confidant did something that even Aragorn had never seen before:

Lord Elrond's frayed temper finally snapped.

The shorter, dark-haired healer whirled in a blur of robes too quick for Thranduil to react and slammed him against the archway so hard that his skull cracked audibly against granite, startling the woodland king into silence with his seething visage.

Aragorn and Gandalf stood agape, blinking like owls.

"Father-"

"You will hold your tongue until I bid you, Thranduil, or I will pitch you from this tower," he snarled in an utter rage that surpassed even the king's. "I have not fought so far myself as to allow your utter brashness in a House of Healing!"

Elrond began to rebuke the man again, but it was then that he saw what Thranduil's carefully furious voice had refused to show: the gleam of soul-deep fear that was eating the Elvenking alive.

It was enough to freeze him in mid-sentence.

This was not fear of attack, but rather a deep-seated terror of the truth: what no one dared tell him.

Elrond probed further and quickly found what he sought: there was a weariness that matched his own hidden beneath the mask of fury and disgust, and understanding flooded him. Obviously the journey thus far had been a result not of mere foreboding, but rather an actual vestige of Sight had woken in him, and Thranduil had left immediately, much as he himself had earlier, for this knowledge.

The king was exhausted, and the images were still with him; his expression both implored and threatened Elrond to tell him that his foresight had been wrong.

Knowing exactly how the elven father had felt softened Elrond enough to speak with an ounce of compassion. He released the brash king and closed both hands into white, bloodless fists, turning so that he could only see his profile.

"He saved my children, Thranduil. For that, I can forgive your recklessness."

The Woodland king visibly paled, head twisting to one side as if to escape the oncoming truth, eyes flickering in denial, and opening his mouth to stop Elrond from saying what he thought was coming next, begging him not to speak-

"It was a... harrowing... experience, and he paid much for it. The least we can do for now is let him sleep."

The breath left Thranduil as the healer finished speaking.

Sleep, he'd said. Not rest in peace.

Sleep.

His admission of Legolas' state wiped all anger from Thranduil's frame, and he suddenly seemed to lose his will to stand along with his will to shout. "You..."

The king's usually steady voice cut off in a near whimper as he laid eyes on him at last.

Blond, silken hair was spread out just visible on a pallet to his left, and catching sight of it, Thranduil fell all the way to his knees in heap of cloak, Elrond attempting to catch him by his shoulders as he fell, his sword skittering away across the floor with a loud clang.

"Thranduil-!"

The Mirkwood elf's breath left in a tidal rush, and after moments the strong hands finally began to tremble as he reached out to touch his sleeping son.

"Legolas," he whispered in a thousand-fold rush of gratitude, barely audible, his hands holding his youngest's as if they were the thinnest of ice crystals. "Oh, my son..."

Aragorn stayed silent as Gandalf smiled gently, exchanging a glance.

Elrond carefully placed himself next to his own younglings, watching with less reproval than he really wanted to. The elvenking had already lost his father in this selfsame war, and the thought of losing the last, most precious of his sons after the grieving he had already endured...

Perhaps a little lenience was in order.

Gandalf came behind Aragorn to suggest some bedding be brought; Elrond retrieved the king's sword and laid it lengthwise on the furs at Legolas' left. Building up the fire was taken over by Gandalf, with a whispered word, and fully-armoured, the king fell into sleep more befitting unconsciousness, still holding his son's hand.

Elrond rolled up his sleeves and removed his outer robes. "Estel, bring me the herb tray," he directed. "The King needs treatment. I need a sleeping draught, and another for exhaustion. I am certain it's been days since he has slept or eaten."

Gandalf cocked an eyebrow. "Drugging our guest, my friend?"

"He is not the only one in need of rest," Elrond muttered.

Aragorn ducked to hide his smile.

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The sons of Elrond were in a world of their own, in and out of dreams, until the third night.

Shock and fatigue would not eagerly wane, and the balance of the twins' shattered bond was not going to heal in the span of a song. They spoke of everything and nothing in their private corner of the chamber, mostly without words, privy to and heeding of no one else. Elladan was careful to redirect any healer or visiting Rohirrim back from whence they came, gently but firmly, and rarely did his hands leave his brother's body for more than a moment.

Then Elladan woke to find the bedding bare and empty.

"Elrohir...? Elrohir?!"

Where-?!

He panicked, scanning the room in rising fear until a snatch of familiar dark hair wisping out in the wind drew his gaze to just outside the doorway.

Elrohir sat on the top of the tower wall, fur-wrapped legs dropped effortlessly over the edge, perched gracefully atop the stone and enveloped in a thick woolen blanket to keep the cold from his drained limbs, facing the yawning fields. Seeing that he was neither in distress nor in pain, Elladan's heart gradually returned to a steady pace, and he breathed deeply once to calm himself.

Slowly, quietly, the twin rose to pad on bare feet to the keep wall, hopping up beside him and dangling his own matching legs over the edge.

Neither's balance suffered as the elder twin leaned into Elrohir's side, wrapping one arm about his back as the recuperating twin rested his head on Elladan's shoulder.

It was evening now, and the human's fires did nothing to blot out the cool, clear burning of the stars as they bloomed across a dimming lilac sky. They sat in silence, listening to the Song of the stars and breathing deep to catch the sweet scent of forest far off in the distance.

Elrohir's eyes would not leave the sparkling lights of the sky above. He was drinking them in as tangibly as life-giving water, as nourishment, as air.

As hope.

"I had forgotten how... beautiful..." Elrohir murmured, unable to finish for the awe that filled him. Elladan watched with contented patience as he fought past the lump in his throat.

Moments passed, the stars swelled and brightened as the sun fell away, shining in brilliant points of light against the deep blue silk of Lady Night's gown, and he could hold it in no more.

"I hear Him still, Elladan," the healing twin confessed, his disbelief lining his voice. "Illuvatar sends the choirs of the heavens into His stars, and..."

Elrohir could not speak above a breath.

"...It is beautiful."

He had never dared dream that he would see the stars again, and certainly not with Elladan at his side. Emotions he barely recognized swept him, burning his brain and his heart with equal fire, and the elf sighed a long, soft breath in place of all the things he could not hope to express.

The glittering light that shone in his gaze reflected all too clearly the fragility with which Elrohir had faced the world after his brother had departed, and Elladan could not help but wince. He saw flashes of bloody skin and fading eyes from the past day in his mind, and the older twin gripped Elrohir's shoulders tighter, causing him to turn and offer a questioning look. It gave him an innocence Elladan had not seen from him in centuries.

Elladan's forehead creased in a heavy frown, and Elrohir's features took on an air of concern when his brother stared without speaking for far too long. "Elladan?"

It took a moment for the words to leave his lips:

"Would you truly have followed me so quickly, gwanur?" Elladan whispered. "If I had gone on, and not returned... Would you have-?"

His throat caught, and his face froze in horror.

Elrohir's expression told all, and the tears came, unbidden.

Yes. He would have died along with him, if Legolas had not saved them both.

Before he could protest, Elrohir found himself wrapped in a stranglehold of desperate elf, Elladan's entire face pressed as far into his blanketed shoulder as he could manage, his breath emptied in a sob, practically crushing his nose against his collar bone, arms around his sibling's body like armor, quivering with shame.

"I am so sorry El," the elder twin's voice strained with the weight of his guilt. "I am sorry I tried to leave you... I am so, so sorry." The words ended in bitter tears.

This was a moment the younger twin had dreaded. Elrohir had known somewhere in the depths of his soul that, worse than to die protecting his family was perhaps the unthinkable: to survive. To face Elladan with blood still marring his hands, and a mountain of corpses to answer for. Not the refuse of a struggle for survival, but a bitter, ugly search for satisfaction, for simple revenge and nothing more.

Elrohir felt gratitude swell in his breast, but it fought with the blame he placed on himself. Right now, he needed to be there for Elladan, and inner struggles could wait.

It was literally a gift from the heavens. He would not waste that now.

Elrohir's own hands went around the back of Elladan's neck and head, stroking him, soothing him, caressing his silken hair with a tenderness that only love could provide. Elladan sobbed as he touched him, feeling the warmth he thought was lost in the void that marked his brother's broken eyes as he'd collapsed on the field.

Gentle fingers at his temple brought him out of memory and into the present before him.

"And I am sorry I was not stronger, El," Elrohir murmured. "I am sorry that I could not carry on for both of us, do what needed to be done until... until my time had come. I should have protected our family... myself, as well." His hands trembled. "I need to see the stars, El. The beauty of Middle Earth cannot be lost to me again, for... it still hurts. The Darkness spreads still and has not been dispersed. If I cannot at least have the stars, then..." He swallowed. "I may be lost to that Darkness again. And I cannot, I will not."

Elladan laid there with his head pressed into Elrohir's shoulder until he felt he could speak without breaking. It took a few moments, but he looked into his twin's face and spoke in strength, new tears of a different kind slipping down his face.

"We are alive, gwanur-nin. It is a beginning." His fingertips dug into the furs. "And should all else fail, I will give you Light."

They needed no more words between them.

But it did no harm to sing the elvish lullabye their mother had blessed them with an age ago.

The melody lilted like gentle smoke, and even the guards went still.

Inside the healing house, Aragorn had paused in his work to smile and close his eyes, if only for a moment. This was a tune he remembered them singing to him in the deep of the night when his height had been not half their own. Even then, he knew what the song had really meant for them, being of their lost Nana's make. He had always felt at home and safe when that song reached his ears, whether meant for him or another.

Among the Rohirrim, more than a few eyes moistened, and many closed as they took in the soft, pure sound of elven voices. The tune slowed those below them in their pace back and forth, as mortal and firstborn alike savoured the innocence of a single moment: the beauty of elven song.

Music had not touched the walls of this fortress since the hellish war had begun, and before that, perhaps for a stretch of ages that could impress even the Firstborn. War reigned too long and too often in the hearts and minds of those who occupied these chilled rooms, and even children had been silent for fear in this lightless cavern of the living dead.

Now in the void, the screams having faded, the weeping having at last died away, music filled the air, simple and sweet and reminiscent of everything that Middle Earth now toiled and bled for.

This was peace.

The song continued until one voice finished alone, as Elrohir slept upon his twin's solid shoulder. Elladan gently lifted his brother like a babe, wrapped in blankets and slumbering in need of so much rest.

The humans guarding the keep did not look him in the eye as they opened the great doors to the House of Healing for the emburdened elf.

He thanked them as he passed.

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