Posted: June 29, 2007
Title: A Father’s Love
Author: Catharsis
Type: FCS
Characters: Elladan/Elrohir, Elrond/Glorfindel
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Tolkien is the true genius. I'm just here for the fun. I intend no harm, no disrespect, and I make no money from this.
Warnings: This is a sincere, character-driven story, but does contain violence, Non-con, twincest, the works.
Beta: LadyHawksShadow

Summary: Elrond doesn’t understand his sons. What’s a very disturbed father to do?

*****

Late afternoon, on the Elven day of Mettarë, all was not as well as it appeared in the deep fortress of Imladris. It was a special day, marking the last one of the Elven year, and fell in the middle of their spring celebrations. Though a gentle sun bestowed its blessing upon every jeweled brow on this occasion, and soft breezes issued from the west through crystalline skies, something was not right, and everyone felt it.

But perhaps no one felt it more than the elf standing alone at the edge of a great field. Clusters of jovial elves surrounded him, but were careful to respect their distances, which his every step seemed to displace and keep perpetual about him. He stood apart, and this was accepted.

However, he wasn’t supposed to be standing at all, not on the grass with the civilian populace and guests. But rather, a terrace seat among the nobles had been prepared for him, cushioned between shaded pillars above all the excitement. That centermost chair, he quickly abandoned the minute he sensed something was wrong.

His gray eyes scanned the field, parting the far distance between him and his targets, as if it were a curtain of clear gossamer. A dark light could be seen in those eyes, if anyone had wanted to stare openly at him. Now was their chance, as his focus remained possessed and uneasy. Anyone who wanted to, could behold the Half-Elven without risk of censure. After all, there was no other of his like in Middle-Earth, save for his children, but even their divine inheritance, which was considerable, paled to his. Prominent, was the mingling of divinity and flesh seen in his presence. Even among his own kind, Elrond Peredhil, existed as a singular entity, for in him was preserved the distinction of both Maiar and Firstborn upon Arda. This mark, at once both dark and splendorous, shone in the depths of his ancient eyes.

In secret, some marveled to themselves, thinking they could spy qualities about him, qualities that once walked in the world, but were now guarded by the western sea.

Today those watching him could have their fill, for Elrond stared at the spectacle taking place before him, unblinking. And what he saw that day did not please him. Not at all.

As customary, he presided over the yearly Elven celebration of Thaliontur, a celebration of sportsmanship, held in honor to all Elven warriors. Elrond’s status as a wise healer, loremaster, and the once warrior, who fought and established the stronghold of Imladris in the Second Age, solidified his role in today’s affairs, as well as the respect of his fellow leaders, as far as Mirkwood and Lothlorien, who joined him today.

Presently, the event they were all waiting on, with considerable curiosity, was currently unfolding. Even he, erudite in his restraint, bristled beneath his normal composure. He may have been a majestic lord on this glorious day, in his wine-colored robes and a shimmering circlet resting above his severe brow, but he was a father first. Simply a proud father, or would’ve been, of twin sons displaying sporting skills of battle, worthy of their Eldar and Edain ancestry.

Unfortunately, today’s tournament in the three-week games, pitted the brothers against each other, but that wasn’t the problem. It should only have made the game more exciting to watch, the compatible strengths of the two elf princes, but it did not. As Elrond watched the competition unfold, he quickly recognized the stiff manner in which his sons regarded one another when they met on the field.

The entire population of Imladris and guests decorated the parameters of the playing fields in bright cheerful robes. But smiles disappeared from their radiant faces almost the instant the brothers clashed weapons.

The sport, called Angacuru, utilized flat spears and knives that were never meant to touch an opponent with deadly intent, that were nevertheless real. Between advanced opponents it was an exercise of speed and technique, its emphasis being to counter-attack through athletic maneuvers, rather than delivering assaults that would finalize the game too quickly. But somewhere at the very beginning, something did not sit well.

The sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir were known to be imposing warriors in spite of their youth. Just past their majority, they were exalted for having a mastery that seemed beyond their years. But today, they did not ally their strengths for the delight of their audience. Instead, it appeared they were trying to kill each other, the lord observed. Or at least, Elladan was trying to kill Elrohir.

A blow delivered by Elladan, with the blunt end of his spear, was fueled with excessive force. Not what the game was about. It left Elrohir struggling to get back to his feet. Definitely not the proudest moment in Elrond’s long, and disproportionately bittersweet life. Discord among the siblings was one thing, but marring the gaiety of Imladris’ guests, for their own petty grievances, he surmised, was another. Whatever was the matter with the two now? Obviously, a personal issue between them tainted their sportmanship. They appeared to give no thought to those who watched. This was self-absorbtion and conceit, to Elrond's thinking. Imladris was a refuge, a haven of peace and preservation of Elven values, not a stronghold for arrogant princes.

The loremaster crossed his arms. Perhaps it was time. No doubt Glorfindel, High Lord and respected friend, as well as Thranduil, the noble Lord of Mirkwood, both present for the games, thought it was long past time. They had as much told him so, imploring him to take the boys in hand, as if the twins were still children. Both lords were experts in Elrond’s shortcomings as a father, Glorfindel kindly, Thranduil, critically. Elrond would’ve dismissed both their counsel, unasked for, easily had it not been for the tiny ring of truth he heard echoing in their words.

He had never been an indulgent father, not overly so. Not with the boys. Well, perhaps on rare occasions. But he’d always known it was in their best interest to raise them with a stern hand, to prepare them for a world they would one day have to face, as perilous as it was beautiful. The memory of his absent wife, Celebrian, was the only thing that stayed his temper whenever trouble arose. He’d spent an age being true to her, and exercising great gentleness with his boys. They had been sweet children, how could he not, with their dark eyes holding so much light, and their smiles uninhibited with joy.

His wife, her soul wounded beyond his skill, sailed to the uttermost West without him, to the Undying Lands of Valinor so long ago. He’d always been loath to go against her wisdom, in spite of his own. Through all the distance that separated them now, such was their connection that her heart could still be broken, he feared. Still, she’d understood the need for their firm guidance. She simply did not like it. And now, were she present, she surely would’ve turned from the side of her husband and wept, knowing his thoughts, and what was to come.

Elrond’s mind was made. He would deal with Elladan. The oldest of the twins by mere minutes, Elladan had always been slightly stronger, and just a hair quicker than his brother. He lorded this over Elrohir, needing to prove it constantly, it seemed to Elrond. That was now apparent to all at the celebration. However, it was nothing new.

Being twins, they were well matched in skill with both blade and physical prowess.

Ordinarily, there could not have been a more pleasing sight among festive warriors. Elrond couldn’t help but overhear the remarks of admiration from his guests, and approved of them. Through these remarks, he was given a vision of his sons as his people beheld them, even if somewhat slanted by the more openly speculative females.

They were two handsome warriors, dressed in the regal arms of their House, their backs straight, and shoulders proud. From their tapered waists and hips, hung long cloth panels of identically, embroidered surcoats. Elven-mail peeked from the split panels. Their adroit bodies were forged not just by Elven blood, but also by athletic endurance. Their hair swept from their temples to rise into intricate ties, then fall, jet and straight down their backs.

Most onlookers supposed them to be equal in strength, sinew, and skill. Only Elrond knew they were not, exactly. But their identical deception held onlookers in awe, Elrond included.

Still, he knew before any, that something was wrong between his sons, who normally competed with great joy. Their delight was usually not to be hidden, even at the swing of a blade. The loremaster, watching his sons, stood off to the side of the field, arms folded in a kind of perpetual judgment. His sharp features found momentary relaxation when his sons began their fight. But now his brow and mouth set as heavy as granite, and just as grim.

Elladan’s blows were a little too harsh. The young warrior turned and jabbed with his elbows and forearms, using his fists least of all. It was the Elven way of skill, not to completely subdue an enemy with the stun of a fisted punch, but to draw the fight out, giving and taking as much from one another as possible. Of course, with a real enemy, the task would be to finish as swiftly as possible. But the eldest of the two twins slammed into his brother with an impact befitting a true enemy. Elrond raised an eyebrow.

It wasn’t that Elrohir couldn’t take it. Elrohir fought well. Fought honorably. It was just that Elladan’s force was much too unnecessary.

In the game, the first one to fall flat to the ground would be the loser. Elrohir had already fallen to his knees and caught himself twice under his brother’s demanding blows.

If Elladan wanted to end the tournament and achieve victory, he could have. But he waited for Elrohir to regain confidence, and then struck him a series of blows with his bar that clearly compromised Elrohir’s skill with his own weapon. The sound of the poles hitting together, conveyed the jarring force with which they were swung. The weapons resembled the halberds of Men, but were crafted of composite metals, allowing for a smaller size, yet greater strength.

Many moves between the brothers became illegal. But so pensive was the standing crowd of elves, as well as the noble judges in high, canopied seats, that no one dared to interrupt. All were captivated.

The excitement elicited from the onlookers was exquisite. No one was going to stop this match, however unsavory it had become.

But Elrond had a mind to do so. He was after all, the most appropriate official to do it. And yet he did not wish to be overly protective where his children were concerned, in spite of the promise to his scarred wife. Warriors cannot afford to be coddled. It could cost them their lives to look for gentleness or mercy from their opponent. So compassion was not the strongest quality in his eldest.

Elladan was fire; a great thing to be in war. And Elrohir was water, equally masterful, yet much slower to reach the searing temperature of his brother. Elrohir was more levelheaded. Elladan rushed his goal always.

Others had said it was as if the qualities of Master Elrond himself were divided between the two. What one had, the other seemed in need of. Where Elladan rushed, Elrohir sometimes hesitated a bit too long.

Perhaps this is why the two are bonded so tightly together, a thing not obvious at the moment.

Elrond asked himself, was this so with him and his own twin, Elros?

The next series of blows delivered against Elrohir were the cruelest of the match. Now the youngest twin had gone to one knee again, holding his side. His immaculate clothing was now dusted and stained with dirt and grass. His head bent away from the crowd, his face hidden by his hair.

Elrond recognized that particular bend of his youngest’s head, the way his shoulders seemed to narrow, their broadness humbled. While the crowd assessed Elrohir’s physical hurt and pain, Elrond knew that wasn’t the problem at all. That wasn’t the reason Elrohir wasn’t moving. Only he knew that Elrohir was making a fierce effort to conceal his tears. No doubt Elladan of course knew.

Young Elrohir knew how to hide it, knew how to hold onto his integrity in the face of defeat, Elrond understood. But this wasn’t about mere defeat. Surely, something more rendered the prince inactive. To anyone who did not know Elrohir as well as he did, it would appear the elf was only suppressing the hurt of his injuries, re-grouping his wits.

Elrohir lifted his head and stood. He held his bar poised for his brother’s next attack.

Elladan’s nostrils flared, as if his standing brother were somehow an insult to him.

Elrond marked the true rage in Elladan’s eyes. In Elrohir’s, simple hurt.

Why are they doing this?

At least Elladan was the one fighting a private war, in this place of public celebration, Elrond could see that. Just then, Elladan’s attack came swiftly.

Finish it my son. Finish it with honor.

But what Elrond saw next ended his plea for honor. Elladan swung with all his might and no reserve, bringing his weapon to bear upon his brother mercilessly. Elrohir could only lift his pole in defense, blocking what he could of Elladan’s force. But that force knew not the brother it beat to the ground. Elrohir could’ve been an orc for all Elladan’s effort. Heaves and malicious growls drove the younger from one knee to the support of his elbow only, as he defended himself with outstretched arm and torso.

But Elrohir could not stay his brother. Elladan’s pole slipped past Elrohir’s and met with a telling crack against his ribs. Elrohir’s ragged scream tore through the air, renting Elrond‘s heart.

Commotion ensued, but without applause or smiles. The noise that went up from the crowd was exclamations of shock, and guilty murmurs for having allowed the tournament to stray so far.

Elrond rushed onto the field, followed by others serving as officials. He had not intended to preside over the events as a healer, but he wasn’t going to hold back his skills now, for all had clearly heard the breaking of Elrohir’s rib cage, and all perceived in the final release of his cry, more damage not apparent.

As Healer, he knelt over his son with several others. Elladan remained standing, staring as if the uproar had nothing to do with him.

Pain forced unchecked tears from Elrohir. His body quivered. Sweat drenched his hair so that it clung to his face. Eyes squeezed shut, he could only gasp for breath. Bruises and lacerations left by the spear covered him. His bleeding hands drew into fists, clutching at himself.

Elrond had to use force to remove them. A healer from the Mirkwood side helped, holding Elrohir’s arms to the ground. Elrond did his best to contain his son’s writhing body, but pressure to keep Elrohir still enough for examination, only elicited more cries from the elf.

It was well into the night before Elrond’s ministrations allowed his son any rest. The healer was certain that exhaustion played the larger part in quieting him. That, and a strong sleeping drought. Nothing more could be done for the injuries. Those would heal quickly enough. Only rest was needed.

By noon the next day, Elrond felt ready to face his eldest son. He didn’t trust himself to speak to Elladan until his own blind anger abated a little. He’d taken no rest during the night.

He saw Glorfindel in the hazy morning sunlight. His old friend walked leisurely across the courtyard. Elrond stopped him and questioned, “Where is my son?”

The blunt inquiry was not a surprise. Glorfindel, of course, did know. He’d been waiting for Elrond to demand this knowledge all morning.

“He is taking the morning feast with the other warriors, my Lord.”

“Do you know if he’s been to see his brother this morning?”

“No. He has not”

“I see.” Elrond grimaced. The appreciative nod he gave the other lord, would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else, but Glorfindel noted its subtle grace and watched Elrond turn away.

Glorfindel smiled to himself, lingering to hold his gaze upon the lord. It wasn’t until a moment later he noticed storm clouds gathering in the distance, though the day was fairly bright. He wondered at the approaching storm, before glancing back in the direction Elrond had gone.

In the feast Hall, many of the warriors were finishing their meals. Mirth and cheer hung in the air despite the unfortunate events of last night. Elrond found Elladan sitting in the middle of it all, playing host to Imladris’ festival guests.

Elrond stood in the arch of two pillars, just inside the entrance of the hall. The morning light behind him cast him in silhouette to all those who were seated inside. But when Elrond spoke, they all knew who the darkened figure was.

“Elladan.”

The young warrior looked up at his father’s presence. Fresh into elven-manhood, Elladan was loath to confront his father in front of his fellow comrades. He knew what this was about. The Hall fell silent. He would not show disrespect, he had no wish to test his father’s patience. But neither would he cower under the doom of Elrond’s razor-sharp brow as it leveled down at him.

“I wish to speak with you,” Elrond said. Then turned and walked from the Hall. Elladan stood, throwing down his linen. He made no excuses, his fellows understood.
Elrond said nothing more to his son until they were near the gear-house, on the ravaged field where the two brothers fought the night before.

“Tell me, Elladan, how goes it with you?”

“Well, father.”

“Were you on the field practicing this morning?”

Elladan appeared surprised by this question.

“No, father. Why?”

“Pity. I would think that, second only to seeing about your brother, would be further mastering your talents, my son.”

Elladan barely concealed his annoyance, letting his eyes roll.

“I knew that Elrohir was fine in your care father. I decided to ease my practice today.”

“Yes, last night must’ve been quite taxing. You gave it everything.”

“Do you not commend me father? Are you not proud?”

“I’m proud of the honor that resides within you. Which I did not see last night. Why did you deliver such cruelty to your brother?”

His father’s reprimand was the perfect excuse to let his annoyance show fully. “That is the nature of the sport. Elrohir knows that.”

Elladan matched his tone to Elrond’s, a thing others would not dare to do.

“And he knows me well enough, he’s not a child father. The sport is not for those who whish to play, but for those who wish to fight. He tested his skill against me and lost. What would you have the finest warrior’s competition to be, if not cruel?”

They walked alongside the gear-house. Now the Elf Lord stopped. He answered his son. “I would have you lift your weapon in sport, not in anger, at your brother.”

“It was not real anger, father.”

“Yet it did real harm.”

“That’s-.”

“I know, the nature of the game.”

Elladan tore his eyes away. He would rather look upon the clouding sky than his father‘s accusing eyes. Elrond held the weight of the past great Ages in his eyes, glinting dark passages that they were. Elladan had always felt their direct focus upon him to be a burden under which he could not stand for long.

Elrond’s hands were clasped behind his back. Now they came forward and settled in their usual place, folding across his chest. Facing his son, he too noticed how rapidly the shadow of rain clouds were falling over the land, darkening the sky. The brilliance of morning appeared to be fleeing from them.

“It seems to me that you are ever seeking victory over your brother. Sport is one thing, but you play for dominance, and the game ceases to end. I have long seen this quality in you. We have spoken of this before, you and I. But only last night did I reckon your flaw to be as grievous as it is.”

“My brother will heal perfectly.”

“That is not the point.”

“Then what is?” Elladan grew bold. Standing as tall as his father, he challenged wills.

Elrond allowed himself a subtle smile, to stroke and calm his own growing anger. If he hadn’t had a plan, he would’ve slapped his son for such an insolent tone of voice.

Just wait, he told himself. My plan was not made in heat and anger, though I am vexed to wrath now. The plan is still sound, and shall accommodate my displeasure sufficiently.

“The point is, you are oppressive to your brother.”

“He can take care of himself. He knows how to stand up to me.”

“Again my son, it is not that he can’t take care of himself. It is that you crave dominion over him at all. You have ever done so. You chase away those who would win Elrohir’s friendship, and yet you deny him the full respect of your own.”

“My brother and I are content.”

“Nothing about you is content.”

“I’m afraid you would not understand our relationship father. It is not for others to understand.”

This hit Elrond on a deeply personal level.

“Do you forget that I too shared the womb with my brother?”

“No, father. It’s just that...”

“That what?”

“Elrohir and I are agreed in certain matters. His deferment to my will is merely his consent. It’s a game of sorts.”

Elrond saw the color rise in Elladan’s face. He interpreted this as anger, but Elladan felt it as something else. Something he wasn’t ready to share with his father.

“Why must you play games that keep your foot upon Elrohir’s head? Eru has bestowed grace upon you both, in equal measure, yet you are not happy unless yours is the greater.”

“I do not deny it. But if Elrohir has no problem with it, why do you? It is only our sport, rough though it may seem.”

It was time. Elrond wasn’t deterred by the first drop of rain hitting his cheek.

It will be under a gray sky that my son learns this lesson.

Elrond took up one of the two spear-poles standing just inside the gate of the gear-house.

“Sport is it? Then let’s you and I have some sport, Master Elladan.” He tossed the weapon to his son, who caught it in surprise. "This will be a great game, for it will not end until I think you understand my concern. Until it has truly sunk in.”

Elladan’s mouth fell open as Elrond removed his outer raiment, revealing the full, formal attire of an Imladris warrior.

“Father?”

It pleased Elrond to see the color now drain from Elladan’s face. Though the healer was ancient in experience and wisdom, he was not old. The dark cloth covering his mail, conformed to a frame very similar to that of his son’s. Perhaps there was a fuller girth to his torso, but it was the fullness and stature of maturity. His was still the characteristic, slender unique to Elven-kind, but sturdier and broader than his son’s more elongated physique.

The panels of his surcoat, formal warrior’s attire, conformed to his torso, gripped about his waist and hips in a wrap, then hung from the flat, plain of his stomach. There were knives sheathed in pockets, and other accoutrements of war fastened unobtrusively along his sides and arms.

Elrond clutched his weapon. “'Tis a pity you did not practice this morning. After last night, you should’ve had the wit to see what lay before you.”

“Father...”

“Command your weapon, my son. Your father is ready to for sport.”

Elladan could only stare dumbly at the mature elf, who only vaguely resembled his father, moving around him, beckoning him onto the field.

The field lay empty of warriors and their practice all that morning. The calm served as a much needed intermission from the over zealousness of the night before.

Only a few archers were practicing at the far end of it. They were distracted from their targets by the sight of the loremaster preparing to duel with his son. None of them were accustomed to seeing this great lord in the gear of a common warrior, though warrior he was reputed to be.

Elladan’s feet felt laden with chains as he followed Elrond.

“I do not want to do this father!”

“But this is your game. You were eager enough to wield your might last night.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

When they reached the center of the field, Elrond faced his son squarely, crossing his arm over his chest in a ritual gesture to his opponent.

Light drizzle now sprinkled around them, beginning to muddy the field.

“It’s raining.”

“Yes, isn’t it splendid? It will add challenge to our game.”

Elladan brooded. “Don’t do this father.”

Elrond was now a stranger to his son. As if to shake Elladan out of his piteous stupor of disbelief, Elrond delivered the first assault, smacking the flat end of the pole’s spear against the side of Elladan’s face.

This was real. The young elf had never fought his father before, never wanted to. Only in jest, or training had he ever dared to lift a weapon in the general direction of Elrond. Elladan held the side of his face, his head ringing, blood already flowing.

Elrond crouched in a position to spring. “You would do well to defend yourself Elladan. As you forced your brother to defend himself last night.”

With that, he did spring, brandishing his weapon across Elladan’s shoulder, and spinning to catch the elf with his elbow, in the ribs.

On the ground, Elladan clutched his own weapon. The blinding heat that pushed wetness to his eyes came more from confusion than from pain. Though the pain was ample.

Getting to his feet, it was all he could do to block Elrond’s descent upon him. His legs had not had time to steady themselves and he stumbled backwards from a succession of quick assaults. But he managed to block them this time, everyone. Still, the black gleam in his father’s eyes didn’t improve his confidence very much. He barely had time to catch his breath when Elrond’s pole forced him into action again. It was only under the deluge of his father’s blunt force, the impact of pole on pole, that he was left beyond any doubt that he was unequal in his father’s strength.

The third time he picked himself up from the ground, he decided that he could, and would, match this ancient warrior, if nothing else, in ferocity. He seethed as he spoke.

“This has nothing to do with honor! You seek to punish me for besting your favorite son.”

He lunged, scoring his first direct hit upon Elrond since beginning. But Elrond was sturdier than Elladan. Athletic excellence was refined in Elrond, whereas, his son’s athleticism was still subject to the sporadic energy of residual adolescence. There was instability in Elladan’s form, over excitement. Fear perhaps.

Elrond’s smiled a genuine smile. “Are you not enjoying this game?”

“This is unfair father. My brother is my match in strength and skill.” Elladan said, ducking under Elrond’s swing.

“But your inferior in deserving respect and honor?”

Elrond’s pole caught Elladan’s back. The pain blurred his vision. His pole flew from his hands.

“Wait! Please father.”

Elrond kicked the pole back to him.

Elladan didn’t want to retrieve it from the mud at first. He wondered if his father would hit him unarmed. Was his chance safer without the weapon?

A crowd formed on the outskirts of the field. Necks strained to get a better look through the rain at the warriors.

Everyone knew what was happening. Master Elrond was dealing a harsh lesson to his eldest. A hushed quiet wavered throughout, for people knew they should not watch Elladan’s punishment, out of respect, affording him some dignity. It was no light thing to shame an elf. And this wasn’t at all like the gentle Healer they were used to.

Some whispered, “The boy is mature. He is too old to be punished.”

Others said, “That is why he faces the punishment of a mature elf, and not the proper discipline of a child.”

All shook their heads, but could not look away. On the field the rain poured. Elladan’s spirit sagged as heavily as his drenched clothes. Still he mustered and strove to protect himself from his father.

Why was Ada doing this to him?

Elladan did well, but he grew tired. Only in real battle had he endured the duress of long and intense conflict. He had been ready in those times, prepared. And never was he on the opposite side of Elrond’s love.

That’s what it felt like. Though his body was cracked and broken, the pain he felt more was his father’s hatred. How else was he supposed to interpret the blows coming at him? Elrond’s teeth bared as though he faced a killer, and not his own son.

Elladan watched, as all of his father’s weight and rage went into the swing aimed at him. He rolled, reaching for his lost weapon. He surprised his father and himself when his pole took a hard crack behind Elrond’s ear.

Elladan made the mistake of stopping to check on his father. Elrond bent, grasping his knee to steady himself.

“Father?”

Elladan’s concern met with cold steel, not the pole Elrond was still holding in his other hand, but a knife. The blade stopped inches from Elladan's white face and wide eyes, blocked by the witless lifting of Elladan’s spear-pole.

Blades were not typically used in the contest. They were only present in the event that master opponents reached a level beyond poles. When strength and poles had not brought one of them down, the most advanced turned to blades and daggers. If the contestants had been human, many deaths would call for the banning of such games. But being elves, mortal wounds were rare, and fools did not dare join in such dangerous competition. This was the highest level of mastery, the level of dodging knives, and spinning off of blades unharmed.

Elladan had seen the Mirkwood prince, Legolas, do it many times, always without so much as a cut upon his clothing. That prince made it look like the most graceful act in the world, using motion and speed in a way that even his own Elven-kind found astounding.

But Elladan was not that blond prince. He was the prince who excelled in traditional combat. His hair, darker than his father’s, hung like a wet, dark veil in the rain, as he warded off Elrond’s blows. Exhaustion pulled at him.

Elrond showed no sign of slowing down. Elladan stumbled, not having a blade of his own. But he held Elrond off with his spear. When he’d gained some distance between himself and his father, in a last effort to give the deadly game his best fight, he threw the spear as it was meant to be thrown, and not merely using it as a secondary weapon. He wasn’t really thinking to kill his father; he was thinking survival. He had to survive the game, after all.

So he, and the crowd, watched with disbelief and horror as the spear soared murderously at the lord. And watched with even more disbelief, when Elrond caught it.

In a real competition, applause would’ve broken out. A few were tempted. But Elrond’s expression was too grave for anyone to breathe a sigh of relief.

Elrond threw the spear back, aiming it at Elladan’s feet. Elladan’s reflexes were taxed, and the weapon met him right were he stood. He closed his eyes, wanting to sink to his knees. He was relieved he had not hurt his father. But he feared what this meant as well.

“Elladan.”

The younger opened his eyes at his opponent’s commanding shout.

“Meet me well,” Elrond ordered. Elladan grasped the spear returned to him, and summoned the ambition to charge forward.

Many of those peace-loving elves watching, turned away. Many witnessed the tragedy.

Tragic not because any life was lost, but because the golden, bountiful delight that had ever shone in the Elven realms, lingering gifts from the Valar themselves, now grew as dim as slate. And almost unbearable to look upon.

For Elrond was not only the Lord of Imladris, but also bearer of one of the great rings bestowed to the elves, Vilya, the ring of Air. It’s magic was tied to the land of Imladris, as Elrond himself ruled it. This was not commonly known, even to his own people. But the fairness of that day, and that land, faltered under the Lord’s rage.

It was the breaking of Elladan that ruled the moment.

His anguish was as the eclipse of the moon covering the sun, and just as dark. One had to will bravery to look upon Elrond’s punishment, for the young elf was revealed to be only a boy before the ancient stature of his father, as his father beat him down with both spear and flat blade.

Adolescence could still be heard in the strain of Elladan’s cry as he fell to the ground, in stages, under Elrond’s blows. Like his brother, he continued to fight as he dropped at last to his knees, then forced upon his back, then crying out to the heights from which the rain fell as he twisted from his father’s final blows.

He lost consciousness before he could feel that he was in Elrond‘s arms, and those arms were holding him tight.

Hands wrestled. Elrond allowed himself to be pulled away by Celeborn and Thranduil. As they coaxed him away, making room for the other healers who appeared, he forbid himself to look back at what he’d done.

*****

The tournament was not the same after the brutal darkness of that rainy day. The three-week period of the games and festivities did not quite recover its exuberance, though champions were still glad to be crowned. Elrond made a grievous apology before the guests in his Hall at what they’d witnessed.

He was sorry, he said, not for his son’s harsh lesson, but that they, his guests, had to bear the sight of it.

“You also have families of your own. And you know that disharmony is as much the face of kindred as is harmony. As my guests, you have a right to know that I am not proud of my actions towards my eldest, or marring the splendor of our celebrations, but neither would I soften my sentence upon him.”

The lord’s decorum did not waver. Some who watched from their meals were cold. Some were sympathetic. Arwen Undómniel, the daughter of the lord, put a brave face on her indecision, as did most.

She had not been there to witness the fight between her brother and father. She was with her youngest brother, looking over him. She had stared, lost to see the sight of Elladan’s body as they brought him to the adjoining room that day.

Now she stared at her father, as he offered his apologies, but not giving an inch in his integrity. She could not blame him. Leaders, especially ages-old leaders, do not bow to the threat of being mistaken. They learn. They go on. They must be a rock for their people; it’s very foundation in fact.

Neither do they succumb to such reckless violence, a wholly different opinion announced in her heart. Though both Elladan and Elrohir were almost fully healed in two days, it pained her to have seen them both helpless and wounded in that brief time. Not even in true battle had they suffered such bodily harm, so very masterful her brothers were. With the exception of meeting against the hands that taught them. A healer’s gentle hands.

Arwen prayed that it was all over and peace could again settle in Imladris, now that the games were over.

She glanced over at the two figures sitting at the right of her father. Elladan’s and Elrohir’s manners revealed nothing of the devastation suffered almost two weeks ago.

Indeed. The twins’ serene masks could not be breached by any whose gaze tried to peer through.

The young elves listened to their father’s speech as if it had nothing to do with them. Only Elladan’s clinched fist at the edge of the table revealed otherwise.

Elrond continued, “To govern a family is a precarious leadership, as well as a great blessing. As you, my honored guests and champions, depart from my home, may you go therefore to blessings of your own. If you must take with you the memory and vision of the pain you have witnessed, then take also the glory of our strength and healing, as my children and I are seated at this meal together, in peace. May this be light enough to see your return to Imladris in the coming year.”

Elrond raised his goblet. “Valar keep our Elven Realm. May it hold the Light and Song, and Truth, of Eru, until the End of All Things.

Everyone drank from their cup.

The guests were gone from the Last Homely House. Things were getting back to normal, as best as they could.

Elrond considered that this year’s event was a success, in spit of everything. But he was not aloof to the way his sons now avoided him. They spent very little time in the house. Their duties were carried out efficiently and economically, with not an inch of genuine expression given to their responsibilities.

It wasn’t like them.

Even if they were angry with him, something seemed amiss about their silence.

Elrond and Glorfindel were seated outside the lord’s study, upon an open terrace. Glorfindel tried to be helpful.

“Perhaps they are humbled, my Lord. They are settling into their majority and would rather enjoy calm waters for a bit. And they are still healing. Your sons are proud; their bodily wounds are trivial compared to their inner wounds.”

Elrond kept a steady gaze on him. “That doesn’t explain Elrohir’s behavior.”

“Of course it does. Elrohir is empathetic towards his brother, you know that. No matter what Elladan does to him, Elrohir is quick to forgive and say that it was his very own fault.”

“That’s what I don’t like. When they were children I tried to rectify these qualities in them both. I finally gave up, seeing that this is who they were. Who am I to question Ilúvatar’s creations? They were so happy then, it was easy to dismiss my concerns. Chaos knows its own order, my beloved always said to me. I would that she could see the chaos today. Now there is no such joy in their rivalry, their foolery. Their games grow more and more disturbing. Elrohir becomes a willing martyr at the hands of one who should love him. I don’t understand it. And now their spirits wane.”

“Their spirits are not broken.”

Elrond took comfort in his friend’s words, but the truth gnawed at him.

The two were seated before a view of the courtyard below. In it, the staff and clan of Imladris went about their cares. But two figures stood out from the rest. Elrond’s tall sons removed themselves from the court path, and veered into an alcove on the south quarters. They seemed to be in some non-verbal debate. Elrohir had first jerked away from his brother’s grasp, only to have Elladan follow him into the shadows of the alcove.

Elrond and Glorfindel looked on with interest.

“What do you suppose it is, Glorfindel?”

His old friend shrugged. “Things are back to normal. The twins have ever preferred their own complex company.”

Elrond grimaced. It had not always been that way.

“I suspect my Eldest is still taking liberties with his brother. He has learned nothing.”

The loremaster did not see Glorfindel’s eyes bulge.

Elrond continued to watch the shadowed alcove.

“No, Elladan’s nature has not changed. He is not happy unless Elrohir is beneath his heal.”

“Perhaps it only appears that way,” put in Glorfindel. “Why are you so sure Elrohir is being overrun?”

Elrond raised an eyebrow at the other elf. “Because I know my sons.”

Glorfindel sighed, “Forgive me my Lord, but I cannot hold my tongue any longer. You and I have shared the ages, I claim my right to speak freely of your children.”

“Then by all means, do so.” Elrond’s jaw stiffened.

Glorfindel was not stupid. He knew he was walking on dangerous ground.

“You do not know your sons as well as you think. I have been a mentor to them. I have watched them without the bias of one who has brought them into the world, though I love them in my own right. It is only apparent that Elladan bullies his gentler brother. Elladan is fire, as we have all agreed. His rashness kindles quickly, before all. But Elrohir’s calm is as misleading as the sea herself. However, this is much more subtle, and nearly invisible next to his brother’s flame. I would say that it is just as perilous.”

Elrond received these words with suspicion. His friend’s tone sounded haughty, as if a joke lay somewhere behind his words.

“Speak plainly, Glorfindel. You clearly are privileged to knowledge I do not have.”

“Of course you have it. It is under your nose, Peredhil. It compromises your approval of your eldest son.”

Now anger flashed across Elrond’s face. He turned from the window to give Glorfindel his complete, daunting attention.

The seasoned elf braced himself. “If you would know the depths of your children, watch them when they think they are not being watched. As you just were, but more so. You will see that young Elrohir can be as cunning as his brother. He may be just shy of Elladan in physical strength, but he has strength his fiery brother is no match for. You will see that perhaps Master Elladan has just cause to lose patience with Elrohir."

“What do you know? You continue to speak in hints.”

“My speech reflects only the hint you see when you look upon your fine sons, for neither is what he seems.”

“Are you saying my sons are of false honor?”

“Nay my Lord. I am only saying there is more to them than you now perceive. And your short sight sees only the foreground and not that which lies behind it.”

It took great will for Elrond to speak calmly. Glorfindel had some nerve.

“So share with a short-sighted father what you yourself perceive.”

“Peredhil. To do so would overstep my bound, to both you and the young masters.”

“You have, as you said my friend, earned the right to step those bounds.”

“Already you are wrathful towards me.”

“You are speaking of my sons. I cannot pretend to be undisturbed.”

“And I cannot pretend you would hear the truth from me, without striking.”

Exasperated, Elrond turned away from his old friend. After a few minutes, he trusted himself to speak.

“I am the father of a lost House. Why do I not know the source of my children’s unrest? I am thought to be wise among elves, yet for all my wisdom, I am bewildered.”

“Your children’s unrest? You do not know the source of such unrest because it is a thing you have never ventured to know. As children, they may have shown you their hearts openly. But as mature Elven-Men, they are not so naive. You have never asked to know the depths of their hearts since they have increased in physical stature, so they show you what is acceptable."

“Then I know what I must do.”

“And that is?”

“Speak with them. Learn what it is I’m missing that binds them in disharmony. I have acted with a firm hand, now I shall act with a gentle one.”

Glorfindel regarded Elrond, unconvinced. He wanted to prolong the issue, not trusting that Elrond fully understood. But instead, he answered, “Very good, my dear Peredhil.”

Elrond spoke to his son’s separately, in hopes of discouraging the influence they have upon one another. He caught Elrohir first, by the river, where the falls could be seen in the glory of their spray.

Elrohir, surprised to have his father join him, offered Elrond a genuine show of welcome. Elrond sat down on the wet boulder next to him.

“I do not wish to intrude on your solitude, quiet one.”

“Not at all Ada. Join me. Though I wonder what grave matter has brought you from your halls.”

Elrond cracked the slightest smile at Elrohir’s jest.

“Grave matter indeed. I’ve been negligent to the company of my sons. That’s all. I wish to sit in your presence and take delight in the mature elf you have become.”

Elrohir laughed. “Over doing it a bit Ada. Does this have anything to do with the contest? I told you not to worry. All is well with me."

Elrond’s heart lightened. He watched the beads of water-spray cling to the surface of Elrohir’s jet hair. Dark as pitch, he thought. As the peak of night. His son’s qualities were worthy of the Valar.

“And things are well between you and your brother also?”

“As well as they’ve always been, Ada.”

Elrond hid his wince.

“And has your brother forgiven me yet?”

“He’s told you he has, Ada.”

“Ah, but has he truly? No elf’s pride recovers that quickly.”

Elrohir was silent. Then, “He wants to forgive you. But it still hurts him.”

Elrond swallowed this. It was no more than he expected.

“And you, Elrohir? Do you understand why I did it? Do you truly forgive me for it?”

“I’ve told you truthfully. But you don’t need my forgiveness, Ada. And I think I know why you did it. You wanted him to know what it feels like to be the rabbit in the trap. It is difficult for you to watch us together, I know.”

“Yes. Why is it that there always appears to be some unseen battle the two of you are locked in? You were not always so. You were once playful and quick to laughter together. What has happened on your journey to adulthood? Where is that joy?”

Elrohir turned a pensive expression away from his father. The setting sun gave him a moment to decide on his response. Its radiance captured both their attention.

Finally, “ Ada I don’t know what to tell you. It is as if my brother and I come from a robin’s egg, but were placed in a blue bird’s nest. We are not as even we expected to be. If our nature confuses you, it confuses us more. I can only hope we maintain the honor that goes before us, though we sometimes pit ourselves against one another.”

Elrond asked, “So you blame him for nothing? You accept the crucible you share with him? I’ve seen his cruelty often, and have held my tongue. I cannot protect you if you see no need for your own defense.”

“ Ada, you make too much of our discord.”

“I perceive danger in your brother’s greed for dominance.”

“You mustn’t worry.”

It was clear Elrohir wanted nothing more to do with the subject. So Elrond sat with him in a contemplative silence. The sun slowly disappeared behind the mountains, and evening stars shone from an indigo sky before the two of them returned to the Last Homely House.

Elrond’s experience with Elladan did not fair so smoothly. Not that he expected such a miracle. But he did not expect his talk to end with his son the way it did.

First of all, Elladan could not be persuaded to let Elrond join him in any activity. The young Elf was either too busy with duties or practice, or was about to be busy. He was either coming or going from the house, on questionable errands. Always, he did not have time to talk to his father.

It took Elrond’s summons for Elladan to appear before him in his private chambers. When he offered his son a seat, Elladan said he preferred to remain standing.

The Elf Lord noted the open hostility. His son cut a striking figure in his civil attire, robes of gray and blue. It was a rare sight, as Elladan was often dressed for errantry or practice these days. Elrond felt his own annoyance with his son could easily turn to pride, if only Elladan would let it.

He consented, “Fine, Elladan. Remain standing. It is not my wish to quarrel with you any further, my son.”

Elladan kept his gaze downward and said nothing.

“I do ask that you dispense with the tactics of a child though. Stubborn, vengeful silence can be a tantrum of a different kind. If you are angry, be angry, but do it with a elf’s integrity.”

Elladan looked up. “The last time I put forth my integrity, independent of your approval, I was beaten down for it.”

Elrond beheld the glisten in his son’s dark eyes. Beheld it, and matched it.

He replied, “Where lies the integrity of hurting your brother beyond reason?”

“I simply bested my brother in skill.”

“The force you used was unnecessary, even criminal.”

“Such would the assertion of my integrity seem to you father. That’s why I do not show it to you at this time.”

“Oh, it appears to be rearing its head at the moment though.”

“It is who I am father. My brother knows that. We are agreed. What appears a crux to you, is our way. I would not have your displeasure roused again, to see me in my natural state. So I keep what I am silent.”

Elrond’s arms took their usual place across his chest.

“For all the world, it seems you’re telling me you have no choice but to harm your brother.”

“All you can see is the harm I do. Can you not see that my brother puts himself in harm’s way? You would ask that a wild cat not be so drawn to the elk; that a snake stand up and walk. I have my place amongst all other creatures, though I am no gentle swan. My temperament is what makes me feel most alive. As all other creatures, I too have a purpose that contributes to the greater. Elrohir also has a place. He can take the storms of my temper. He is a buffer to my energy, and if he was not, there would be great chaos. So we are well-suited father. We know our own natures, but it is you who feels threatened.”

A fine layer of sweat broke out on Elladan’s brow. His face was red, and his chest heaved.

Elrond pondered the restraint Elladan was apparently using as he bared his heart to him. Elladan’s fists shook at his sides.

“My son, you are playing some game where you feign your brother is your natural prey, ever renewed from one onslaught just to receive another. But to me, your brother is my dear son, as you are also, and I cannot abide your mistreatment of him, any more than I could his mistreatment of you.”

Elladan shook his head. “You don’t understand our relationship father. He is my equal in essence, and I am not too harsh with him. He is much tougher than he seems.”

"I’ve watched the two of you. You constantly demand his deference.”

“His deference is a thing he gifts to me. He has the power to withhold it, or to give it.”

This struck Elrond as peculiar.

“You speak as if you were lovers,” he jested.

Elladan appeared to go inward, but straitened after a moment, to his full height. “Do you not know what goes on in your own house father?”

Elrond froze. Had he heard correctly? Of course he had. He gazed at his son for a very long moment, as if Elladan were an omen he could not read. Then, ever so slightly, the loremaster leaned forward. “You will tell me.”

Elladan did not flinch at the command.

“Elrohir and I have an understanding, as I’ve said. We share ourselves as other brothers do not. You worry that we are not as close as we should be, but we are very close father.”

Elrond stared, hard.

“What are you saying Elladan?”

“I’m saying Elrohir and I have the right to be to each other, what singular beings are to one another. We are two of a whole, and it is only fitting that we find solace in one another. When I reach for him, I reach for myself. It is my birthright to touch him. I am only touching myself. That is how close I feel him to be to me.”

Elrond stood. Mouth tight, eyes vexed, as if seeing through smoke. He moved around the desk. Elladan took a step back.

Elrond regarded him for another searing moment before speaking.

“You have touched your brother?”

Elladan met his father’s angry eyes.”

“Yes, father. More than touched. I’ve... I’ve claimed him. Elrohir is my own.”

Elrond considered striking his insolent son again. But something stayed his hand.

“He’s your brother!”

“He’s more than that. And before you mimic how unnatural it is, I tell you father, it is the most natural thing in the world. What is unnatural is to create laws forbidding it."

Words eluded Elrond. But he maintained silent authority. He walked slowly around Elladan as if he could not guess what his son had just transformed into.

Then, “I don’t understand this blasphemy against the Valar.”

“Don’t you? You had a twin. Don’t tell me father, that you never touched him. That you never sought with one another what others must go out into the world to find. To share my mother’s womb with my brother is to have that right. The Valar surely know this.”

Something in Elrond’s heart twisted.

“You know nothing of my brother, or the honor that bound us!”

He’d practically hissed it in Elladan’s ear. Elladan held his ground. “Only the whispered secrets that have been handed down through the ages. Not all songs of you and Elros have been recorded in books and scrolls. Grandmother Galadriel attests to this.”

“Do not think for one minute that my love for my brother was impure.”

“Do not think for one minute that my love for mine is any less. A lover’s touch increases the value of their bond, it doesn’t cheapen it. Deep down this can be no surprise to you. You see us often, and this is what you are most threatened by. It is the fact that I have the courage to claim my brother, as you could not claim your own. I care not what the Valar think. I care not what you think.”

Elrond did not have the chance to reply to this, even if he could’ve found words. Elladan turned and left in a heated blur, leaving his father to digest all that he‘d said. The loremaster leaned heavily against his desk.

Many hours passed, in deep silence, before he left his chamber.

Glorfindel tried to soothe, “It is not the end of all things Elrond. I am somewhat in agreement with Elladan. Twins cannot always be expected to adhere to rules made by those who are not. Theirs is a different world.”

The lord was enjoying this rare occasion of being admitted into Elrond’s sleeping chamber, after much persuading on his part. It was an experience he could not indulge in too often. Indeed, he could count them on one hand.

He was secretly glad Elrond’s cares were heavy upon him. It made these nights possible. Elrond was never one motivated by flesh. Seduction was wasted on him. Annoying really. But he could be moved to a kind of anguished release, if circumstances pressed upon him in just the right way. Glorfindel reasoned, an anguished touch from Elrond was better, and warmer, than none at all. In fact, the longer the lord’s self-denial, the happier Glorfindel’s rare but privileged evenings with him.

It was a shame really, Glorfindel mused, that Elrond held no interest in his own attraction, or how it affected those around him. Held no knowledge of those who would envy Glorfindel’s current position.

Elrond now stood on the balcony outside his bedroom. Glorfindel sat upon the stone bench there, sipping a strong berry tea. He noted Elrond’s tight grip on the railing, and the tension keeping the lord so quiet. His own muscles flexed. The evening felt quite promising.

Night air stirred, caressing Elrond with fragrances of honeysuckle and jasmine. The courtyard was dark below, but his eyes parted the night to see who walked down there at this late hour. Two servants.

“Do sit down Elrond. You can accomplish nothing by glaring at the night. She is not to blame for your pain.”

Elrond threw his head back, searching the stars.

“I am not glaring at her, I’m taking comfort from her cool cloak.”

“You are hoping to catch your sons in some devious act.”

Elrond gave up on the stars and turned towards the light of his room, and the wisecracking elf there.

“That is the last thing I want to see Glorfindel. I assure you.”

“Have you spoken to Elrohir about it?”

“Please, I have not yet recovered from speaking to Elladan.”

Glorfindel set down his glass. “Be honest with me, and yourself. Why does this truly upset you? You are no stranger to a warrior’s embrace. You yourself know the brotherhood of the man fighting beside you. To indulge in such pleasure is not about romantic love, not at the beginning, but about comfort in the midst of peril and grief, and loneliness. Your sons have sworn vengeance in honor to their mother. They will always be at war. Who else, but each other, are they expected to turn to? Why take the hand of a fair maiden when you already have what you need beside you? Can you not see the logic that your sons should be as they are?”

“I can see the logic Glorfindel. I just can’t see the love. Elladan speaks of owning his brother, owning the right to do as he pleases. That is a challenge for me to accept, but as you say, it would seem an inevitable logic. I can get past that. But when I see Elrohir humbled under his brother’s iron will, I recall that no where in our conversation did he say he loves his brother.”

Glorfindel said, “I would think that to be apparent. After all, he has fought you for his position over his brother. He has not given it up, in spite of the beating he took.”

Elrond closed his eyes, as if trying not to see Elladan, bloody and exhausted in the pouring rain.

“Besides,” Glorfindel continued, “he was just sticking out his chest in your chamber. I have watched the two on many occasions, and I’m quite sure they lack the experience your son implied.”

Elrond lifted an eyebrow. Glorfindel needed no more encouragement. He sat up, adjusting his demeanor for what he was about to say.

“Ahem, well, your sons are quite expressive when you’re not around. It is no secret amongst the elves of Imladris that the twins are exceptionally close. It is nothing to overhear them in the stables, finding intimacy in a stall, or even exchanging kisses in the shadows of the archways surrounding the very public courts. You might even say they exhibit themselves to a certain degree.”

Glorfindel could not see the steam coming out of Elrond’s ears.

“Do you have a point, Glorfindel?”

“Let’s just say that on more than one occasion, the two have been observed in one another’s arms. And on more than one occasion, the intimate moment has always ended the same. The arguing dies down. Chaste kisses come into play, growing less chaste. There is a kind of juvenile fumbling, which is quite amusing at times. Clumsy. Elladan is begging. Elrohir is withholding. It always ends the same. When Elladan is reduced to a drooling, half-crazed thing, Elrohir halts his brother’s advances and leaves him standing in a draft, so to speak. Elladan becomes incensed. Elrohir laughs at him, calls him weak. Elladan vows that one day he will finally take what he wants. Elrohir pins him to the spot, always, with, ‘Never, my brother. It is one thing to kiss you, and another to lay with you. I will not be taken.’

Glorfindel was grinning by the time he’d finished. The turmoil, and confusion, that appeared on Elrond’s face during the telling, had not abated. Glorfindel rolled his eyes.

“Don’t you see? If Elrohir’s, ah, virtue, was intact, outside of his brother’s advances, it still is. Elrohir is not as ready to take that step as Elladan is. They do nothing more than caress one another. Claim him indeed.”

“Are you certain? Elladan conveyed otherwise.”

“Everyone knows Elladan is determined to get into his brother’s bed, and that Elrohir is having none of it. He enjoys his brother’s affection, but he really isn’t comfortable with where it would lead.”

“Is this the source of so much uneasiness between them?”

“I believe it is, but why don’t you see for yourself? Elladan’s anger, directed at his brother, is only the end result of a greater event, the ending. You never see the beginning, what initiates that spark. If you think your youngest son is an innocent, think again. His virtue may still be intact but he is not exactly pure, as his brother’s outbursts often make him look.”

“And how shall I contrive to witness such things? I am no spy upon my children.”

“Then you will not see the truth.”

“Perhaps I’ve seen enough of the truth.”

“Perhaps you are threatened by the twins’ closeness. If Elladan was rumored to be stealing into the maidens’ chambers at night, a thing gravely forbidden, you would not think twice to keep watch for him, to see if he will leave his room when all the lights go out. Why then should you turn from this?”

Elrond thought about it. “Perhaps I am weary of seeing my youngest thus.”

“Perhaps it reminds you of what was given up between yourself and your own brother.”

Elrond’s head shot up.

Glorfindel held up a hand. “Do not be so quick to anger. You were robbed of your brother by a great destiny. Can you honestly say your own twins do not remind you of the exclusive world, and unique privileges, you shared with Elros? I am not suggesting anything sordid, only that perhaps you lost your twin before you could discover what your own sons have discovered.”

“No. It was after we discovered that, that I lost him.”

Glorfindel had not expected this. “Oh?”

“I often believed our parting would’ve been easier had we pretended to be normal brothers all along, and not tasted what was not granted to the rest.”

“Then why does this news of your sons hurt you so?”

“I fear form them. I admit it is not surprising that they should find intimacy together. But it was quite a shock to hear it come straight from Elladan’s mouth. He is a brave son. Or he is foolish. I am as proud of him, as I am disturbed by him.”

“You should tell him so.”

“He’ll think I’m giving him leave to treat his brother anyway he wants. As if Elrohir were a maid he could force to wife. I don’t like it. Elrohir is not weak, but he would sacrifice himself for his brother’s approval. That is not the love and respect my brother and I gave to one another.”

“Forgive me Elrond, but Elladan has laid claim upon his brother. In light of his brave declaration to you, it is as if you are coming between two espoused.”

“All the more reason why I cannot spy on them. They are right. For all my age-old wisdom, I do not understand them.”

“All the more reason you should witness them as the populace of Imladris witnesses them. You will see and understand.”

The decision wearied Elrond. He turned his eyes back to the night and the open air. After a moment, he finally spoke.

“So be it. I shall remove this dark veil from my eyes and look upon my sons clearly.”

And so he would. His reticence could be set aside for the sake of keeping order in his House, never mind how such a thing would even be accomplished. That was another headache altogether.

Elrond did not take Glorfindel’s advice immediately. Instead, he buried himself in the affairs of Imladris. Maintaining order in the Elven refuge became his diversion from the matter of his sons. He fully intended to confront this new and painful discovery, but the idea of spying on his grown children seemed undignified, and even more inappropriate than the boys’ own behavior.

Speaking to them did reveal some things, but not others. Intimacy between them did not justify Elladan’s rage against Elrohir.

Catch them, Glorfindel advised.

Compromise the examples and values I have put forth in my honorable House?

This thought alone kept his eyes averted from his sons whenever he saw them about. As if to see them exchange glances, was to see too much.

Perhaps I have caused enough harm, he reasoned, as he found excuse to leave any room the boys entered, whether separately or alone.

But there came a day when he put aside his straining sensibilities, and realized how unlike himself he‘d become. It took force to wake him from his bitter disposition, in the form of a scream. A tremulous male cry that shook the night. Elrohir’s.

Elrond sat up in bed as soon as he heard it. The loremaster had not been asleep, but rather resting in the twilight between the waking world, and the inner one. His outer senses remained alert, even when resting.

Beside him, Glorfindel stirred.

“Stay,” Elrond told him. “I will see to this.”

The sound did not issue from the house but rather from somewhere beyond the scope of his bedroom’s balcony. In swift motion, he vaulted himself over the stone guard and landed sure-footed on the flat stones below. His keen senses searched the night. The courtyard sat empty and still under an ample wash of moonlight. The surrounding houses were dark of window and doorway, as if the very foundations of Imladris slumbered.

Imladris is resting, but not asleep, Elrond thought. She is well guarded.

But that didn’t stop him from calling forth those stealthy elves who’s duty it was to remain unseen as they kept to their watch.

“Did none of you hear this cry?”

“No my Lord. The night gave no sound, save for the creatures that stir.”

This was the consensus among them. Delivered nervously under the loremaster’s scrutiny. After Elrond had questioned some fourteen elves guarding the innermost wall of defense, he considered exploring the woods himself. He could not believe that he alone had heard what he did.

He was not convinced that Elrohir wasn’t wounded, suffering in the woods somewhere, even as he made his way back into the house, to check his son’s room.

Blue shadows, created by the moon’s cast through the alcove windows, veiled the loremaster as he walked the wide corridor to Elrohir’s sleeping chamber. He paused before turning the handle, made of elven shell-craft, formed to appear as a delicate leaf.

The door was not barred. It never was. Elrohir was not as covetous of his privacy as his brother was. Elladan’s door was always barred.

Elrond knew he had only to stand over the sleeping form to arouse it. Elrohir was a fickle sleeper, and the loremaster could see that he was truly asleep, and not roaming about, exploring the song of the night and woods as so many elves preferred to do, tuning their senses to a world Men could not see, that existed within the physical, but was not.

“I heard you cry out.”

Elrohir’s eyes shifted from his dream reverie to look calmly up at his father.

“I did not scream aloud, Ada,” he said, showing no surprise.

“I heard you.”

“Then you heard my dream. I was dreaming.”

“Why is it no one else heard you?”

“Perhaps no one worries for me as much as you do. I don’t think I called out. You heard from the dream itself. A phantom. Just as you did when I was a child. It pains me that you watch me from within, as well as outwardly. You do not trust my fate for some reason.”

Elrond was taken aback. He wanted to ask what Elrohir had been dreaming, but declined. He sat down, saying only, “Dreams are the threads by which the world is crafted. Elvenkind straddle both the dream world and the waking one for a reason. We cannot easily change our fate, but the Valar and Ilúvatar himself, give us ample preparation through our dreams.”

“As well as splendor unsurpassed, so that we might take great comfort as we walk to destinies of sorrow,” Elrohir finished.

Elrond stared at his son. He could not read Elrohir’s face, in spite of having read his pain from a dream. If Elladan had inherited his father’s swift temper and ever alert aggression, then Elrohir must’ve inherited the wisdom that tells when to strike, and when not to. Wisdom that can be ignored so easily.

Elrond saw more of Celebrian in this son, making him wonder if he possessed a weakness for the subtle mannerisms of his wife, as seen in the little things Elrohir did. A tilt of his head, sometimes gazing upwards at nothing, in mid-thought. Things of that nature.

“Stop it, Ada. Stop trying to search my mind. The only trouble you will find is that which your own worry causes me. I am not a child anymore.”

Elrond stepped away from the bed. He would’ve turned and left, but an idea leapt in his mind.

“Give me your hands,” he said, returning to the bed.

Elrohir moaned, “I want to rest.”

“I am not asking you, my son.”

Quiet amplified around Elrohir. His face closed completely to Elrond.

“No.”

“Do not tempt me to think you are hiding something.”

“You already seem to think I am.”

“No, I think you hide something from yourself. Something which causes you grief. I would help you cast away such burdens.”

“My mind is my own father.”

“And your welfare is mine.”

Elrohir was quick to turn away. Elrond was quicker to seize him. When he’d captured the other’s hands in his own, he locked his grip. Elrohir could not break it.

This was a power Elrond had not used on any of his children for many years. There had been no need, for after they were a certain age, he reasoned they were too old to have their privacy breached. He would simply have to trust to their maturity and honor, as all parents must. He told himself he would only see into their lives as a very last resort, and only in the face of crises. As he deemed this to be.

Elrohir stopped struggling, but remained tense and unyielding in Elrond’s grip.

Yes, this was invasion. This was spying, but this was far more honorable than hiding behind doors or bushes to see what Glorfindel was talking about.

But Elrond looked, and he saw pain.

He felt it. Images shifted, amorphously. They came with weight and physical pressure.

Noises came from Elrohir, as he again made to pull away. Sweat threatened to loosen Elrond’s grip. He held on, knowing he was crushing the bones in Elrohir’s hands. But that shadow stalking through his son’s mind, his emotion, would not show itself.

“Elrohir, what causes such fear? Tell me.”

Elrohir shook his head, not looking at his father. The presence of fear reacted, throwing all of its weight on Elrond, taking his breath.

This thing, it bears the mass of a physical person. It lashes out. It breathes, and is angry. Yet it is not a person. It is only fear left to fester.

In spite of knowing this, Elrond’s chest clenched beneath a great density that pressed upon him. The Presence, it pushed air from his lungs, holding him suspended in deprivation, suffocating. His arms shook. The Presence pushed and pushed, until Elrond could not move. Paralysis held him submerged, in darkness. He could not move one finger. Still the thing bore down upon him.

He tried to keep his critical reasoning, through feeling this peculiar pain. It was difficult to keep his own emotions from blending with his son’s.

What cages him? This helplessness, is this what‘s holding him prisoner to his fear?

"I feel cruelty bearing upon your fea, as if it were my own agony. It threatens to destroy you."

"Let go father!"

"Elrohir, you must tell me what this is."

But Elrohir said nothing. Only when he heard a cry of pain, did he release his hold. Only then did he free himself as well.

But Elrond understood nothing. He opened his eyes. Catching his breath, he watched as Elrohir rubbed his bruised hands and wrists, sliding away from him.

He demanded, “Do not hide from me. What is doing this to you? This thing, it is born of your own thoughts. Such power as you felt, as I felt, it does not belong to this thing. It belongs to you. I do not know what this is, but it feels as though you use it to punish yourself terribly. It is like a beast that has outgrown its master. What could you possibly fear so?”

Just when he thought Elrohir would not answer, he heard, “Myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, I did not mean to say that.”

“Don’t hide it Elrohir. That’s how it grows in strength, deceiving you into thinking it is stronger than you.

“It is stronger than me. You can't help me.”

"You do not allow me. I see that you suffer, yet your mind is till strong enough to veil the source of so much hurt."

"It is mine to keep from the sight of others, if I choose. Must I take leave of my father's House to possess what is mine?"

Elrond sat back. "How like Elladan you sound."

The threat was false, he knew, but it still hurt to hear his gentle son say it. Unlike other races and cultures, Elves, especially those of nobility, do not encourage their young to leave home to build their own lives so soon. Those who've reached their majority may go to war, if they wish, but they are expected to return to their fathers' homes. Because their lives far out-spanned those of other races, an Elf-lord's House, having at least three generations of succeeding members, is considered to be a great and dignified House, indeed.

A lord who can govern and nurture, not only his own family, but also that of his children's children, is one whose honor is fortified among his kin and people. Such ability demonstrates his strength. It has become a matter of pride that an Elf-lord shelter his children until their own families are well established, and that, within the lord's own great halls. This creates a hierarchy of nobility, proudly displayed, in the lord's home, and says much of the respect afforded him by those dwelling there, who willingly defer to his judgement in all things.

A daughter may leave her father's home, to follow her husband to that of his fathers', with honor. But for a son, only being well into the years of raising his own offspring, is it then appropriate, and good-natured, to leave his father's home permanently. To do otherwise is met with the disappointment of an unfortunate estrangement.

Now Elrond brought his hands together, and bowed his head. "This is very foolish. I would not have you adopt your brother's tactics. You defer to him in all things, I don't like it."

"He's my brother."

"And you think that ensures your well-being? That he looks after you always?"

"No, Ada. It ensures that I cannot escape him, whether or no. He's a part of me."

Elrond lurched forward, grabbing Elrohir's head with both hands, and turning it to face him squarely. "Should I have separated you two when you were so small? That was Galadriel's counsel, your grandmother. I refused to believe her eyes could see further than my own, where my children were concerned. But when my dearest Elrohir forsakes his own existence for his brother's favor, I rue the day I did not do all that she advised!"

He let go. Elrohir, visibly relieved, turned again.

"Look at me."

Elrohir did so.

"This is difficult for me to say, but say it I will. Your brother looks upon you as if he were not. His intentions towards you are not decent. I love you both, but I am not so blind as to pretend this matter beneath my reproach. I will not tolerate shame in my house, and I will not be silenced by it. So my speech will be plain."

He paused.

"Elrohir. Your brother, he desires you."

The misery on Elrohir's face turned to confusion. " Ada, what do you speak of? My brother has a mean streak, I admit. But he doesn't deliberately try to hurt me. Not really-."

"I didn't say that. I said, he desires you."

Even as Elrond watched, Elrohir's face reddened so violently the impact of his understanding flushed his eyes with water. His expression closed completely. He said nothing.

"Have you no knowledge of this," Elrond asked. He waited, for his son appeared in no hurry to speak.

Then finally, " Ada, please. As you say, this is difficult. I am not prepared to speak of such things."

"Then you must make preparations, my son. Shame will not prevail in my house. If your brother desires you, it is an unseemly matter, but one I will not fear to cross blades against. Elrohir-."

“No! No more, Ada. I will not speak of it. As for what you see within me, what you think you must heal, it's what you force from me. It's what I… It’s what I accept. What you've exposed, that torment, I’ve lived with it all my life. I’m accustomed to its presence, though I fear it. You yourself live with fears, it is natural. You have no right to see what I do not want you to see. I would not break into your mind to pry open your secrets, if that power were mine.”

“My son, I only offer healing. I believe I can.”

“There is nothing to heal. Or it is beyond your reach, for I would not have you cut so deeply into me. You’ve seen something you should not have. That doesn’t mean I need your skill.”

“You would rather suffer, than be free of this torment?”

“The choice does not exist, and I cannot speak more of it.”

When Elrond fell silent, and made no move to leave, Elrohir put his head in his hands.

“Please, I beg you to leave Ada. It grieves me that I have caused you pain, but I am even more grieved at the loss of my privacy, my trust in you. I thought I at least owned my own mind.”

Elrond rose from the bed slowly. Elrohir never looked up at him, not even when he turned at the door.

“For your pain, I offer my apology, and I ask that you forgive your father. But for the intrusion, I do not apologize. I would tear through any barrier that separates me from those I love, be it flesh or spirit. I would do this again, had I the choice to repeat it. Good night, my son.”

*****

Elrond left Elrohir, taking what he saw and felt in his son’s mind, with him. For many days, his thoughts churned over what Elrohir had said. ‘I accept it.’ For many nights, the lord explored this mystery in the twilight of the dream state, where truth could be glimpsed. All he ever saw, were his son’s looking back at him, as they ran. Running from him through a blue, unnatural forest. They did not appear mature, but to be in fresh adolescence. They seemed terrified. Elladan clutched Elrohir by the arm, making sure he did not fall behind. Each time Elrond arrived at the last place he saw them, they were further ahead, disappearing beyond his sight. He could not catch them.

Burning to understand Elrohir’s hidden pain, he remained reluctant to spy on his sons, however much he agreed with Glorfindel. His invasion of Elrohir’s mind was regrettable, in spite of what he’d told the young one.

He insisted upon another way to get to the truth. A better way that would come to him, there had to be one. Or perhaps, Time itself would see fit to pull back the tide, to display what is now hidden. It was the nature of things to unfold in their own time. But at what cost?

Elrond maintained his standards, delaying the proof of his friend’s claim for a full cycle of the moon. But he never forgot what little he’d seen in Elrohir’s mind.

So it happened, his return from duties outside the refuge was met with an unexpected sight.

Late evening cloaked him in the woods, casting a blue opalescence upon all things that basked in the moonlight. Elrond dismounted from his gentle mare outside the fortification, allowing a guard to take her away to separate stables kept outside the Gatehouse. It was not unusual for him to end such journeys on foot, using this informal, hind entrance, to find welcome in the night air and cool earth beneath his feet. This sentient intimacy with his home, it’s darkened atmosphere shrouded in the perfume of flowers and the sounds of katydids, did a great service to ease the knots in his mind. He found it restorative.

But no sooner had he started for the entrance, than the sight of flickering firelight, and two moving figures caught his eye. To his right, some thirty feet away, the night revealed a glowing window. It was unusual to see a fire over there, for one was seldom required, and considered a potential threat to Imladris’ defense, a beacon to possible enemies clever enough to breech the lines of defense surrounding Imladris. What’s more, the season hardly called for an open fire. He knew of only three elven people who enjoyed the charm of firelight, finding its necessity irrelevant. His own half-elven children, since they were small. And since there appeared to be only two shifting forms in the lit room, that excluded Arwen.

Immediately, Elrond withdrew his senses from the surrounding night, and honed them into a pinpoint of focus in the direction of the window. Closing out all other obstructing sights and sounds, his selected field of vision and hearing crystallized until he could see the very expressions marring the twins’ faces, and with exquisite concentration, make out their words. Dignity be damned, he would know what ails their fëas.

There, from the column-lined platform joining the Western Gatehouse to Imladris’ high outer walls, he watched. A narrow space between the forebuilding and curtain wall afforded him a view inside the ground window of the corner tower.

He almost didn’t recognize Elrohir inside, as the younger leaned over his brother from behind, who was sitting. Elrohir‘s fingers appeared to be gently massaging Elladan’s shoulders. The fire crackled and sparked.

Elrond’s mouth tightened.

Let it happen. See what you fear to see, he challenged himself. But letting his sons’ hidden world unfold before him, was not easy. It took a warrior’s will to stand there and endure time and space as if he were in that room. A part of him was, for he could glimpse their thoughts. Not delving into the center of their conflict, as he had with Elrohir’s mind, but sensing the intent behind their eyes. Perhaps this is what he feared, more than anything. But he had to know with certainty, the extent of this problem. He listened, as Elrohir pleaded.

“Come on, brother. You always want to.”

Elladan shrugged the hands away. “We both know I want to, but you’re the one who agrees not. I have taken one beating for you, I will not take another.”

“Not again. Must we speak of it every evening, for the rest of our immortal lives? Can’t you let it fall by the wayside? How many times do I have to apologize, or beg, your forgiveness? When will you truly know that I did not mean for that to happen?”

Elrohir’s hands returned to his brother’s straight shoulders, roaming across the dark material of his tunic. Visibly tense, Elladan moved from his touch.

Elrohir leaned down. “This is the first chance we’ve had together in quite a while. Why do you continue to do this? Why reject me now?”

Elladan did not reply.

“You blame me for what Ada did, you‘ve made that all too clear. That‘s fine. I shall take that blame, I‘m strong enough.”

The standing twin brought his lips to Elladan’s tight jaw. Elladan turned away. “I would not have felt the sting of his blade, nor the born the brunt of his disappointment, if it were not for you. My dignity would not have been compromised before my fellows.”

“That was some time ago.”

“The injuries are fresh. They open anew every time you approach me this way. Every time I think of you, or father.”

Elrohir’s hands pushed over the summit of Elladan’s shoulders and glided down the swell of his chest.

From his place atop the platform, Elrond stood resolute as he watched, and listened.

“I didn’t tell you to make him angry brother,” Elrohir tried to soothe, kissing at his brother’s temple, where fine hairs lay.

Elladan spat, “But you angered me. Just as you are doing now. You knew I would retaliate. You expected it.”

This time, the older twin jerked himself free and stood. “I told you. You’ve had your game for the last time.”

“Yes you’ve told me. A hundred times. And yet you always come to me before long.”

The twins faced each other. The hearth’s expanse was the only distance between them.

“What do you think I am, Elrohir? You resent my greater skill and strength, and so you reduce me in the only way you can. Do you think I can play this game forever?”

“No brother, I am sincere. I would let you touch me, the way we used to. You were not so insistent then.”

“I know you would, and then gloat when I am begging, as you have ever done. We are not children anymore. My needs are mature needs. I do not recover so swiftly from your jests anymore. It is humiliating, as you well know.”

A look of pure delight spread across Elrohir’s face. As if the gods had smiled upon him in that moment.

Elladan’s grimace showed his regret at having revealed so much.

He leaned away, “Laugh if you want. I am done with you. I have brothers aplenty in my fellow warriors.”

“And would you turn to them for what you’ve asked of me? Do you really believe there is one among them, whose touch can substitute for my own? I do not believe it. You and I learned together. We fit.”

Elladan did not answer, merely glared as Elrohir stepped up to him.

“I am not laughing, though I do admit I have a weakness for besting you in this way. But I do love you brother. I do miss the way we once took comfort in each other, when it was enough just to play, for both of us.”

Elrohir took Elladan’s brooding face in his hands and kissed him gently. Elladan did not resist, but he remained unresponsive. Elrohir pulled away.

Elrond suspected he had seen enough to determine the duress of their relationship. But instinct whispered that he should see their argument to the end. Even if that end was inappropriate for a father to see. It pained him more to see his Elladan’s torment, closed and hidden in a face of stone, than it did to see the source of that torment.

Elladan spoke with measured words. “If you love me, you will leave me alone.”

It is Elladan pushing Elrohir away? What is not apparent to me? Elrond asked himself.

Elrohir accused, “You’ve become so serious, Elladan. Just like Ada. Your fellow warriors shall be poor substitutes for what you can only get from me.”

Now the younger twin trapped his brother’s stare. “No one can touch you precisely the way I can, brother. No one is the other half of you.”

This time Elladan leaned hungrily into the kiss Elrohir offered. Elrond looked full on at his sons’ passion. Though he did not approve, far from it. He thought he understood it at last.

There appeared to be fear in the grip Elladan had on Elrohir. It reminded Elrond of a child’s fear, that what he held, some toy or trinket, could somehow be taken away from him. Or in Elladan’s case, dissolve or escape him.

Elladan, afraid of his brother’s escape? So he holds tight, and his bared actions all but scream aloud.

As if knowing he was being watched, as if out of spite, Elladan exhibited his lust without restraint. He gripped Elrohir’s arms and strained into him as he held on. He delved into Elrohir’s mouth, as if it were the source of some sweet nectar to him. This was not lost on Elrond. Elladan conveyed boldly, that he would drink all he could, before his prize escaped him.

At this, Elrond pulled his awareness back, turning away. There is such a thing as seeing too much, knowing too much. He decided to cut his emotional involvement off completely, to preserve his own sanity. He finally had to admit, there were limits to what a father could take. But he remained a rooted witness, summoning his courage to turn back to them. As he did so, he brought his power to bear, using it like a shield.

Using it to lean wearily upon, as well as a cool, and distant partition, to separate himself from the pain of this blistering sight before him.

But inside that room, the twins continued without him, oblivious. Elrohir did not pull away, not even at the first signs of his brother wanting to enter his mouth. Normally the younger tore away after a few light strokes, just when the strangeness of their tongues meeting, started to feel good.

Elrohir endured the stretching and opening of his mouth without protest. He even pressed his lower body against Elladan.

Elladan pulled away, looking with molten iron in his eyes. He was fevered with both distrust and need.

“You would have me fooled again.” His grip was firm.

“No brother. Take what you will.”

Suspicion lingered, but Elladan encircled his brother’s back with one arm and kept him gripped by the hand of his other. He made sure Elrohir could feel him. He pulled his brother's pelvis into his own.

Elrohir made an uncomfortable sound. Fearful that it was a protest, Elladan bound his brother's mouth with his own. He eased his grip at last, in favor of slipping his hand between them, and between Elrohir’s legs.

He should not have been surprised that his brother was not as aroused as he. But by the time he snaked a large hand deep between Elrohir’s thigh’s, and kneaded and rubbed the flesh under his brother’s squirming body, Elrohir was as swollen and fevered as he.

He thought of freeing Elrohir's member, wanting to handle the flesh directly. But he also wanted to prolong the squirms and writhing this clothed friction elicited from his moaning brother. He worked his hand, undulating Elrohir’s thickness back and forth, pinching gently what lay beneath the cloth. Elrohir’s body danced helplessly against it. He clung to Elladan’s neck, stifling his moans.

Elladan smiled, intrigued to see his brother suffer pleasure so. “Do you like this Elrohir?”

“Ellaaa...”

Elrohir’s hips ran from his delving hand. Clutching, Elladan brought them back.

“Are you going to let me, brother? Will you let me finish it this time?”

He could not tell if Elrohir sobbed or moaned, but the sound reverberated deep into his own loins. He would do anything to extract such sounds from Elrohir. He needed them.

Elrohir gasped, struggling for the return of his reason. Elladan recognized this sign, and knew what was coming. Elrohir pushed him.

“No, Elladan, not like-”

“Take what I will, you said. This, I shall take.”

“I, we can't-"

“Yes we can. ”

Elrohir pushed at Elladan’s wrist. “This is, this is not as I meant...”

“I do not ask for much. This is such a small thing, sweet brother.”

“I"m not, please, Elladan...”

“Surrender, Elrohir. Let go.”

“I can’t.” Elrohir turned his face.

“That’s it. Yes, that’s it.”

“Nnn... Can’t...

Elladan thrust himself, not quite straddling his brother’s thigh. Elrohir had angled his pelvis away, but Elladan maintained contact. Beneath him, Elrohir’s leg quivered, and his muscles locked. Elladan pushed against Elrohir’s trapped hip and thigh. He felt the trembles mounting in his brother’s body.

Elrohir’s release broke. Elladan nearly spent himself upon hearing Elrohir cry out. He found the sound, it’s inflection, to be mysterious and rewarding. He savored Elrohir’s convulsions against him, and around his still-busy hand. Elrohir succeeded in pushing his hand away, but would not look at him. He tore from Elladan’s grasp, which had subdued.

He moved away, but went to the floor, doubled over. His hair fell to the side, hiding his face from Elladan’s view. Its thick strands fell, straight and black, like solid panel between them.

“I didn’t hurt you,” Elladan finally said.

“You didn’t stop. You shouldn’t have done that.” Elrohir shook, barely perceptible to anyone but an elf’s eyes.

Elladan took a step towards his kneeling brother. “Do not be ashamed Elrohir. I thought you beautiful.”

“Stay away!”

It was the tone, not the words that caused Elladan to stop. That tone was not Elrohir’s teasing one. Not even the one he used to ward off his brother’s previous advances. But Elladan remembered hearing it once before. Once. It had preceded the mortal gash delivered to the first orc Elrohir had ever killed, years ago. It’s tone emitted a forced resolve, to either kill or be killed. Elladan remembered that they both parted with their boyhood innocence that day. They fully knew then, what it was to accept a warrior’s responsibility. No more play killing.

Elladan spoke, careful to keep his voice gentle. “How quick you are to change your mind, brother. You said I could take what I wanted.”

“So you have. Leave me.”

“No. I did but wish to pleasure you, before I partook of your gift to me.”

If Elrohir understood, he did not respond.

“Why do you hide behind the veil of your hair, like a maid dishonored? I am the one deceived, yet again it appears.”

Elrohir shot back, “You Curse of Morgoth! Have you no honor? I use my hair to block the sight of you.”

“And have you no courage, to give in to what we both might enjoy? Tell me brother, where was your honor when you put your lips to mine?”

Now Elrohir looked at Elladan. “It is no dishonor to trifle about. You used to understand that. What it meant between us to exchange that token of privilege and sanctity. It was never a thing beyond the symbol of our trust. We are elite among elves and men. Touch is good and comforting, but you ask for much more. No, you demand the laws of the Valar be broken.”

“The Valar have not decreed any such laws to me! If I have a mind to bed you, it is the mind Ilúvatar himself has given me. There is no law that can come between myself and the One.”

“You would put yourself at the right hand Him, to justify this blasphemy?”

“Blasphemy? There you sit upon the floor, yet you speak to me as if from a lofty height, my dear brother. What did you expect to happen when you found yourself, turned to liquid glass, in my arms? For that is a substance that can only pour when touched by fire. And you are so like glass. You retain your form, reliably. Deceiving even yourself. Deceiving Father. But I see through you. Your nature is not what it appears to be. And all I have to do, to break your delicate illusion, is get close enough.”

“We have always drawn the line, Elladan.”

“No, you have always beaten me back, or ran from me, laughing at my pathetic state. I fear for this streak of cowardice in you. I do not believe it is the judgment of the One, or the Valar, that hold’s you back. Feigning that you would give me what I crave, I think it comes from true fear. For you will have to yield to strength that you know to be greater than your own. And envy. You can beat me no other way but to deny me. To withhold what you know I want so much.”

“If flesh is what you want, then go to your fellows.”

“No, as you have rightly spoken, no one feels the way you do in my arms. No one can appease. Yes, I want to be touched, but I want it to be your hands I feel.”

“Just leave, brother. I thought we understood each other.”

“So did I.”

“Please. Leave me.”

Elladan shifted slightly. He regarded his brother on the floor. Hardness entered his stare. He turned, as if to reach for his over-tunic, then stopped. “No.”

He faced Elrohir again. “Why should I let you get away with humbling me, unjustly, yet again?”

“What?” Elrohir tensed.

“I told you, at First Moon. The day after I endured father’s punishment. I told you that it was the last time I would suffer your torment. I meant it. You come to me this night. I deem your confusion, and fear, of what you want to be great. You cannot decide, so I shall make this choice for you. Now brother, let us finish this. If you must hate me, you may do so when I’ve done with you.”

“Are you mad? Do you not see that I am grieved by you?”

“The wetness on your face serves only to remind me, I too shed tears. I wasted myself, every time you left me ashamed of what you started. My prayers, of your one day returning to my bed, have drenched my pillows till they are unfit to rest upon. What should your sadness mean to me?”

Outrage had not formed quickly enough on Elrohir’s face before Elladan came down on him.

The older twin dismissed the panic in Elrohir‘s eyes. But even as Elrohir strained to shove Elladan away, Elladan pulled the dark material he wore. He marveled to see it come away from Elrohir’s skin, which appeared bright and golden in the firelight. The cloth tore. Elladan found himself removing more of it, just to hear the threads give way. Just to let Elrohir know that this was real. This was going to happen.

He first wanted to get it over with, if only to prove to Elrohir he could, and would, do it. He had not hoped to enjoy making his point. He knew his brother would be truly afraid. Be quick, he told himself, and you will succeed. Think, and you will fail.

But there was something about having Elrohir beneath him, perhaps taking him seriously for the first time in their lives, that made him relish Elrohir’s subjugation. As if in a trance, Elladan detached his mind from the force he used, and simply watched redness, pain, and fear spread across Elrohir’s bared chest, his neck and shoulders. The color streaked below his cheekbones, as distinct as war paint. He found himself swelling anew at the sight of his brother’s flushed skin.

So this is what it takes to bring your spirit all the way out brother? Then so be it. Not such a difficult thing after all.

He would take it slow.

Elrohir had a great deal of fight in him, and did not let up for one second. Elladan lost his patience. He could not pull Elrohir’s leggings off without freeing his upper body. But he managed to get them down his hips. This afforded him contact with Elrohir’s groin. He ground himself into the thin undergarment, which concealed Elrohir’s member from him. But he grew pleased to feel it firming up a bit. Hunching into Elrohir’s warmth was worth every minute of his brother’s fight.

But Elladan soon needed more. How to subdue Elrohir? As quick as the idea came to him, he was at it.

It took a great deal of effort to wrestle Elrohir’s arms down long enough to turn him on his side. He then used a discarded strip of torn shirt to bind Elrohir’s wrists behind his back. That left the problem of Elrohir’s upper body strength, which would not stay down, and strong legs that shot out any chance they got, in any direction.

This would’ve been less of a problem if Elladan had wanted to mount his brother from behind. But he didn’t.

“I want to see you, as you receive me,” he growled into Elrohir’s face. He stifled his brother’s gnashing and curses, with his mouth. He swore himself, for there was no time to drink gently from his mouth, as he had earlier. He feared Elrohir’s teeth. So he stole what he could, grazing Elrohir’s tongue with his own. He was deep and quick.

Chest against chest on his brother, he felt Elrohir’s breast plate quake. He felt him choking on his anger. At some point, bitterness seeped into Elrohir’s fury. But there was still too much fight in him.

Only out of frustration, and desperate longing, did he resort to the last thing he wanted. He struck Elrohir. Struck him where his ribs ended, and his diaphragm extended. This was strategic, he knew what such a strike could do. Still, he dealt three heavy slaps to Elrohir’s face, one after the other. Elrohir is strong, one wasn’t enough.

This produced the effect he wanted. Silence. Calm. Except for the heaving of Elrohir’s stomach. The elf struggled to catch his breath.

There were no more outbursts.

Looking into Elrohir’s glassy eyes, he wasn’t sure if the blows had done more harm than was meant. Elrohir’s movements were still twitchy and resistant, but he stared straight ahead, up at the ceiling. He spoke no words, though his mouth was free. He made no sound. Nevertheless, Elladan knew, he cried. It wasn’t just the suppressed jerking movements, and the moisture clinging to the corners of Elrohir’s eyelashes. He knew his brother. The hiding it, and silence of it, angered Elladan.

He leaned over Elrohir. Sweat dripped in oily beads onto golden skin. A twinge of guilt rose in Elladan, like a thin spiral of smoke.

“You have to learn, Elrohir. I won‘t hurt you.”

He knew that sounded the height of foolishness and hypocrisy.

“I mean, it won’t hurt. Not much, brother.”

Elrohir’s leggings came off far easier now, though his legs locked and resisted still. Suddenly, Elrohir drew his legs up.

Elladan took his knees and parted them, pushing hard to keep his thighs apart. In his haste, he’d forgotten to remove the cloth concealing Elrohir's loins. He now wrenched the cloth aside, and stared.

Elrohir’s organ languished on a bed of dark hair.

Elladan swallowed. He’d seen his brother’s penis plenty of times, but never had he been so near to doing what he wanted with it, and with the bundle that lay behind it, a plump pouch. The thought of handling it, in any way he wanted, flooded him with desire. He wasted no time. His hands greedily felt the tender skin. Elrohir’s body trembled beneath his fingers.

Elladan cupped the entire bundle of skin. He kneaded and prodded, fascinated. His fingers followed its silky surface to the sweet bridge between Elrohir’s scrotum and his rectum. At this, Elrohir jumped. Then Elladan did what he had always wanted to do, and covered his brother’s tender organ in the warmth of his mouth. Elrohir squelched what could’ve been a scream, constricting the muscles of his legs so that Elladan used great force to hold them apart.

How amazing to feel that strange tissue pulse and expand in his mouth. He wanted to stay at it longer, but Elrohir’s jerking reminded him that it was perhaps now, or never.

He took one last plunge, inhaling and licking, and tasting what he could. He wanted to burn the scent, and its secret darkness, into his memory forever.

When he lifted his head, he knew the moment had come.

“I shall have this,” he whispered. He stretched and pulled the material further aside, for he could not remove it completely. He wet his fingers with his own saliva, and hoped it would suffice.

He reminded himself, Elrohir is a warrior. He can take pain. He resists, but he’s no longer fighting.

Elladan‘s knowledge of the act, was limited. But he’d heard plenty of talk about it. Enough to be swollen, beyond comfort, with anticipation. His fingers shook as he removed his own organ from its bondage. He poised himself over Elrohir, carefully. He began to push. Elrohir reacted, a sound leaping from his throat. But it was quickly cut off. Elladan could tell that his brother was struggling to master the distress.

“It’s all right, Elrohir. Do not worry.”

Elladan pushed, entering. Spittle escaped through Elrohir’s clenched teeth. Now the younger twin tried to speak.

“Elladan please...”

“Just a bit more. I promise Elrohir.”

"Elladan..."

“Do not fear. It will be well. Calm, you’ll see.”

“You mustn't!”

Calm. Just a little more. I’m almost there.

Elladan was not prepared for the difficulty he faced upon entering. He did not imagine the act would require as much force as it did. Logic told him to expect a little resistance. But spirited talk among the worriers, assured him it was easy enough. Yes, the opening was scarcely that, and Elrohir resisted, but he knew this could be done. His fellows accomplished this somehow, with great satisfaction.

A pleasure did exist. He had yet to penetrate very deeply, but what he felt was warm and oddly silky. For there was a smooth, sheathing effect. It rolled and squeezed along him. Already, the enclosing friction sent shocks of pleasure from his loins all the way up to his stomach and chest. But there was discomfort as well. The pressure upon his engorgement was more than he expected. These combined sensations made for a nameless way of feeling.

He did not forget his brother. Surely there would be more than pain for Elrohir.

“I take this warmth, but there can be treasure for you also, if you will but accept me.”

It no longer mattered if there was a little resistance. He had to get in there. He wanted to be deep inside.

It would be more merciful, he thought, if I just went straight to it. This slowness is what hurts him.

So he plunged.

He saw, and felt, his brother’s body absorb the shock. Color drained from Elrohir’s face, quickly replaced by a rush of crimson. No sound came from him for a second. Those suppressed noises stopped. Even his breath seemed locked in his chest.

Then came the scream.

It was formless, without a detectable beginning or ending, just the middle of anguish. It froze Elladan’s blood with fear. He had no idea why he did what he did next. He pulled from his brother, only to force himself in again.

He would later ask himself, did he think that continuing would get them past this difficult beginning?

It didn’t matter. Elrohir shouted Elladan’s name. He seemed to abandon his frustration and shame, for sheer outrage.

Elladan hardened his resolve, and kept his will alive.

It will soon be over, he chanted to himself.

But it was over much sooner than he’d hoped. The hinged door burst open, and Elrond Peredhil stood there, ashen.

Elladan had sense enough to get off of his brother, and to cover himself. But the next few moments went hazy for him as Elrond entered.

The lord took in Elrohir’s state on the floor. He wasted no time asking questions, no time absorbing the shock. He came forth.

Elladan saw blood vessels straining at the corners of his father’s eyes. Elrond glowered at him for only a second. He turned his focus on Elrohir.

He removed his cloak and covered Elrohir’s nakedness with it in one fluid motion. He spoke to his son in High Eldarin, the ancient tongue of Quenya.

“I am here, my son. It is over.”

Two archers appeared at the open door. Then two more. The elf warriors stood blinking, uncertain, for the room appeared to have no threat. Just the loremaster’s sons, the twins. Yet clearly one of them was hurt.

Elrond continued to speak in the old language to Elrohir, who did not appear to be fully alert. As healer, he commanded, Elrohir’s wavering attention, his words steady, but warm. A calm began to settle in his son.

One of the frustrated warriors, a captain, finally stepped forward, on behalf of them all.

“What has happened, my lord? No enemy breached our guard.”

For a moment Elrond looked as if he might strike the guard, who stepped away. He then returned to his ministrations, laying gentle hands to Elrohir’s covered chest.

Elladan attempted to explain. “Father, it was not my will to hurt him, I-”

Elrond’s eyes flashed at him. They pierced their target, looking out from a deep, shadowed brow. Their light was molten.

Elladan could only watch as his father lifted the cloak from Elrohir’s body, just enough to assess what he could. His actions were at once, pragmatic and discrete. His expression did not so much as falter, when he lowered the cloak and kept his hand working beneath it. A few of the other elves turned away.

Elrond appeared to know what he needed to know. Instead of having his men fetch a litter, he stooped, hoisting Elrohir in his arms.

Elladan lowered his head. The others moved out of Elrond’s way.

The captain called, “Let us help you lord. We can bear him more easily, and quickly.”

“I have him. One of you go before me. See that the healing chamber is prepared for him. And another go to inform the servants that his room must be made suitable.” The two left. The remaining appeared lost and sorrowful at the thought of not having defended their prince.

“The rest of you.”

They came to attention.

“Bind my son, and take him to a cell.”

Eagerness to help died on their faces.

Elladan himself wondered if he’d heard correctly. “Father…”

“Guards, you’ve been given orders.”

The elves jumped into action in spite of their confusion. One of the fellows summoned enough bravery to ask, “What has he done my lord?”

“Just do as I command.” Elrond went through the door with his son.

Elladan suffered his hands to be tied behind his back. But he shouted, demanding Elrond’s attention as the elves led him away. “I meant him no true harm, father!”

The shout could not breech Elrond’s focus. He carried Elrohir up a shallow incline that led to the steps of the Gatehouse.

In the healing chamber, Elrond laid Elrohir gently down on the bed prepared for him. Elrohir groaned, opening his eyes. “ Ada... No.”

“Shhhh, Be still.” Elrond pushed the prince back at his attempt to sit up.

“No, I’m not hurt.”

Elrond watched Elrohir turn away, his face ablaze. He clutched at the cloth still covering him.

Elrond grimaced. He motioned to a male assistant, who appeared to understand immediately. That elf opened a wooden cupboard and removed a small clay jar. He brought it to Elrond.

He unstopped the jar, and dipped corners of a cloth into it. This he touched gently to Elrohir’s face, just beneath his nose. It’s odor stung, bringing water to his eyes. He knew what it was. Maeg. He jerked away, but not before Elrond dabbed effectively enough.

Maeg is the bristly, crushed stems of Malinor, a ruby colored flower. He himself had helped his father gather them, at Elrond’s request, not so long ago. A rare request, that had been. The flowers were found in abundance, near the lofty waterfalls of the Bruinen. Left to soak in their own oil, their properties renders one to sleep. Dosage was proportional to the length of such contrived rest, and Elrohir had no idea how much he’d just inhaled. He knew it could be ingested in a number of ways, yet this was the swiftest to lost awareness.

“I’m, I’m sorry Ada…” Elrohir’s words faded. His eyes closed.

The Maeg stems afforded Elrond the needed time to work on his son, without further shaming him. He knew Elrohir’s unconsciousness would be brief.

After washing his hands in an awaiting basin, he ordered a second be brought. The other elves attending him did not have to be told when to leave. Elrond’s grim expression told them when all preliminary work was done, and the real matter could be delayed no more.

The injury itself might’ve been a trifle matter. The injury, not the assault. But even after cleansing, blood appeared unceasing on the swabs of soft cloth which Elrond replaced one after another. He could not be sure a more serious injury had not occurred internally.

Broken skin, he knew, would be nothing for Elrohir to tolerate. But muscle fiber, that would take a little longer to heal.

He confirmed, his son had never before engaged in the act of receiving another male. But even without proper measures, the strained muscles should not have been torn so. He also new Elrohir could not be spared the breaking of these muscles altogether. Not even were he willing.

Elrond, as healer, touched with the calm and gentleness, indicative of his mastery. His concentration allowed no other thoughts to interfere.

He worked until he could do no more for his son. Then he arose, leaving the chamber in a blunt silence. He spoke no word. Not even to those attendants who waited for his instructions. They stared after him when he passed by. None dared to speak, for it seemed to them that he walked in a vapor of darkness.

*****

Glorfindel could stand it no longer.

“Well, it’s been almost a full week. What are you going to do?”

They were seated in the Hall of Fire. The great hall was bereft of any firelight. Its hearth sat black and empty, it‘s iron grill cool to the touch. The season did not call for it, yet the lord found solace before the carven mantle. At times of rare indulgence, it was nothing for him to order a small blaze, so that he might transcend mental exhaustion, strangely reminiscent of that displayed in Men. His children also shared this inclination for its soothing qualities. He knew of no other elves who built fires just to take quiet pleasure in them, and not for warmth.

Then, as now, he would take a treasured book, and sit. But he wouldn’t read the book. Instead, he simply held it. It was often leather-bound and heavy. There was something reassuring about the weight of it in his hands. His long fingers would absently trace every relief and contour upon those old bindings, while his eyes stared straight ahead.

Hearing Glorfindel’s question, Elrond’s eyes squinted, as if something interfered with his vision. Glorfindel noted the drawn mouth and set brow, both hard as marble. For a moment he thought Elrond was going to answer him. But the lord’s expression closed again over unspoken thoughts.

“Please Elrond, say something! Do you intend to keep him in bonds for much longer? Those vaults are no place for one of his noble birth.”

This got him a glare. “His stature is now that of a criminal, Glorfindel. That’s how criminals are treated in Imladris.”

“But he is chained, as would befit a murderer. Aren’t bars enough? His punishment is unequal to his crime.”

“I haven’t begun to punish him.”

“He’s your son, not a common stranger.”

“All the more severe should his sentence be.”

“What will you do?”

Elrond did not answer right away. But then he looked away from the fire and up at Glorfindel. “I shall have him beaten.”

By the way he said it, Glorfindel knew the loremaster to be serious. He thought very carefully before he chose his next words.

“They... They are lovers Peredhel. They are two possessed of a madness that knows its own reason. To punish one is to punish the other, and I do not think either of them is so deserving.”

Elrond’s eyes lifted, lit by more than firelight. Glorfindel continued quickly. “If you deliver this punishment, I fear it will be the breaking of your House. Elladan’s heart, already rigid, will turn to slate. He is as proud as you are, and will suffer no harm to that pride. A criminal flogging, where he will be tied and helpless, perhaps publicly so, would humiliate him beyond the endurance of his respect for you. We both know, he is a wolf that would mangle its own leg before submitting to a tamer‘s authority. And anything that robs him of his pride is seen as a threat. He cannot bear it, Elrond.”

“Bear it, he shall. I know he is proud. He carries more expectation of himself than need be. Even as a child, I perceived challenge in him. Though he defers to me, and is quick to show respect, I’ve always known that if I were not his father, in his eyes, I would be his rival.”

Glorfindel did not disagree.

“No,“ Elrond continued. “The ill treatment of his brother calls for such punishment as I will give him. You didn’t see Elrohir. My son was loath to have me touch him. He hid his face, Glorfindel, he’s not a child. He wept. And now I want Elladan to weep in shame. That’s the only way he can come close to realizing his crime.”

“He will make you kill him before he shows you the tears you want to see.”

“It’s his choice. His actions cannot go unpunished.”

“His madness has either poisoned you, or it has been gifted from you to him. Your sons, they are their own. They have their own rules, their own ways between themselves. You cannot pretend this to be an ordinary crime.”

“Say no more Glorfindel. My mind is unchanged. The sight of my son, defiled, was not yours to see. I’ve always been bewildered at the strange courtship between them. That, I do not deny. But even more perplexing was the cruelty, the apparent absence of love. Elladan was merciless to his brother.”

“Did Elrohir not tempt him first?”

Elrond did not answer.

“That is usually the case. Tell me Peredhel, did your younger offer himself, and then deny his brother? His brother who, after all, carries the blood of Men. Men who are quick to passion.”

“Any child of Ilúvatar’s is endowed with the ability to resist evil, be they Firstborn upon Arda or Second. My children alone have precedence above the High-born of all races in Middle-Earth, for in their blood lies the blessings bestowed to both the Eldar and the Edain. I have raised them to be honorable, not just because my pride demands it, but because to be less in inexcusable.”

“Then to what purpose is our ability to forgive?”

“Forgiveness is to be granted to those of lesser quality, for they are not the masters of their minds. But my children, in whom Ilúvatar’s song is exemplary, forgiveness shall not come so easily.”

“Dear Peredhel, forgiveness should come all the more, for the worthiness by which the One has gifted your fine sons.”

Elrond clinched his fist.

Glorfindel feared there was nothing he could say that had the power to penetrate the lord’s resolve.

Elrond asked, “Would you compliment my sons if they chose to kill one another? Would you lift in honor, the Kinslayers who brought shame to the Noldor? Your plea for Elladan’s pardon, it reflects the same decadent corruption of those whose luxuries cause them forget the dark past. It makes clear the importance of remembering it. It’s the excuse of superior worth that has soaked the ground with innocent blood since the days of Morgoth. While we value our nobility, we do not wipe our feet upon the rest of Eru’s children. So do not say that my son should be pardoned simply because he is special.”

Glorfindel crossed his arms. Yet you deliver punishment because he is special. He did not wish to argue. Yet the lord would not be silenced.

“The sons of Elrond will play no further part in that unbearable song. I would forfeit my own honor, and steal Elladan’s crime from him first. I would kill him myself before I saw him become that which is woeful to the memory of Elvenkind. Even the memory of those who fostered my brother and I. Loved we were, by kinslayers, for whom no price could be paid to quench a blood-debt which still flows, insidiously. You yourself know these things, so do not feign that Elladan is too lofty a creature to be punished. It’s his great worth to my heart that makes this punishment necessary. And I will not delay. You’ve convinced me. I shall deal with this matter sooner, rather than later. I will see it done this very day.”

Glorfindel lifted his open hands. “Please Peredhel, what do you hope this will do? He is not of schooling age, he is not going to learn your lessons. His integrity is that of a mature warrior. If you cannot trust that he is already instilled with the wisdom of your teachings, then you are not going to accomplish such lessons all in one, abusive night. You’ve had too many years, my friend. It shall profit nothing to beat him now.”

“Now you insult me Glorfindel. I hear your counsel, but do not fear for him. I do not pretend that he will learn anything new from the punishment he receives, he is stubborn. But if my son and I are to part ways over what he has done to his brother, and if he is to attempt to dishonor my House further, by leaving it, then I shall give h