Part XVII

HOME COMING

Imladris

Lord Elrond had lost count of the days that he had stood on the balconies of Rivendell, searching the distance for any sign of a horse. His ears tried to pierce the enveloping silence, but to no avail. Rivendell was not empty. His sons remained with him and it was brimming with life. Still, Elrond could not sleep peacefully, something had been missing from his life for many months now, and his chest was a little tighter with worry each morn that Estel did not return. He had promised to be home by the late autumn.

Elrond had heard from his son when he had left Mirkwood in the late summer, informing him that he would go to the rangers and thence make his way homeward, bringing with him the prince of Mirkwood, Legolas. Now it was early February and ice was melting from the trees in gentle streams. As he stood, eyes on the horizon, a drip small like a pearl fell and gently squeezed its way down the back of his cloak. The tingling sensation of the sudden cold water shocked Elrond out of his silent reverie and he shook himself. Turning in surprise he felt the warm strong pulse of a hand upon his shoulder.

What he saw when he looked was like a mirror image of himself. Elrohir stood, anxiety seeping through the forced smile upon his ageless face.

'The darkness paints such hopeful mirages Ada does it not?' His smile narrowed into a wince. 'But at first light it is empty as always.'

Its seemed the Elrond had not heard him for his dark eyes were once more turned toward the barren horizon that yielded nothing across Bruinen. He had awaited the arrival of his son too often and with too much anxiety to be easy at this moment. Had this been the first time, he might have assumed that his son had merely forgotten the time, but Middle Earth was too dangerous and his son too daring and loving for that to be possible.

'He will come yet.' Elrohir pushed all the optimism he lacked into those words, desperate to ease his father's disquiet, understanding the fear he felt every time Estel rode off into the distance. He had seen his brother carried home, unable even to form his own steps too often to quieten his own fear now and he found it increasingly difficult to hide his thoughts from his father. 'He always has.'

Elrond's mood was dark and his terror dreadful. His son's fate had visited his dreams again the last night and he had awoken with black thoughts for his safety.

'It takes but one instance of no return, my son. Death takes mortals but once and never to return. For once Mandos takes them they go beyond the knowledge of the elves.' Elrohir knew this of course, nonetheless the bitter words did not fail to shake him and he visibly shuddered for the loss of his brother, as he father had done so long ago when Elros had left him for Mandos' Halls.

'Your words touch my chest like the steel of a knife Ada,' his son spoke voice deadened by his father's words, 'and yet even so I shall not believe him to be gone so far, for in my heart I should know had he passed on. He is my brother whether by blood or not and so his passing should move me beyond the anxiety I feel now. Do not allow such bitter thoughts yet.' His consoling speech was interrupted by a new noise far away at present but unmistakably the beating of large wings.

Remind me that I live

When the Windlord landed on the icy grass of Imladris Elrond knew and feared what he was to see. He could not look. Surely the arrival of such a marvel could signal nothing but the worst news. He could not bear it, not again, dragging his son from the very jaws of death as they bit at his clothes, gnawed at his fingers. Worse, he imagined that the winged messenger might carry… but no… he would not think it.

Gritting their teeth against the pain of the sight that both had convinced themselves was to befall them Father and son turned at the same moment. Though his father had seen the might of the great eagles of the wind before, Elrohir had never experienced their majesty. Seconds passed and he was too overawed to move.

Not so for Elrond, after his initial unwillingness he dashed forward, it seemed to his son that his feet barely moved the grass beneath them. What he saw removed his breath even before it had left his lungs. A heartbroken elf filled his vision, his face grey with dust or anxiety, Elrond knew not which. Wisps of blond hair snaked across his face wet from the tears that were falling freely. The tears marred his delicate, pale skin with grimy stains a dark reminder of the place he had come from. His arms clasped something tightly within them, so precious it seemed that he might squeeze the life from it with his hold.

Elrond first noticed the idle strands of dark hair. Next he took in the shreds of a green tunic turned dark and stained that still remained upon bruised skin. He knew the skin, changed as it was. He closed his eyes, refusing to take in the vision that blocked all other thoughts in his mind.

It was a voice that brought him to life again.

'Legolas?' Elrohir's stunned voice cried in recognition of the stained elf before his eyes. The Mirkwood elf did not even raise his head as he slid from the soft feathers of the eagle. His knees, still weak from grief found they would not stand and he settled in the cold grass of the winter morning without a thought for the bite of the cold grass through his thin tunic. Mordor had been stifling, ice was a blessing – it reminded him that he lived.

Elrohir had seen his brother beaten and broken many times, but each time did not decrease the awful jolt of terror he received with each vision. With each new breath the sorrow, the grief and fear for his life renewed itself. He could scarcely hold his own knees from connecting with the floor too.

The body was small, or so it seemed. Smaller than they remembered, with skin that seemed shrunk and stretched across the bones that protruded at odd angles. In places they peered through the skin. White like the whites of eyes they appeared, fixing their glare on the onlookers. They were stark in contrast with the dark bruises splashed like dripping paint across large areas of exposed skin, only interrupted by the map of welts and scar that tracked across the man's limbs. All areas of exposed skin seemed delicately patterned with such frightening decorations. Looking closer you might notice that a rib poked through angry skin, it flared red in warning. The rib was white and blank. Dark clouds like bruises danced across the chest and it seemed that all his blood was collected there. His eyes were firmly closed, his face spattered with blood, black as mud. Round his mouth there was a dark stain, it seemed to have mixed with blood until it was disguised but in places it remained like ink and not. There was a sour smell about it, it smelled like its colour.

Elrond strained his sight but could not tell if the chest still rose and fell. The scene before him was so silent, so terrible it was almost holy. He did not wish to break the moment, fearing what the truth of it would be. Leaning forward he took the wrist of his son in his hand. It flopped within his grip. He felt sick as he grasped the segments of bone within like broken twigs. Gently, he placed his fingers against the gnarled skin. There was nothing. He waited. Then there was something. A gentle tap against his skin, so dim he thought he had imagined it. It fluttered again and he believed.

Gently he took his boy in his arms. Like Legolas before him he had braced himself against the weight of his son. When his arms did not strain he had to step back a pace, so much weight had his son lost. Motioning to his son he turned and with his heart heavy at the task before him Elrond turned and made toward houses of healing.

By your side

The size of the bed alarmed him with its mortifying comparison with the thin limbs of its inhabitant. Elrond leaned down and placed his son into the empty white sheets with the skill of an artist. He feared every movement made to the body, lest the bones should shatter more than they had already. If he lived, how would he heal, might he be deformed forever from bad handling. If he lived…? The words tore his own composure, threatening his abilities to help his son. If he was to do anything he needed reason before all else. He could not be blinded by grief for his son.

On entering the building, a group of elves immediately came to the aid of Elrond. On noticing the man within his arms they held back a moment in alarm. Like Lord Elrond they had seen the sight of the injured man too many occasions before and like him each one brought with it the same horror and grief at a young life so needlessly endangered.

On regaining his composure, at least enough to recall what was needed; Elrond began barking instructions at his healers with impatient authority. He felt the man's weakening pulse with every breath that he took himself. The nigh imperceptible flutter of the man's chest was becoming increasingly erratic, straining his strong eyes Elrond could barely make it out. Blood was still fleeing from some of the wounds where his bones appeared; where it flowed it was tinged with black. There was some kind of poison or drug here that was causing it flow where blood should have stopped. His heart would stop for several minutes at a time before receiving a reminder in the form of a jolt from the body and forcing itself to beat.

One of his broken ribs had pierced a lung and causing wisps of air to come seeping from his chest. Elrond placed his hand on his son's damp forehead. It seemed that he touched lit coals. Sweat mixed with the blood thereon creating a sickly paste. Fever had set in deep like winter snows, ensnaring and trapping the body within its fiery grip. The eyes beneath the soft lids did not register light but jumped oddly in confusion as they were held open.

'Athelas, quick.' Elrond demanded so fast he did not breathe. The bones could be set later but he needed to discover what poison was turning his son's own blood against him and break this imprisoning fever.

Elladan and Elrohir quickly followed him into the room, determined to fight for their brother's life even if he did not. They busied themselves preparing the herbs for their father and uravelling the bandages he had demanded. Inactivity was their worst fear now, for it meant to them that the fight was over.

None perceived the shadow like presence of Legolas in the corner of the room, his grey tinged skin merged into the shadows and he seemed a spirit like presence watching over his friend. His eyes were circled black with fatigue but his gaze was wide and did not shift from the body that held all their attention.

Tell me a different story

A shadow against the wall made him jump, despite himself. The shadow was tall and slender, elf like it seemed. A worried expression flitted across Elladan's flushed features.

'Legolas you look awful,' Elladan spoke the truth that worried him him. The elf seemed to have no pride left in his appearance. Estel's blood was smeared across his hands and his tunic, his own had slid down his forehead and dried. His hair had long fallen from the braids that had held them back. Its golden strands were limp and dark, damp from his continual tears and covered in a thin layer of grey dust. The glow of the elf too was faint and seemed also grey tinged.

There was no reply. The elf, in his grief, appeared beyond expression.

'Go,' Elladan coaxed gently, trying to avoid the terrible pain within the deep grey eyes. 'You will do Estel no good half alive and he will be safe with Ada. You must rest or we shall have to treat you too.' Elladan tried to make light of the situation, pushing the elf with friendly jest. Legolas took a step back but did not leave. His eyes remained on the bed in the center of the room, looking through Elladan as though he was a sheet of thin glass.

Elrond's attention was aroused by the quiet struggle going on in the corner. He could see that Legolas, though exhausted beyond measure, could not rest. He motioned to Elladan to leave him and continue treating his brother. Elrond then made his way from his son's side – if Legolas was intent on remaining perhaps he could at least shed some light on Estel's condition. The poison particularly baffled Elrond and he knew not how to treat it. He feared to imagine how his son had been brought to this condition but he needed to know – even if it broke his heart.

'Legolas.' The commanding presence of the Elf Lord seemed to bring Legolas from his dreadful reverie. He turned and fixed his eyes on the desperate eyes of Elrond, a link of understanding and helplessness drew them together and although they used no words they felt one another's pain.

'Please,' Elrond begged at last, daring the courage to hear the answer. 'How came my son by these injuries. What has happened to him? Were you there?' Questions jostled in his mind for importance. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to stand by the side of his son understanding his pain.

Legolas expression crumpled as he swelled with the pain of his months of searching, the ache of finding his friend beyond help. Helplessness betrayed him and fresh tears sprang to his aching eyes.

'He was taken.' His voice faltered at the enormity of his struggle. 'I think,' his mind blurred and the words were lost in the mists of pain. 'I think, it was corsairs. They came in the night. I was drugged, he moved me while I slept.' Legolas weak body nearly fell beyond help at this reminder of his friend's needless action. His own proximity to the abyss slammed into him with full force, as he comprehended how he had come to being taken.

'When I awoke he was gone. I was sluggish and still suffering from the effect of the drug. I think it was the drug you smell upon his breath.' The smell, at this reminder filled his nostrils and he felt ready to vomit.

'I know not what it was but it was powerful. It blurred the thoughts until memories were forgotten. I was taken by it for many hours. I fear I do not know how much he has ingested. My mind was too hazy to follow and I fell into a deep slumber. When I awoke I believe he had already been carried many miles. Eventually I found their trail. They were took him to…'

Here the sentence abruptly stopped. Legolas tongue simply would not allow him to repeat the word that haunted him so. He rounded his lips and tried to spit the dreaded utterance from his lips, but they refused to oblige him. Elrond continued with his steadfast gaze upon the elf and lifted a reassuring hand to place upon Legolas' shoulder.

'Mordor' the word stood alone, echoing in the empty air. At its sound even the birds outside seemed to stop their twittering. The air in the healing room became empty and cold. All stopped their activity. Elladan and Elrohir stood, bandages unraveling in their hands, mouths wide as pits sank open in horror. It was the last word they had expected to hear and the most fearsome.

Elrond lost himself. He was there again, that moment two thousand years ago. He was standing on the brink of Mordor, the dread land, whose name none dared speak. He was looking over the Dagorlad preparing for battle. A change was coming; perhaps all hope would be lost. His hair fluttered in the wind and his mouth was dry with dust. Another time flashed before his eyes. He was standing with Isildur on the edge of Mount Doom. Mordor stuck to his hair and stung his eyes; he would never be clean again. Its evil stole the mind of Isildur and evil had been allowed to dwell. The land was barren and hopeless, grey like shadow in was unrelenting in the pain it caused, cutting their skin and filling their lungs with cold dust. He remembered.

'Mordor' the word slipped from Elrond's own lips amid the memory. His eyes pleaded with the elf before him, begged him to tell that it was not so. But no such healing utterances came from Legolas. He turned his eyes away from Elrond's horror back to the bed in the middle of the room and flushed with the pain of revelation.

'I traveled many miles.' He found the strength to continue. 'With me I took a boy from Gondor, that I had taken from the clutches of the corsairs. He too was thither bound. We traveled beyond the black gate and there… we found him thus.' He tailed off, his story seemed complete and his jarring thoughts refused to relive the pain any longer.

Elrond broke from his nightmarish visions to ask a final question. 'Was he thus when you found him, broken beyond measure?'

Legolas eyes, heavy with weeping turned once again to the elf Lord and read his breaking composure. He did not know whether to continue, for he felt already Elrond's strength weakening. He did not know how much more the elf Lord could hear of his son's fate.

'I do not know how he fared in Mordor, except that when I found him his body was thus scarred. The eyes of other slaves and my own heart told me that he had suffered greatly though I do not know how. I arrived only to see him fall. He fell beneath my own eyes and crashed with the ground beneath. A troll came, his foot hung over Estel, but I did not see the damage that was thereby caused. I heard only the crack of his ribs and the cries of his pain.'

Legolas was filled with a swooping sensation. He was falling again. His friend's body swung just out of his reach and he followed. Alone in the air nausea crept over his body. He could not sense the land. The freedom was intoxicating and terrorizing. He felt he might fall forever. His knees grappled once more with his weight and his heavy pain filled consciousness freed him. The elf sunk to the floor with a crash echoing Estel's own connection with the earth of Mordor. The freedom of falling was the last thing he remembered.

On the bed in the middle of the room, between weeping elves Estel did not know the battle that continued for his life. He was not a part of it. He burned with fever and firey visions of night. His dreams were red and black and he was slipping backwards constantly. He fell. He would never stop falling.

The end

(of this story anyway - but I won't keep you waiting for too long to find out what happens to them all! Wait for 'Twelve Memories')