Hope, Born of Darkness
Elladan’s story
told by Soledad
Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the Lady Aquiel belongs to me.
Rating: PG – 13, for angst, violence (in later chapters) and implied m/m relationship.
Author’s notes:
This is a stand-alone story about Elladan’s final choice, the reasons upon which he has made it and the consequences that follow it, told mostly from his own POV. For better understanding you might want to read parts of my Boromir-series, starting with Part 4, ’’The Bitter Gift of Compassion’’.
Timely this story begins after the death of Boromir in the yet-to-be-written last part of the Boromir-series and ties in with my Glorfindel-story ’’A Tale of Never-Ending Love’’, between Chapters 7 and 8 (or so I hope, since I’ve only reached the middle of Chapter 1 so far).
Sorry for making things so complicated; unfortunately, I trend to interwave my stories into an intricate web of background facts – not because I want to, but because they often sprout from each other like grapewines, beyond my own control. They *can* be read and understood independently, though – they just belong together.
Prelude: Mornie Alantië (Darkness Has Fallen)
My beloved is dead.
The bond that connected me to Boromir son of Denethor has been broken and the touch of his tormented soul upon mine is gone.
We have no tidings yet from the headway of the Company that had been chosen to go with the One Ring to the Land of Shadows, yet I know that the Man I love more than any thing or any one, more than life itself, is no more. Two days ago, he has gone where ever Men go when their body is broken – where I, too, shall go one day.
When I have fulfilled my oath and the legacy he had left behind.
Two days ago I stood high upon the shoulder of the hills, at the head of the grey, narrow stone stairway that leads out of the dale and looked southwards and eastwards, for my heart was full of dark foreboding. Ewer-growing had I felt in the recent days the evil power of the Ring luring Boromir’s heart under ist spell.
He reached out to me through our bond, draining my strength, and I have given it willingly, eager to keep him from fall. My own heart had told me already that it would not go on like that much longer.
I always knew he was in great peril and marked for death – yet I hoped against hope that my love would be strong enough and pure enough to save him. Not for myself – our times together were over, and I knew that and accepted that –, but for all those of his land whom he vowed to protect from the Darkness with his strong arms and his great heart.
Then I heard the sound of the great war-horn of Gondor. Faint and far away it sounded, yet I knew its deep and hoarse sound, for I had heard it in this very valley, on the eve of his departure – and my heart fainted.
I still cannot understand how I could have heard it, for the Company had left Lórien already – this much we knew, for the Lady of the Wood had sent us tidings on the wings of the Eagles –, too far away for any horn to be heard. Mayhap it was our bond that opened up my ears beyond even Elven abilities, for as far as I know, I was the only one to whose ears the sound has came. It is said the sound of that horn could always be heard between the borders of old in Gondor… maybe I, too, belong now to Gondor, through what we shared.
A second time I heard the great horn cry, not much later, and my heart was filled with anguish. And then I felt his soul touch mine – a short and gentle touch, that could be felt almost bodily – and then darkness. His presence was gone, our bond broken and my heart barren. I am so numb, I cannot even weep.
Given enough time, I shall feel the whole weight of my loss, of that I am certain; and it will hurt beyond any pain I had felt in my long life. But right now, I am just empty. As empty as his broken shell must be that is now bereft of his noble and valiant and so very kind soul.
I shall grieve for him in silence and solitude, hiding my agony even from my father and my siblings – for they would not understand my anguish. They would say that I had already lost him when he left with the Company, for he never truly loved me. And I could not bear to have to defend the memory of what we shared from the well-meant but belittling words of my family. For they would only try to be helpful – and yet they are so very wrong.
’Tis not true that he had no love for me. He might have kept the face of another one in his heart, yet he loved me well, and – save that one hurtful fight that we had and that he regretted deeply afterwards – he made me more content and in peace with myself than I had ever been. Not only did he give me his passion, he also shared with me the secrets of his soul – a soul that was haunted by darkness and tormented and driven, yet still so very beautiful.
And he needed me. I had lain with mortal Men before, had touched mortal passion, and I had Elven lovers as well, and it had been wonderful at times – but never had I been *needed* before. Mayhap that was the reason why I had never fallen in love.
Until I met him.
When I first caught sight of him, on that feast my father gave upon our arrival from the wilderness, so proud and noble and kingly he seemed in my eyes, clad in silver-embroided velvet of deep burgundy red and royal blue, and in black leathers – and yet a warrior through and through, in spite of his rich attire.
He seemed better suited to the battlefield than the fragile beauty of my father’s house. For his clear, blue-grey eyes, that so unexpectedly changed to deep blue every time when passion touched his heart, were haunted, speaking of more than just the horrors of war, and though not very young any more (at least not with the measure of his own Kin), he was all hard muscle and grim determination.
Arwen had spoken to me of him before – my dear sister, always worried about the loneliness of my like, thought that I could use some pleasant distraction –, so I knew already that his Man – this warrior – was the firstborn son and Heir of the Ruling Steward of Gondor – the very land Estel was due to become the King of. Yet he had chosen to fight himself, along the troups of Minas Tirith, not to remain in the safety of the strong walls of his father’s city, whilst his people suffered and died.
If not for Estel, he would have made a great King to Gondor.
I believe thus was how Arwen saw him, too, and she was troubled, for she knew there would be bitter animosity between the two of them once Boromir learns about Estel’s claim. I know not whether she had, indeed, that very hidden agenda Boromir later accused our father of, when she pointed him out to me, knowing that I would find a liking in him: to make him more perceptive for the return of the King through the pleasures of our shared passion. She loves Estel very much, and at times love can make a person blind – even cruel, without meaning any harm.
When I made my offer to the Heir of Gondor, I did not expect to fall for him at all. I had been alone long enough at that time – long enough even for an Elf to grow tired of aloneness. I only wanted to warm my bed with the fire of mortal passion again, for it had been cold and empty for much too long; and the love of mortal Men had always tasted to me like a strong, old wine that, after having devoured, only made me even more thirsty for it. And, as-yet untried in the matters of man-love though, he proved to be every thing I had hoped for. That I had hoped for one night – or mayhap a few more.
But then, in an unguarded moment of passion, he let me have a glimpse of the depths of his heart, and what I saw there touched me deeply. I had never thought it possible for a mere Man to suffer this much in such short a life. And beyond the pains what life and war and a forbiden love had brought upon his heart, there was the Shadow that befell him during that last battle in Osgiliath.
And for the first time in my life I understood what being born as a healer truly meant.
For though both Elrohir and I have chosen the way of the warrior – he mayhap less fiercely than I have, for the blood of our mortal ancestors is less thick in his veins than it is in mine –, we still are the sons of Elrond, greatest lore-master of Middle-earth, and we both inherited from our father the skills and the urge to heal.
Being more in touch with his Elven half than I am with mine, my brother’s skills are greater than mine, as they are in singing and in music and with words, too. But I still am a strong ans skilled healer, stronger than most Elves even – and certainly a lot stronger than Estel who is greatly admired for his limited skills among the Rangers of the North.
I am a healer and this Man was in grave need of healing. I was needed, for no-one else could give him what he truly would need. Not his brother, whom he secretly and desperately loved, against the law of Gondor and in spite of the wrath of his father, the Lord Denethor, not caring that his love will be unrequited for ever. Nor Éowyn of Rohan, whom he vowed to wed upon his return, not out of love but out of duty and responsibility towards his land and his House – and a respect born from a fate much akin that they had shared. Only I could make him whole again.
And so I went on the task and spent much time with him and came to know him a little more with every passing day – and slowly I began to fall in love with him. For there were hidden depths in that tortured soul no-one had ever explored before. In more than one way I was the first to truly know him.
I was the only one who had seen him haunted by the memories of darkness and fire, who heard him scream in his nightmares, who was allowed to soothe him and comfort him and make him feel better again. To me alone had he ever shown his wounded heart, his vulnerability.
Never was he ashamed of his own weakness while with me, proud and almost haughty he might have seemed to others. I was the only one he ever asked for help. And I loved him for this even more than I loved him for the fairness of his face and for his nobility and his strength.
He was all those and yet he was more than that. He was mine, in a way he would never have belonged with any one, even if he had lived. Mine to love, mine to protect – mine to let him go when the time of departure arrived, the time to return the only thing he belonged with even more than he belonged with me: his shining city, Minas Tirith, White Queen of the South, his only true love.
Mine to live for and mine to die for.
And die for him I shall, eventually, for as all of Elrond’s children have to, I have made may choice, and I chose to belong with the Kin of Men – I have chosen to share the fate of my beloved, for good or ill, for I cannot be without him.
Early have I known that he was in peril, even without my father telling me about it; in great peril, not only from the Shadow that had fallen upon his heart, but from the evil power of the Ruling Ring that he desired from the first moment on he learnt about it.
Oh, I could see the desire in his eyes! And for he was a good and noble Man, driven only to protect those who depended on his strength, that accursed Ring tempted him with the good that he could do with such a power. It fed his on desires and filled his heart with visions of doom and with false hopes. He already saw his beautiful city in fire, its great gates broken, its people slain or enslawed and the Shadow-Lord of Minas Morgul sitting upon Gondor’s throne – unless he takes the Ring to weil it against its Maker.
And I knew he would fall under his his spell and into darkness if nothing was done to save him.
So I did the only thing I could. I performed the Rite of Protection and bound my own soul to his, to shield it against the Shadows with the powers of the Light that once dwelt in the Blessed Realm and returned, captured in the Shielding Stone, thank Glorfindel, to Middle-earth.
Now I am bound to him ’till the end of Arda, beyond lands and waters and time – beyond Death itself, for Death is what we shall share one day, and it shall not part us any more. My father was desperate when I announced my choice, and my brother was furious, for he felt betrayed, and the Lady Aquiel wept, and I tought to see a faint glimmer of jealousy in Arwen’s eyes – yet at the end they all have accepted my choice, for they could do naught to change my heart.
So, with the support and in the presence of Glorfindel, who at times udnerstood me better than my own father, I performed the bonding, leaving my beloved free to fulfill his duties towards his land and his House, should the Valar grant him a return, and it gave me great joy and great relief.
For he understood fully what I had done and accepted my gift with gratitude and with the natural grace of his noble heart. And ever since then, he never hesitated to reach out for my support through our bond, and I protected him against the Ring and the Darkness as well as it was within my powers.
I wonder whether it has been enough.
There is one thing only I kept hidden from him: my choice to accept the Doom of Men. He was so guilt-ridden already, I could not bear to heighten his burden. For he felt himself unworthy of my love that he could not return in the same measure, and would never believe me how full of joy and purpose my life he had made.
When I follow him beyond the Rim, where all secrets are laid open and all doubts are gone, he will know it – and that is enough for me.
But as for now, ther is only darkness.
* * * * * * * * * * *
End note:
I never intended to begin another story before the other ones are finished. But Elladan wanted his own story to be told, and I cannot argue very well with my own heroes. <g>
In Chapter 1 there will finally be some serious action, but I don’t know when I’ll be able to write it, juggling around with four different storylines at the same time.