Fic: (The Return of) ACOTER: Annual Conference of the Elven Lords, Chapter 8, PG-13
ACOTER: ANNUAL CONFERENCE OF THE ELVEN REALMS
Day 5, Night: Blood and Blessings
Fandom: LOTR
Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel
Other characters: Elrond, Celeborn, Thranduil, Legolas, Tauriel, Mauburz, Námo, Estorel and Lórindol (the sons of Erestor and Glorfindel), Elvoron and Ellón (remember them?)
Rating: PG-13 overall
Warnings: None. Humour, adventure, a wee bit of drama.
Spoilers: Elves are mentioned who appear in The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug.
Beta: Eveiya, who deserves the Golden Mirkwood Moose for this chapter
This chapter also contains a Dwarf. Please handle with special care and love.
Summary: Every year, Elrond, Celeborn, Galadriel and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. This time, it's a battle of elks and egos.
The Bruinen carried Tauriel quickly towards the waterfall. She didn't fight the current; close to drowning, she was in a dreamlike state, hardly caring what was happening to her any more. Before her inner eye, scenes of her life replayed, and for a brief moment, she found herself watching a very odd scene of her beloved Kíli, standing in a beautiful garden, accompanied by two Elves and pouring a bucket of water over Thranduil's head. Just as she was wondering what that was supposed to mean, she was grabbed and pulled to the surface, where she gasped for air. With breathing came pain, and with pain came the awareness that someone, something, had its teeth buried in her shoulder, and was dragging her through the water. She tried to struggle, but the creature shook its head and growled angrily. Her limbs were leaden and she was exhausted, so she ceased all resistance. At least she could breathe.
Something hit her face - a rope? Then a tug, another one, and within a short time, Tauriel found herself lying on the bank of the Bruinen, coughing up river water and wheezing, while a blanket was wrapped around her and somebody pressed a piece of cloth on the bleeding bite mark on her shoulder. Tauriel blinked at the many worried faces looking down at her, and only when she finally managed to turn her head did she realise that the growling beast who had saved her life was actually Lórindol, who sat in the grass, untangling his wet hair while a thin line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
* * *
Ellón's hand was still resting on Thranduil's chest, and he sighed with relief when he finally felt the king breathing again.
"He is alive - good. Master Erestor would have been unbearable for the next two ages if Thranduil had died here in Imladris, considering all the trouble this would have caused grand ada. Not to mention all the paperwork for him."
Námo arched an eyebrow and wrinkled his nose.
"Administration was invented in Mordor, my child, so please do not blame it on me. You have done well, rescuing the King of the Golden Wood; now please excuse me, I have important matters to attend to."
Ellón shook his head.
"What could possibly be more important than what has just happened here, sia?" he asked. "And what am I supposed to do with him?"
Námo pressed a kiss on his son's forehead, which felt to Ellón like being touched with an icecube.
"They will soon come and tend to his wounds. As for you, keep watch over Mirkwood."
"It would be of great help if you could tell me why I should do so, sia," Ellón grumbled, but Námo had already left. Ellón sighed and dropped back down on the grass, waiting for the rescue party to arrive and trying to invent a half-decent explanation for how the two of them had managed to survive the tumble down the waterfall.
Thranduil didn't move a muscle, but he was awake.
Sia, he thought. Sia, I have heard that name before.
* * *
Upon their arrival, Elvoron had likened Imladris to a giant anthill. That was now more appropriate than ever; it was an anthill, yes, but one disturbed by a giant boot. Elves, Men and Dwarves were gathering in the streets and taverns, discussing the events of the day; messengers were already on their way to the various realms, and everybody hoped to hear news soon.
"We must thank the Valar," one of the healers said while trying to apply a salve to a long scratch on Lórindol's forehead. "Such a disaster, and no fatalities!"
"The Valar?" Lórindol wrinkled his nose and quickly moved away from the spatula covered in a foul smelling green substance. "Rather be grateful for the unusually high number of capable swimmers per square mile in Imladris," he said. "And stop fussing, I am fine." He looked over his shoulder to Legolas, who was having his arm splinted.
"And we should definitely thank the Forest Spirits of Mirkwood as well, do you not agree, Legolas? Who knows what terrible fate might have befallen you if your horse had not shied just before that cursed bridge."
"Then my gratitude should be firmly with my horse - and your brother, of course," Legolas replied, giving Lórindol a blinding smile. "I wish I could thank him. Alas, he seems to have disappeared, just like the sons of Elrohir. But such is life - the ones you seek are elusive, the ones you wish to avoid ever present. However, my father will certainly wish to talk to them and express his gratitude."
"They will be honoured."
Lórindol bowed, then turned his back to Legolas.
"Good luck with that," he said to himself, knowing his brother and the twins all too well.
* * *
While the injured were treated in the House of Healing, Erestor and Glorfindel investigated the smouldering remains of the bridge. The guards of Imladris shielded them from curious onlookers, and they had invited a visiting Dwarf, Dûl, for his opinion on the explosive used. Erestor had sent a protesting Elrond along with Mauburz off to the House of Healing. The Lord of Imladris had suffered some bruising and scratches but luckily no serious injuries, but Erestor insisted he should go and see a healer. Erestor himself had quickly changed into dry clothes, though his hair was still wet, clinging to his shoulders like algae. Glorfindel was unhurt, but his ears were still ringing from the explosion, a rather unpleasant sensation. Both of them could have done with some rest, but they wanted to use the last light of the evening sun for their investigation. Above them, Aratoamin was still circling over Imladris.
"So, what do you say, Master Dwarf?" Erestor asked. "Do you think this was of Orcish origin?"
Dûl scratched his beard.
"Eh, that's difficult to tell, there's nothing left of the explosive, after all." He sniffed. "It doesn't smell Orcish, though. Whatever Orcs use to blow things up always stinks. It stinks terribly, and this-" He sniffed again. "No. Not Orcish. But you're lucky. Here's somebody who knows all about explosives. Wait a second - eh, Dûlla, come here!" He waved, and two guards were pushed aside by a portly Dwarf lady with most splendid whiskers, who made her way towards the group.
"Dûlla, my sister," Dûl introduced her with great pride. "If there's anything you want to blow up, she's the Dwarf to ask. She'll reduce a mountain to a pile of rubble within seconds."
"Well met, Mistress Dûlla," Erestor said, bowing politely. "I am Erestor, advisor to Lord Elrond."
"I knew festivities in Imladris were lively, Master Erestor, but I didn't expect them to be quite like this. Flying horses and exploding bridges - reminds me of my wedding. Well now, what can I do for you?"
"We hope that you may tell us where the explosive used in this crime came from."
Dûlla nodded. She gathered up her skirts and waded into the water, inspecting the beam. Then she returned to dry ground, picking up pieces of wood here and there, studying them closely, muttering to herself in dwarfish and shaking her head from time to time.
"Well now," she finally said, "whatever it was, it wasn't of Orcish origin, much too weak. If this had been an explosive they use in warfare, not only the bridge would be gone, but half the hill along with it."
She rubbed her chin, and the small bells in her whiskers chimed.
"If only we had more evidence."
"I can help with that, Mistress Dwarf!"
They turned around, and much to Erestor and Glorfindel's anger, a very cheerful Lórindol hurried towards them. He hadn't even bothered to change his clothes, he was wet from head to toe, and the scratch on this forehead didn't improve his overall appearance.
Glorfindel wagged his finger at his wayward youngest.
"Lórindol! Did I not make myself absolutely clear that you were supposed to stay in the House of Healing? What are you doing here? Are you mad? You are injured!"
Lórindol waved him off. His cheeks were flushed with excitement; he was obviously enjoying the situation very much and didn't have the good grace to even pretend to be scared.
"Ah bah, it is only a scratch. And no, sia, I will not return, the healers have more serious cases to attend to," he cut off Erestor, who had just opened his mouth to deliver a stern lecture.
"My apologies, Mistress Dûlla," Glorfindel sighed, defeated. "This is our youngest son, Lórindol. I am afraid his manners leave a lot to be desired."
"Oh, you are a female Dwarf? How exciting!" Lórindol gave Dûlla his brightest, most charming smile. "I have never seen a female Dwarf before!" He bowed. "Your whiskers - most splendid!"
"That is it. I am sending him to count spiders in Mirkwood for the next decade," Glorfindel groaned, but Dûlla was delighted.
"Aw, now aren't you the cutest little Elf!" She pinched Lórindol's cheek and winked at him. "If you don't want him, I'll take him with me anytime, Master Erestor, no questions asked!"
"Oh good grief," Glorfindel groaned, covering his eyes with his hands.
"Oh, I would love that! You must know that I like Dwarves very much! And here I have something which might be of interest to you, Mistress Dûlla. What do you think?"
Lórindol reached into the pocket of his jerkin and produced several pieces of stone. They were fractured, but had once been part of a larger, possibly rectangular piece. Dûlla took them, whistled through her teeth and examined them with great interest. Then she shook her head and frowned.
"That is not good. Not good at all. Where did you find them, dear boy?"
Lórindol gestured towards the large apple tree.
"There, in the grass."
"In what pattern? I mean - where they all in one place, or in a line, or-"
"A line, yes."
Again she shook her head, then she handed the pieces to Erestor, who looked at them suspiciously.
"I have bad news, Master Erestor. The device which made your bridge explode was definitely not built by Orcs."
"And this is bad news - why?"
She sighed.
"Because it was made by Dwarves."
* * *
Night had come, and with it finally some calm and peace after a day with far too much trouble and excitement. In Thranduil's chambers, Lórindol sat in a comfortable winged chair, sipping from time to time from a glass of Miruvor. Exhaustion had caught up with him, he was very tired, but for nothing in the world would he have missed the opportunity of a conversation with the legendary Golden King of Mirkwood.
There were more similarities between Lórindol's father Glorfindel and Thranduil than either of them would have liked to admit. Both were warriors, both had lived for many millennia, and both had learned that it could be of great benefit to let people believe they had become a bit short-witted through the ages. While Glorfindel enjoyed his performance as "tired, battle-worn warrior" very much, Thranduil had cultivated his act as the vain, choleric and eccentric King of Mirkwood.
But in truth, Thranduil was a great and wise king, with a sharp mind and a fine understanding of Elvish nature. He had a great power of observation, and he knew a fellow spirit when he saw one. It hadn't come as a great surprise when Lord Elrond had informed him, rather embarrassed, that his grandsons were unfortunately unavailable at the moment, but that young Lórindol would be honoured to pay his respects.
Thranduil was resting on a divan, a guard standing on each side of him. He wore a magnificent robe of dark green velvet and golden silk, hiding his body which Elrond's healers had covered in ointments and plasters. On his head, he wore a crown of white berries. His leg was broken, so was his collarbone, and even the smallest movement caused Thranduil great pain. He did not give anything away, though, and to Lórindol, Thranduil looked like calm personified.
"I am glad to find you so well, my king," Lórindol said politely, secretly wondering how in the Valar's name Thranduil and Ellón had managed to survive the drop down the waterfall.
"For that I have to thank the son of Elrohir," Thranduil said, and bowed his head. "He saved me, and his brother my people. And I thank you as well, young Lórindol. Tauriel is very dear to me."
He watched Lórindol carefully. Clad in a simple blue robe, his golden hair held back by two simple braids, the young elf was a picture of innocence and sweetness - carefree and happy. He actually looked a lot like his uncle Nonfindel at the moment, a thought which Thranduil quickly tried to shake off, for the last thing he needed now was a reminder of his heartache. Yes, sweet and innocent, and yet - and yet, Thranduil had seen the bite mark on Tauriel's shoulder. How was it possible that this beautiful creature had caused such an injury?
"Oh, they take to danger like ducks to water," Lórindol said. "I guess they had a lot of fun. I was happy to help, by the way. I suggest you learn to swim, though. You never know what might happen. But please do not declare war on the Dwarves now, though, for they are completely innocent."
Thranduil, who had a terrible headache, found it difficult to follow Lórindol's mental leaps.
"What makes you think I would declare war on the Dwarves?"
"Well, has my father not told you yet? It was established that the explosive device was of Dwarfish origin. But the Dwarves are innocent. That aside, I like Dwarves. They are fun, and courageous. Life is never boring if you are in the company of Dwarves."
"I guess that depends on your point of view. However, please know that you and the sons of Elrohir will always be welcome in my realm. And also your brother, for he saved my son."
Thranduil looked out of the window, where the first stars began to show in the night sky.
"Legolas is now a father himself, and so he begins to understand what it means to worry for your own child. There is no great fear, Lórindol, than the fear of losing your child. Once you become a father, you will understand as well. And I had nobody to share this fear with. I suppose Lord Elrohir would understand, as he is in the same position."
He gave Lórindol a sidewise glance.
"But I digress. As I said, Mirkwood will always welcome you."
"I am honoured, my king," Lórindol replied. "I cannot wait to visit your realm, for I have heard many great tales about it. Uncle Nonfindel's letters were hilarious."
Thranduil shuddered, and Lórindol stood up and bowed politely.
"But now I have to leave; please excuse me, sia is waiting for me."
Thranduil nodded.
"Of course. You have your priorities right, young one. Family always comes first. One last question, for I am curious about this ancient language, Lórindol. 'Sia' - what is the meaning of this word?"
Lórindol arched an eyebrow, which emphasised for an instant his likeness with Erestor.
"Sia? It means 'parent', my king."
Thranduil waved his hand impatiently.
"Yes, yes, I am aware of that. But you never call Glorfindel by that name, so it must have a special meaning?"
"It is the name for the parent who bears the child, my king. Maybe there is more to it, but I am afraid I have never been a keen student, and so I did not learn the old language."
Thranduil sighed sympathetically.
"A pity this language is now lost. I understand nobody speaks it any more?"
Lórindol gave Thranduil a big smile.
"Oh, not completely lost, my king! Rabbit is the only surviving full-blooded Mordorian Plains Elf, and of course he still speaks it. Haldir learned it from him, and then there is Bramble, their daughter. She knows all the swear words, if you are interested. The grandfather of my sia Erestor was a Plains Elf, but sia only picked up some words from Rabbit. So if you wish to learn more, you will have to ask Rabbit."
"I might do that, thank you," Thranduil said, having no intention whatsoever of going anywhere near Rabbit, that dangerous yellow-eyed creature, unless armed with six archers and a basket of raw meat. "I bid you a good night, Lórindol of the Golden Flower."
"Good night to you as well, my king, and sweet dreams."
Lórindol pulled the door to Thranduil's chamber closed behind him, and made a beeline to Ellón's room.
* * *
Ellón was sitting on his bed, braiding his hair. When Lórindol entered his room, as usual without knocking, he threw his brush in the direction of the young elf, missing his head by a hair's breadth.
"A miss is as good as a mile," Lórindol grinned, picking up the hairbrush and throwing it back at the blind Elf, who caught it deftly mid-air.
"How somebody with such impeccable manners as Erestor managed to produce an offspring as badly behaved as you will always remain a mystery to me," Ellón grumbled. "I would have thought this day was exciting enough to exhaust even you, penneth."
"I am tired, that is true," Lórindol admitted. "But I need to talk to you."
Ellón had finished another braid and reached for a clasp next to him.
"If this should be yet another ridiculous theory of yours regarding real or imagined conspiracies concerning Thranduil, I do not wish to hear it."
"A pity. Just so you know, I have figured out who is after Thranduil's life, but I am not here about that. I am here to warn you. Thranduil is on your track, Ellón."
"As usual, I have no idea what you are talking about."
Lórindol stretched his body in a rather feline way.
"Sometimes I really wonder if I am surrounded by dimwits. Just because I look like I have just fallen directly from the Golden Tree of Gondolin and do not sport pointed teeth and long black hair like my brother, people tend to forget that we have the same parents. And with that, the same ancestors."
Ellón narrowed his eyes.
"What do you mean by that?"
"By that I mean that my Plains Elf heritage is as strong as Estorel's, maybe even stronger. I just do not look like it, and people always judge a book by its cover. That is fine by me, it suits my plans. But my nose is just as good as Rabbit's, my dear Ellón, and I knew from the first moment you and your brother arrived here that you were not placed in a basket by Yavanna under a Mallorn tree! You can tell that story to Lindir, he might believe it - I do not!"
Ellón pointed his hairbrush angrily at Lórindol.
"Not another word. I will not discuss my parentage with you."
"Yes, yes, big secret, taboo, nobody may talk about it. Oh please. I am fifty years older than you, and yet you are already fully grown up! Do you really think nobody else has come to certain conclusions? I am actually surprised there is not more gossip about Elrohir's secret Plain's Elf lover! Never mind, I do not care, but Thranduil asked questions. For whatever reasons, the identity of your sia is of interest to him. So be careful. He is no fool, and he wants answers."
"That - is not good," Ellón said, more to himself than to Lórindol. "And he is wrong. So are you. Very wrong." Then he suddenly halted, as if he had heard something, and Lórindol could smell the distinct scent of nutmeg.
"Lórindol, you said you knew who is after Thranduil's life. Who is it?"
"Ha!" Lórindol rubbed his hands triumphantly. "Now you are suddenly interested in my ridiculous theories? Ah, but I am afraid you will have to wait for tomorrow, like everybody else. Tomorrow, I will reveal the big secret. So you better be there! And tell your brother!"
Before Ellón could ask further questions, Lórindol was out of the door, slamming it shut.
"I do not like this," Ellón said. "I fear this will end in disaster."
Námo nodded, picked up the hairbrush and began to brush his hair.
"Very likely. But remember: just because our enthusiastic young hero does not know yet how to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, it does not mean that he did not find the right pieces."
"Great," Ellón muttered. "More puzzles. Just what I needed."
You can read the story on AO3 as well.
Molly originally posted this entry at http://joyful-molly.dreamwidth.org/439770.html. You can comment on LJ or DW, using OpenID.
Day 5, Night: Blood and Blessings
Fandom: LOTR
Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel
Other characters: Elrond, Celeborn, Thranduil, Legolas, Tauriel, Mauburz, Námo, Estorel and Lórindol (the sons of Erestor and Glorfindel), Elvoron and Ellón (remember them?)
Rating: PG-13 overall
Warnings: None. Humour, adventure, a wee bit of drama.
Spoilers: Elves are mentioned who appear in The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug.
Beta: Eveiya, who deserves the Golden Mirkwood Moose for this chapter
This chapter also contains a Dwarf. Please handle with special care and love.
Summary: Every year, Elrond, Celeborn, Galadriel and Thranduil meet up for a conference in Rivendell. This time, it's a battle of elks and egos.
The Bruinen carried Tauriel quickly towards the waterfall. She didn't fight the current; close to drowning, she was in a dreamlike state, hardly caring what was happening to her any more. Before her inner eye, scenes of her life replayed, and for a brief moment, she found herself watching a very odd scene of her beloved Kíli, standing in a beautiful garden, accompanied by two Elves and pouring a bucket of water over Thranduil's head. Just as she was wondering what that was supposed to mean, she was grabbed and pulled to the surface, where she gasped for air. With breathing came pain, and with pain came the awareness that someone, something, had its teeth buried in her shoulder, and was dragging her through the water. She tried to struggle, but the creature shook its head and growled angrily. Her limbs were leaden and she was exhausted, so she ceased all resistance. At least she could breathe.
Something hit her face - a rope? Then a tug, another one, and within a short time, Tauriel found herself lying on the bank of the Bruinen, coughing up river water and wheezing, while a blanket was wrapped around her and somebody pressed a piece of cloth on the bleeding bite mark on her shoulder. Tauriel blinked at the many worried faces looking down at her, and only when she finally managed to turn her head did she realise that the growling beast who had saved her life was actually Lórindol, who sat in the grass, untangling his wet hair while a thin line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
* * *
Ellón's hand was still resting on Thranduil's chest, and he sighed with relief when he finally felt the king breathing again.
"He is alive - good. Master Erestor would have been unbearable for the next two ages if Thranduil had died here in Imladris, considering all the trouble this would have caused grand ada. Not to mention all the paperwork for him."
Námo arched an eyebrow and wrinkled his nose.
"Administration was invented in Mordor, my child, so please do not blame it on me. You have done well, rescuing the King of the Golden Wood; now please excuse me, I have important matters to attend to."
Ellón shook his head.
"What could possibly be more important than what has just happened here, sia?" he asked. "And what am I supposed to do with him?"
Námo pressed a kiss on his son's forehead, which felt to Ellón like being touched with an icecube.
"They will soon come and tend to his wounds. As for you, keep watch over Mirkwood."
"It would be of great help if you could tell me why I should do so, sia," Ellón grumbled, but Námo had already left. Ellón sighed and dropped back down on the grass, waiting for the rescue party to arrive and trying to invent a half-decent explanation for how the two of them had managed to survive the tumble down the waterfall.
Thranduil didn't move a muscle, but he was awake.
Sia, he thought. Sia, I have heard that name before.
* * *
Upon their arrival, Elvoron had likened Imladris to a giant anthill. That was now more appropriate than ever; it was an anthill, yes, but one disturbed by a giant boot. Elves, Men and Dwarves were gathering in the streets and taverns, discussing the events of the day; messengers were already on their way to the various realms, and everybody hoped to hear news soon.
"We must thank the Valar," one of the healers said while trying to apply a salve to a long scratch on Lórindol's forehead. "Such a disaster, and no fatalities!"
"The Valar?" Lórindol wrinkled his nose and quickly moved away from the spatula covered in a foul smelling green substance. "Rather be grateful for the unusually high number of capable swimmers per square mile in Imladris," he said. "And stop fussing, I am fine." He looked over his shoulder to Legolas, who was having his arm splinted.
"And we should definitely thank the Forest Spirits of Mirkwood as well, do you not agree, Legolas? Who knows what terrible fate might have befallen you if your horse had not shied just before that cursed bridge."
"Then my gratitude should be firmly with my horse - and your brother, of course," Legolas replied, giving Lórindol a blinding smile. "I wish I could thank him. Alas, he seems to have disappeared, just like the sons of Elrohir. But such is life - the ones you seek are elusive, the ones you wish to avoid ever present. However, my father will certainly wish to talk to them and express his gratitude."
"They will be honoured."
Lórindol bowed, then turned his back to Legolas.
"Good luck with that," he said to himself, knowing his brother and the twins all too well.
* * *
While the injured were treated in the House of Healing, Erestor and Glorfindel investigated the smouldering remains of the bridge. The guards of Imladris shielded them from curious onlookers, and they had invited a visiting Dwarf, Dûl, for his opinion on the explosive used. Erestor had sent a protesting Elrond along with Mauburz off to the House of Healing. The Lord of Imladris had suffered some bruising and scratches but luckily no serious injuries, but Erestor insisted he should go and see a healer. Erestor himself had quickly changed into dry clothes, though his hair was still wet, clinging to his shoulders like algae. Glorfindel was unhurt, but his ears were still ringing from the explosion, a rather unpleasant sensation. Both of them could have done with some rest, but they wanted to use the last light of the evening sun for their investigation. Above them, Aratoamin was still circling over Imladris.
"So, what do you say, Master Dwarf?" Erestor asked. "Do you think this was of Orcish origin?"
Dûl scratched his beard.
"Eh, that's difficult to tell, there's nothing left of the explosive, after all." He sniffed. "It doesn't smell Orcish, though. Whatever Orcs use to blow things up always stinks. It stinks terribly, and this-" He sniffed again. "No. Not Orcish. But you're lucky. Here's somebody who knows all about explosives. Wait a second - eh, Dûlla, come here!" He waved, and two guards were pushed aside by a portly Dwarf lady with most splendid whiskers, who made her way towards the group.
"Dûlla, my sister," Dûl introduced her with great pride. "If there's anything you want to blow up, she's the Dwarf to ask. She'll reduce a mountain to a pile of rubble within seconds."
"Well met, Mistress Dûlla," Erestor said, bowing politely. "I am Erestor, advisor to Lord Elrond."
"I knew festivities in Imladris were lively, Master Erestor, but I didn't expect them to be quite like this. Flying horses and exploding bridges - reminds me of my wedding. Well now, what can I do for you?"
"We hope that you may tell us where the explosive used in this crime came from."
Dûlla nodded. She gathered up her skirts and waded into the water, inspecting the beam. Then she returned to dry ground, picking up pieces of wood here and there, studying them closely, muttering to herself in dwarfish and shaking her head from time to time.
"Well now," she finally said, "whatever it was, it wasn't of Orcish origin, much too weak. If this had been an explosive they use in warfare, not only the bridge would be gone, but half the hill along with it."
She rubbed her chin, and the small bells in her whiskers chimed.
"If only we had more evidence."
"I can help with that, Mistress Dwarf!"
They turned around, and much to Erestor and Glorfindel's anger, a very cheerful Lórindol hurried towards them. He hadn't even bothered to change his clothes, he was wet from head to toe, and the scratch on this forehead didn't improve his overall appearance.
Glorfindel wagged his finger at his wayward youngest.
"Lórindol! Did I not make myself absolutely clear that you were supposed to stay in the House of Healing? What are you doing here? Are you mad? You are injured!"
Lórindol waved him off. His cheeks were flushed with excitement; he was obviously enjoying the situation very much and didn't have the good grace to even pretend to be scared.
"Ah bah, it is only a scratch. And no, sia, I will not return, the healers have more serious cases to attend to," he cut off Erestor, who had just opened his mouth to deliver a stern lecture.
"My apologies, Mistress Dûlla," Glorfindel sighed, defeated. "This is our youngest son, Lórindol. I am afraid his manners leave a lot to be desired."
"Oh, you are a female Dwarf? How exciting!" Lórindol gave Dûlla his brightest, most charming smile. "I have never seen a female Dwarf before!" He bowed. "Your whiskers - most splendid!"
"That is it. I am sending him to count spiders in Mirkwood for the next decade," Glorfindel groaned, but Dûlla was delighted.
"Aw, now aren't you the cutest little Elf!" She pinched Lórindol's cheek and winked at him. "If you don't want him, I'll take him with me anytime, Master Erestor, no questions asked!"
"Oh good grief," Glorfindel groaned, covering his eyes with his hands.
"Oh, I would love that! You must know that I like Dwarves very much! And here I have something which might be of interest to you, Mistress Dûlla. What do you think?"
Lórindol reached into the pocket of his jerkin and produced several pieces of stone. They were fractured, but had once been part of a larger, possibly rectangular piece. Dûlla took them, whistled through her teeth and examined them with great interest. Then she shook her head and frowned.
"That is not good. Not good at all. Where did you find them, dear boy?"
Lórindol gestured towards the large apple tree.
"There, in the grass."
"In what pattern? I mean - where they all in one place, or in a line, or-"
"A line, yes."
Again she shook her head, then she handed the pieces to Erestor, who looked at them suspiciously.
"I have bad news, Master Erestor. The device which made your bridge explode was definitely not built by Orcs."
"And this is bad news - why?"
She sighed.
"Because it was made by Dwarves."
* * *
Night had come, and with it finally some calm and peace after a day with far too much trouble and excitement. In Thranduil's chambers, Lórindol sat in a comfortable winged chair, sipping from time to time from a glass of Miruvor. Exhaustion had caught up with him, he was very tired, but for nothing in the world would he have missed the opportunity of a conversation with the legendary Golden King of Mirkwood.
There were more similarities between Lórindol's father Glorfindel and Thranduil than either of them would have liked to admit. Both were warriors, both had lived for many millennia, and both had learned that it could be of great benefit to let people believe they had become a bit short-witted through the ages. While Glorfindel enjoyed his performance as "tired, battle-worn warrior" very much, Thranduil had cultivated his act as the vain, choleric and eccentric King of Mirkwood.
But in truth, Thranduil was a great and wise king, with a sharp mind and a fine understanding of Elvish nature. He had a great power of observation, and he knew a fellow spirit when he saw one. It hadn't come as a great surprise when Lord Elrond had informed him, rather embarrassed, that his grandsons were unfortunately unavailable at the moment, but that young Lórindol would be honoured to pay his respects.
Thranduil was resting on a divan, a guard standing on each side of him. He wore a magnificent robe of dark green velvet and golden silk, hiding his body which Elrond's healers had covered in ointments and plasters. On his head, he wore a crown of white berries. His leg was broken, so was his collarbone, and even the smallest movement caused Thranduil great pain. He did not give anything away, though, and to Lórindol, Thranduil looked like calm personified.
"I am glad to find you so well, my king," Lórindol said politely, secretly wondering how in the Valar's name Thranduil and Ellón had managed to survive the drop down the waterfall.
"For that I have to thank the son of Elrohir," Thranduil said, and bowed his head. "He saved me, and his brother my people. And I thank you as well, young Lórindol. Tauriel is very dear to me."
He watched Lórindol carefully. Clad in a simple blue robe, his golden hair held back by two simple braids, the young elf was a picture of innocence and sweetness - carefree and happy. He actually looked a lot like his uncle Nonfindel at the moment, a thought which Thranduil quickly tried to shake off, for the last thing he needed now was a reminder of his heartache. Yes, sweet and innocent, and yet - and yet, Thranduil had seen the bite mark on Tauriel's shoulder. How was it possible that this beautiful creature had caused such an injury?
"Oh, they take to danger like ducks to water," Lórindol said. "I guess they had a lot of fun. I was happy to help, by the way. I suggest you learn to swim, though. You never know what might happen. But please do not declare war on the Dwarves now, though, for they are completely innocent."
Thranduil, who had a terrible headache, found it difficult to follow Lórindol's mental leaps.
"What makes you think I would declare war on the Dwarves?"
"Well, has my father not told you yet? It was established that the explosive device was of Dwarfish origin. But the Dwarves are innocent. That aside, I like Dwarves. They are fun, and courageous. Life is never boring if you are in the company of Dwarves."
"I guess that depends on your point of view. However, please know that you and the sons of Elrohir will always be welcome in my realm. And also your brother, for he saved my son."
Thranduil looked out of the window, where the first stars began to show in the night sky.
"Legolas is now a father himself, and so he begins to understand what it means to worry for your own child. There is no great fear, Lórindol, than the fear of losing your child. Once you become a father, you will understand as well. And I had nobody to share this fear with. I suppose Lord Elrohir would understand, as he is in the same position."
He gave Lórindol a sidewise glance.
"But I digress. As I said, Mirkwood will always welcome you."
"I am honoured, my king," Lórindol replied. "I cannot wait to visit your realm, for I have heard many great tales about it. Uncle Nonfindel's letters were hilarious."
Thranduil shuddered, and Lórindol stood up and bowed politely.
"But now I have to leave; please excuse me, sia is waiting for me."
Thranduil nodded.
"Of course. You have your priorities right, young one. Family always comes first. One last question, for I am curious about this ancient language, Lórindol. 'Sia' - what is the meaning of this word?"
Lórindol arched an eyebrow, which emphasised for an instant his likeness with Erestor.
"Sia? It means 'parent', my king."
Thranduil waved his hand impatiently.
"Yes, yes, I am aware of that. But you never call Glorfindel by that name, so it must have a special meaning?"
"It is the name for the parent who bears the child, my king. Maybe there is more to it, but I am afraid I have never been a keen student, and so I did not learn the old language."
Thranduil sighed sympathetically.
"A pity this language is now lost. I understand nobody speaks it any more?"
Lórindol gave Thranduil a big smile.
"Oh, not completely lost, my king! Rabbit is the only surviving full-blooded Mordorian Plains Elf, and of course he still speaks it. Haldir learned it from him, and then there is Bramble, their daughter. She knows all the swear words, if you are interested. The grandfather of my sia Erestor was a Plains Elf, but sia only picked up some words from Rabbit. So if you wish to learn more, you will have to ask Rabbit."
"I might do that, thank you," Thranduil said, having no intention whatsoever of going anywhere near Rabbit, that dangerous yellow-eyed creature, unless armed with six archers and a basket of raw meat. "I bid you a good night, Lórindol of the Golden Flower."
"Good night to you as well, my king, and sweet dreams."
Lórindol pulled the door to Thranduil's chamber closed behind him, and made a beeline to Ellón's room.
* * *
Ellón was sitting on his bed, braiding his hair. When Lórindol entered his room, as usual without knocking, he threw his brush in the direction of the young elf, missing his head by a hair's breadth.
"A miss is as good as a mile," Lórindol grinned, picking up the hairbrush and throwing it back at the blind Elf, who caught it deftly mid-air.
"How somebody with such impeccable manners as Erestor managed to produce an offspring as badly behaved as you will always remain a mystery to me," Ellón grumbled. "I would have thought this day was exciting enough to exhaust even you, penneth."
"I am tired, that is true," Lórindol admitted. "But I need to talk to you."
Ellón had finished another braid and reached for a clasp next to him.
"If this should be yet another ridiculous theory of yours regarding real or imagined conspiracies concerning Thranduil, I do not wish to hear it."
"A pity. Just so you know, I have figured out who is after Thranduil's life, but I am not here about that. I am here to warn you. Thranduil is on your track, Ellón."
"As usual, I have no idea what you are talking about."
Lórindol stretched his body in a rather feline way.
"Sometimes I really wonder if I am surrounded by dimwits. Just because I look like I have just fallen directly from the Golden Tree of Gondolin and do not sport pointed teeth and long black hair like my brother, people tend to forget that we have the same parents. And with that, the same ancestors."
Ellón narrowed his eyes.
"What do you mean by that?"
"By that I mean that my Plains Elf heritage is as strong as Estorel's, maybe even stronger. I just do not look like it, and people always judge a book by its cover. That is fine by me, it suits my plans. But my nose is just as good as Rabbit's, my dear Ellón, and I knew from the first moment you and your brother arrived here that you were not placed in a basket by Yavanna under a Mallorn tree! You can tell that story to Lindir, he might believe it - I do not!"
Ellón pointed his hairbrush angrily at Lórindol.
"Not another word. I will not discuss my parentage with you."
"Yes, yes, big secret, taboo, nobody may talk about it. Oh please. I am fifty years older than you, and yet you are already fully grown up! Do you really think nobody else has come to certain conclusions? I am actually surprised there is not more gossip about Elrohir's secret Plain's Elf lover! Never mind, I do not care, but Thranduil asked questions. For whatever reasons, the identity of your sia is of interest to him. So be careful. He is no fool, and he wants answers."
"That - is not good," Ellón said, more to himself than to Lórindol. "And he is wrong. So are you. Very wrong." Then he suddenly halted, as if he had heard something, and Lórindol could smell the distinct scent of nutmeg.
"Lórindol, you said you knew who is after Thranduil's life. Who is it?"
"Ha!" Lórindol rubbed his hands triumphantly. "Now you are suddenly interested in my ridiculous theories? Ah, but I am afraid you will have to wait for tomorrow, like everybody else. Tomorrow, I will reveal the big secret. So you better be there! And tell your brother!"
Before Ellón could ask further questions, Lórindol was out of the door, slamming it shut.
"I do not like this," Ellón said. "I fear this will end in disaster."
Námo nodded, picked up the hairbrush and began to brush his hair.
"Very likely. But remember: just because our enthusiastic young hero does not know yet how to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, it does not mean that he did not find the right pieces."
"Great," Ellón muttered. "More puzzles. Just what I needed."
You can read the story on AO3 as well.
Molly originally posted this entry at http://joyful-molly.dreamwidth.org/439770.html. You can comment on LJ or DW, using OpenID.