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Chapter Text

1: Estel

-o0o-

It was another hot and sunny day. Anor had bathed the entire valley in glorious, uninterrupted sunshine for over a fortnight, making the temperatures sore as the rays of the last fruit of Laurelin reflected from the grey slopes of the mountains.

It was a great day to have an adventure, Estel decided, as he left the edge of the archery field where he had watched his brother train with some elves from his patrol, and descended to the nearby meadow. The one in which his favorite oak tree stood - perfect for climbing and home to the fastest squirrels in all of Rivendell. One day, Estel thought, he would manage to catch one. Or lure it onto his palm and feed it acorns, the way he had seen Legolas do. It was terribly unfair that woodelves could talk to trees and animals when he could do neither.

He was not entirely sure he believed his brothers that the elves of Mirkwood also talked to rocks and dirt and clouds. But talking to animals - that would be something.

He bent low to pick a few strands of green grass, harder to find now that the prolonged drought had turned most of the meadow to a pale, dry yellow, and approached the tree. "Mae govannen!" he greeted the tree, and any squirrels that might be lurking in its branches as he approached. There was no response. Unperturbed Estel crept closer, looking intently at the foliage, hoping to catch a rustle of leaves, a flash of a red bushy tail, any sense of movement. But nothing happened.

His shoulders slumped a bit as he came even closer, coming to stand next to the thick trunk of the oak, resting his hand on its calloused bark and looking up into the branches. A soft breeze ruffled the leaves above his head, but there was no sign of movement. The squirrels were out.

With a sigh, Estel dropped the stems of grass in his hand, his offering for the little animals, and decided on a new adventure. A mission. He was an adventurer, an explorer, a … his eyes roamed the meadow, from the edge of the nearby forest to the adjacent archery field … a border guard!

With quick, practiced moves he scaled the oak - his favourite climbing spot in all of Rivendell. From up here he could see all the way to the main house with its grey wooden walls, arched roofs and large stairway outside. He could see the expanse of the forest in the other direction, dark firs and beeches and oaks with their leaves bleached orange by the long sunshine this summer. The border! At the least the border to his own realm - for the forest marked the edge of the lands he was allowed to explore unsupervised.

His keen eyes sprang from trunk to trunk, scanning every opening between the trees, conjuring images of daring foes and lost strangers. Dangers that only he could save Rivendell from. He took a stick that had been wedged between two branches, close to the trunk - he must have left it up here on one of his earlier visits. It made a fine sword.

Standing securely on a large limb of the tree, one hand holding on to the trunk for balance, he slashed with his sword, practicing all the moves he had seen Glorfindel teach.

A sudden movement caught his attention - a dark shadow springing across the meadow and Estel did not hesitate. He dropped from the branches, landing in a crouch on the dry grass beneath and sprang to his feet. His stick held in front of him, he demanded: "Halt! Who goes there?"

A doe stopped mid-run, startled. She looked at him briefly, before jumping off and disappearing into the woods. Estel lowered his stick sword.

Only to bring it back up again as another deer jumped past him suddenly. The animal entirely unfazed by his presence, running into the forest as if fleeing a dragon. Holding his stick in front of him, Estel turned. What had set them running? There were no other animals nearby, but something glowed at the edge of the meadow, a light that shone behind the small hillock there. Was that smoke rising above it?

Was there actually a dragon?

Estel swallowed, imagining the roar of the fire-breathing beast as it lay on the meadow. He tried to remember what Erestor had told of the wyrms and dragons of the North - how far away was the Lonely Mountain, home of Smaug? But even as he pondered the information, his feet took him closer and closer to the orange glow. He held his stick sword tightly, as he ventured further and further forward. He had to see the dragon. Had to find the danger and then alert his father or brothers. They would be so impressed with his bravery.

He held onto that thought as he crested the small hill, as he slowed before taking the final steps and looked beyond it.

There was no dragon.

But there was fire.

A large swath of the dry meadow beyond the hill was burning, stretching from the forest edge on his left all the way around the edge of the hill on his right. The edge of the hill! Even as Estel realized the danger, there was another breeze and the flames jumped. In a flash they sped towards him, stretching, growing, devouring. Estel turned and ran down the hill, his stick falling from his hands in his haste. But it was no use.

By the time he reached the bottom of the hills the circle of flames had closed around him. He was trapped.

-o0o-

tbc…

Chapter Text

2: Elrohir

-o0o-

"Retrieve your arrows", Elrohir commanded, watching as the elves under his command crossed the archery field to comply. They were slowing down. And although they did not complain, did not even grumble lightheartedly, it would be best to end this training session soon. The sun was beating down mercilessly on them all, exposed as they were on the open archery field. Arrows and elves painted stark, dark shadows on the parched grass as they passed. It was just after midday.

Blinking against the brightness, Elrohir glanced up at the sky. There was no cloud to be seen, no indication that this extended drought would end any time soon. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, lifting the black, sun-heated strands to let even a bit of air pass to his scalp and neck.

"Last round," he announced as his elves retook their position at the shooting line. His words were met with a collective sigh of relief and he smirked. When the first arrows thudded into the targets on the other end of the field, a slight breeze rose. The archers were lowering their bows, gauging the wind to make adjustments to their aim, but Elrohir no longer paid attention. He had caught something on the wind, something that made the blood in his veins freeze despite the hotness of the day.

Smoke.

He turned sharply, scanning the lower meadow next to the archery range. He had been correct. The edge of the field of dry grass was ablaze, a ring of high flames encircling one of the small knolls near the forest. On the bone dry meadow it would spread in minutes, devouring the grass and plants, and if they were unlucky spreading to the forest beyond. All of Rivendell would be in danger. He needed to alert his father and Glorfindel, organize a response -

Something moved within the ring of fire. A small shape stepped back from the lower edge of the flames, slowly moving backwards up the knoll of grass. Oh sweet Eru, no!

Estel.

He sprung into motion. "Fire!" he shouted, calling the attention of the archers even as he jumped forward to the nearest of them. "Faeron, run to the house, alert my father. Tell him Estel is on the meadow!"

He did not wait for Faeron's acknowledgement before he turned, running straight for the meadow, for Estel. He could see his baby brother moving up the hill, walking backwards as if unwilling to take his eyes off the approaching flames. But Elrohir knew it would do no good. The flames were all around the little hillock, creeping up at Estel from behind even as they advanced from in front.

And they continued to spread outwards. Offshoots of it were already passing him on the left, trailers of blazing flames that had raced off from the main fire, feeding hungrily on the dry grass of the meadow, expanding by meters in mere seconds.

When he reached the wall of fire that encircled Estel, it had grown two meters deep and so high he could barely spot Estel on the top of the knoll, his arms slung around himself, shivering and afraid.

"Estel!" he shouted over the roaring of the flames.

"Ro? Ro help!"

The fear in his little brother's voice was a palpable thing, desperation given voice. It was an order. Elrohir did not think as he jumped through the flames, ignored the heat licking at him with hungry tongues of fire, setting the edges of his hair and sleeves aflame. He landed in a roll, putting out the flames before they could take true hold, trying not to wince at the sting of pain on his exposed hands and face. The important thing was he had made it through, that he had made it to Estel.

Before he could rise completely Estel had already flung himself into his arms, sobbing, his whole frame shuddering with fear. "Shhh," Elrohir soothed, rubbing the boy's back and lifting him in his arms as he finally made it to his feet. The fire was still approaching.

"All will be well," he promised, even as he made his way to the top of the knoll where Estel had stood. It was too short a walk. And the fire was just as hungry on the other side of it. Their safe haven was shrinking with every second that passed, the air growing hotter and noticeably thin around them.

But before true desperation could take hold, a new breeze rose, stronger this time and Elrohir looked up instinctively. He had not been mistaken. Clouds were coming down from the mountains, blocking out the sun, gathering over the valley. Dark and grey and heavy with a promise of rain.

Elrohir was looking at their salvation.

Then Estel coughed. A harsh, ugly, wheezing sound. The smoke. Elrohir looked down at his brother, gently turning Estel's face away from the soot and embers in the air, from the smoke and into his own shirt, hoping but not truly believing that it would help. The wind, welcome though it was, stirred up the flames around them. They had soared to new heights he saw now and their wildly twisting shapes belched black smoke onto the hillock. Thick, impenetrable, suffocating.

Estel coughed again, more silently this time, and when Elrohir looked down he saw tear tracks in the soot that already stained his baby brother's cheeks. He looked up at the sky again, desperate this time, waiting for the clouds to finally fulfill their promise, to bring the rain that would clear the smoke from the air and quench the flames. The fire was almost close enough to touch, and higher than he was, bathing the entire slope of the hillock in flames. Already the heat burned his hands where they were slung around Estel.

Another weak coughing fit and suddenly Estel grew heavier in his arms, his hands, so tightly clenching to Elrohir's tunic only a second ago fell slack. No!

In desperation Elrohir summoned his healing powers in a rush. Light erupted around him, brighter even than the flames, channeling into the still form in his arms as he fervently prayed to the Valar for their salvation, for Estel's survival. The smoke was thick around them, blocking out even the glare of the flames and Elrohir felt it burn his throat and scorch his lungs and still he persevered. If he was feeling the effects of the smoke, how much worse was it for his little brother? He had to save Estel.

But a sudden pain raced up his legs and broke his concentration. His healing energy stuttered and disappeared. Within the smoke, darkness fell. The fire had reached them. Angry red flames licked up his left leg, setting the material of his trousers aflame, eating away at the skin beneath. And still the rain did not fall.

His leg buckled, and Elrohir crashed to the ground, only the precious burden in his arms lending him the strength to catch himself, to land on one knee and brace against the ground. This could not be the end. He would not let the flames claim his brother! The small hand twisted in his tunic twitched, a tiny grasp, but a sign of life. And then the smallest of whispers: "Ro. Help."

There was magic in the word. Elrohir felt it burning through him, his brother's trust giving him new energy, new resolve. He called upon his healing powers again, blocking the pain, ignoring the burn in his throat, focusing only on protecting Estel and on finding a way to save him.

He caught a glimpse of hope beyond the twisting, undulating wall of fire: Beyond the circle of flame, beyond the knoll of burning grass, the meadow close to the oak tree was free of flames. The shadowed patches of grass still holding on to moisture, still resisting the calls of the fire.

"Hold on, Estel," he whispered and jumped into the flames

-o0o-

tbc…

Chapter Text

3: Elladan

-o0o-

The day outside was sweltering and Elladan was grateful to have a valid excuse for not joining his brother in his training session. Their sparring match in the morning had already felt uncomfortable, the rocky confines of the valley still holding onto the heat of the previous days even though the sun had not yet risen above the peaks of the Misty Mountains then. He could only imagine how hot it was now on the archery range, where no shade was to be had.

No, being inside the Last Homely House, discussing patrol schedules with Glorfindel and his father was bound to be the better assignment. At least within the house's walls the temperature was somewhat bearable, though he missed the slight breeze that might be had outside.

"Nelledir is set to return the day after tomorrow," Glorfindel was saying, "I suggest that Elladan and Elrohir ride out on the next patrol, while Berandir can take over at the southern border."

"A fortnight rotation?" Elladan asked. Glorfindel nodded, and Elladan pressed. "Has something happened?" Taking both his and his twin's warriors on a patrol was a considerable number of elves, a show of strength. What had happened during Nelledir's turn along the border?

Glorfindel sighed, glancing briefly at Elrond. Elladan noticed only now the grim look on his father's face. "There have been reports of unrest at our northern borders. Increased goblin activity, at least. Cadwar reported that they spotted signs of uruks as well, bearing the sign of Gundabad."

That could not be good, no wonder he had been asked to attend the discussion even though Glorfindel usually arranged to guard roster himself. His father and commander wanted to make sure he and Elrohir were prepared for what they might find. But, contrary to their concern, Elladan felt strangely eager at the prospect of finding those uruks. It had been too long since he and his twin had ridden out on a hunt. It was almost convenient that the orcs were coming to them for once.

He gave a resolute nod. "We will be prepa-" He broke off as sudden unease struck him.

"Elladan?" His father asked, "What is it?"

"Elrohir." He straightened and turned towards the door, half expecting his twin to barge through it, explaining the frantic sense of peril that flooded their bond, but there was nothing. His disquiet only grew. There was no window in the council chamber, and so Elladan made for the door, knowing without having to turn that Glorfindel and his father were following behind him. He had to know what was wrong.

He hurried through the corridors, something inside him screaming for him to move faster, to act, to protect! But what against? What danger had his trouble-prone twin found on the archery range of all places? By the time he reached the entrance hall he was almost running, descending the steep steps two at a time. It was a miracle he did not collide with the front door when it was suddenly flung open.

"Lord Elrond!" Faeron stood there, panting, his bow still clutched in his hand though he had no arrow with him. "Fire! On the meadow… Estel… Estel is there."

Elladan heard the silent gasp of his father, felt the same fear, but what of his twin? He took Faeron by the shoulders, supporting the still wheezing elf. "What of Elrohir?"

"He went after Estel."

Of course he did. Elladan cursed. He had known the answer before even asking the question, his bond with his twin singing with worry and dread, and something else - pain. His chest felt suddenly tight, and his hands and face too hot.

"By Illuvatar," his father's voice carried in through the open door, silent though his despairing whisper was. He had not waited, had pushed past Elladan and Faenor, desperate to look outside. When Elladan followed him he saw why his father had evoked Eru's name. Half the lower meadow was on fire, thick smoke rising towards the heavens in billowing clouds, blocking his best attempts at piercing them. Where were his brothers?

The air around him changed, thrumming with sudden power, with irresistible force. He looked to his father instinctively, following the sense of raw might, his gaze drawn to the twinkle of blue on Elrond's finger. He was calling on Vilya. Thank the Valar.

The wind picked up, tearing at his braids, and clouds, dark and low, rolled over the house in moments. But on the meadow the smoke was cast aside for a brief second, blown to the side by the wind, and Elladan gasped. Then he ran.

Leaving his father in the capable hands of Glorfindel he raced down the steps, across the courtyard and the gardens, past the archery field and to the edge of the meadow beyond. Keenly aware that with every step he took the fire advanced on his brothers, both of them, trapped amid a sea of flames.

Pain lanced up his leg, breaking his stride, but he shoved it into a corner of his awareness and pushed on. When he reached the edge of the meadow and was finally close enough to see beneath the billowing smoke, the hillock amid the meadow was empty - and entirely swathed in flames. No! Despair suddenly choked him, thicker even than the smoke that tore at his throat. His breath hitched.

Then a drop of water splashed onto his hand. And on the hillock his twin rallied, stood - and jumped into the flames. Elladan did not hesitate to do the same. The flames about him sputtered, sizzled where new raindrops were falling on them, fighting the raging beasts. Thicker and thicker the water fell, drenching his clothes, keeping the resisting flames at bay as he made his way across the meadow, angling for the old oak. That was where his brother was headed. It must be. The tree still stood, untouched by fire, a ring of grass around it like a haven of safety.

Elladan reached it first.

He turned towards the hillock, his gaze questing over the dancing, flickering flames between it and him. The rain continued to fall, impeding his sight, even as it slowed the fire. It spluttered and fought, but the flames were slowly dying down, slowly burning lower - allowing Elladan to see a solitary shape outlined by the light of the fire stumbling towards him, faltering, falling. No!

Elladan jumped into the flames, ignoring the heat that crawled across his face a second time, gritting his teeth against the pain that sprung to life. He reached Elrohir in moments, still crouched, curled protectively around the still form of Estel in his arms. He grabbed his twin beneath the arms, dragging him back to his feet and then pulling him along, through the dwindling flames and towards the oak. Only once they were past the blazing ring of fire did he allow his twin to collapse, noting only now that the outline of flame he had thought around his brother was actually his healing energy channeled into their little brother.

Elladan knelt across from Elrohir, gently cupping his twin's cheek with his hands, willing his unfocused eyes to see him. It was only when he moved his hands lower, trying to disengage Estel from Elrohir's protective hold that his brother responded. Elrohir's eyes snapped to his, his momentary confusion quickly replaced by recognition and relief. The glow around him faded as he opened his arms to let Elladan take Estel, an exhausted smile on his face. Elrohir turned his face towards the heavens, closing his eyes, letting the drops of heavy rain wash the soot from his face.

"The rain came," he murmured, almost too silent for Elladan to make out.

Then he fell back, landing heavily on the wet grass. Unconscious.

-o0o-

tbc…

Chapter Text

4: Glorfindel

-o0o-

Fire covered the horizon, ravaging the plain. Smoke rose, black and foreboding, choking and suffocating. It billowed, and stretched, danced and merged with the shadows of the Balrogs' wings as Gothmog led his host forward. Dragons and wyrms crawled and flew and slithered behind, belching smoke and ash and poisoned fumes.

And the fire spread.

Flames roared high, feasting on whatever they could find, grass, trees, elves. Encircled, abandoned, devoured. Helplessly he watched as one of his warriors, driven beyond reason, acting on despair alone, stood facing the approaching horde, defying the flames. But what good would that do?

Their city was lost.

"Glorfindel."

There was despair in his king's weak voice, despair, as he looked out at the same vision of flame and destruction, at the doom of Gondolin. How he wished that he could conjure some reassurance, could promise that the protectors of the city would not let her down, would protect her to the last. They would, he knew, but only to fall alongside her, a last sacrifice to the Hidden City, a last stand against an overwhelming enemy. They were, all of them, already lost.

"Glorfindel," Turgon's voice came again, and his king placed a wavering hand over his arm, clutching tight. Glorfindel turned to him - and found not Turgon but Elrond beside him. Not the king of Gondolin but his greatgrandson, the lord of Rivendell. Another friend, another life, but the same terror.

Even without the army of Balrog's and dragons, the fire he had seen had been real. And even without it rising to consume the very walls of Imladris it was already bent on destroying its heart. Estel. Elrohir. Elladan. All of Elrond's sons had been swallowed by the flames, raging uncontrolled across the lower meadow.

Phantom pain embraced him, memories half-forgotten and thrice cursed. It ran up his spine and bit into his scalp, enclosed him in a suffocating embrace, a tight grasp of agony, of pain, of fire. He could feel his hair burning, his skin blistering, his bones blackening. He - the weak grasp of Elrond's hand on his arm drew him back once more from the phantoms of the past.

To a present that was worse.

Because while he had never intended to die, he had faced the Balrog with purpose. He had fought, had won and fallen, to protect his king's daughter and her son. To protect the survivors of Gondolin. He had made peace with his demise and yet he would not wish the terrors of his first death on his vilest enemy. He could not face it now, claiming the lives of his lord's, his friend's children. Elves that he loved as fiercely as if they were his own sons, and the young human boy who had stolen all their hearts, whose great destiny so easily paled when compared to the joy that he had brought to Imladris. To him.

There was something wet on Glorfindel's cheeks rolling down towards his chin, but he could not tell if it was tears or the first drops of rain that were finally falling.

Rain!

The sudden realization drove him out of his reverie, out of his despair, cutting the last threads of the ancient memories that had come so close to overwhelming him. And finally as he looked around himself he saw. Saw the flames burn lower at the edges of the meadow, elves already there, throwing buckets of water on the fire to speed the process of the rain along, waiting for a clear path to get to the sons of Elrond. He saw Elladan leading his stumbling twin from the last dredges of the fire to a spot under the oak, untouched by the flames. And he saw Elrond, desperately holding on to the balustrade in front of him, his other hand still resting on Glorfindel's arm, struggling to remain upright. Fatigue marked his brow and his skin was gray in the darkness conjured by the clouds above, devoid of colour and life.

Even as he looked Elrond faltered and it was only Glorfindel's fast reflexes that kept him upright as the golden-haired elf caught his friend's collapsing form. He drew Elrond's arm across his shoulders and decisively turned his back towards the meadow, to the remnants of the fire. Elrond needed his help now, needed to get to the Halls of Healing. He could await his sons there. They would come. They had to.

Worry still tore at him, almost making him falter and turn back, but after two lifetimes and uncounted yen as a warrior, he had perfected the skill of compartmentalization, of acting according to priorities, to face one foe, one fight, one disaster at a time.

When he reached the Halls of Healing he found them already prepared. Nestarion and one of Elrond's assistants were already waiting, guiding Glorfindel to help Elrond sit in a comfortable chair when it became apparent that their lord would not accept the need to lie down on one of the cots. Those, too, were already prepared or being made ready and Glorfindel hesitated to consider what condition Elrond's sons would be in when they came to the Halls, for clearly the beds were meant for them.

Elrond's hand clasped his arm suddenly, and with surprising strength and Glorfindel turned away from the beds and back to his lord. He forced himself to meet the despair in his friend's gaze unflinchingly. "How are they?" Elrond pressed.

It pained Glorfindel that he did not have the answer, could not give his lord the reassurances he would need. He had seen Elladan and Elrohir escape the ring of fire, but he had no idea how severe either of their injuries were, did not know what had become of Estel, and knew all too well how destructive fire could be. Luckily he was saved from the need to answer by the timely arrival of Erestor.

"They escaped the flames and will be here shortly. Here, drink this." The dark haired advisor handed Elrond a crystal glass, filled with bright miruvor. He pressed another glass into Glorfindel's hand, and when the seneschal merely looked at it, startled, turned to him. "Drink it!" Erestor commanded, before adding in a softer tone: "You look as if you need it, my friend."

Deciding not to think too closely about Erestor's observation, he did as the chief advisor bade him. But more than the cordial, the knowledge Erestor had brought served to revive his struggling spirit. Estel and the elflings had escaped the fire. And thanks to Erestor's efficient preparations - Glorfindel would have recognized his touch in the speed and care with which the Halls of Healing had been prepared even had the old elf not been present himself - they would be well cared for.

Still, despite Erestor's words, he was not prepared for the state his lord's sons were in when they did finally enter the Halls. Elladan carried the unconscious form of his twin, his clothes covered in soot, patches of his sleeves and breeches singed. Angry red welts had formed on his hands, clearly visible where he held Elrohir close. But the pain that stood in his silver eyes did not stem from those burns, Glorfindel knew. For every hurt that marked Elladan, Elrohir had suffered worse. The skin on his arms was red and blistering, and one of the legs of his trousers had been burned away completely, the skin beneath a motley of red and black and blisters that lifted off the skin, white with liquid that collected beneath. Again, Glorfindel thought he could feel the remnants of a pain that had existed and passed two ages of the world ago. It broke his heart to imagine the agony that was to come.

"Ada!" The small sound was a sob, a desperate cry, an overwhelming mix of despair and relief, as Estel wriggled from his mother's hold and raced over to Elrond's side. Gilraen let him go. Her tearfilled gaze wandering from her crying child to the staggering form of Elladan, placing his twin on a nearby cot and leaving him to the capable hands of Nestarion, before trailing back to Estel. Elrond had scooped the boy up and enveloped him in a tight embrace, the mere presence of his youngest son, seeming to return his strength to him.

Estel, but for a few patches of soot on his clothes, seemed to be unharmed, though his voice was raw either from smoke or from crying, as he hiccupped into his adopted father's robes. "Ada," Estel cried, "You have to help Elrohir, please!" The plea was unnecessary, but it seemed to give Elrond new energy, new purpose regardless. His friend had never been able to ignore the request of one of his children.

He rose to his feet, his earlier weariness seemingly gone entirely, though Glorfindel noted the lingering paleness of his features, the exhaustion that slowed his steps, normally so secure here in his own realm, in the Halls of Healing. Still, he had the forcefulness required to make Elladan leave his twin's side and sit on one of the free cots to have his own burns seen to. And with Nestarion's help and aided by Erestor's preparations, he made quick work of cutting off the burned remnants of Elrohir's tunic, of cleaning, dressing and binding the angry burns all over his arms and legs and back.

Glorfindel looked on, caught between memory and nightmare, old pains and fresh horrors. And though there was nothing for him to do he found himself unable to leave, unable to forsake his family.

And when Elrond finally finished, when he had discussed with Gilraen the need to keep Estel under supervision for the next night, and finally sank back into the soft chair he had sat in earlier, weary but unwilling to leave his sons' side, Glorfindel spoke. "You should sleep, Elrond. I will wake you if there is anything amiss." Elrond, too exhausted perhaps to argue, merely gave him a weary nod, a grateful shadow of a smile, before he stretched out on another one of the beds and was asleep in moments, his eyes closed.

The fire of the candles burned low, giving a weak but peaceful light, while Glorfindel kept his watch on Elrond and his family.

They slept peacefully, their breaths even and unaffected by the smoke of the wildfire. He looked at Estel's young face, relaxed in sleep though his brow was creased in discomfort, caught in memories of the terrors of this day. He walked past Elladan, the only occupant of the room to sleep with his eyes open, knowing that the resilience of the firstborn son of Elrond would have him straining against the limitations of the Halls of Healing by tomorrow at the latest. Even though worry for his twin was likely to keep him in the rooms longer.

At Elrohir's bedside he stopped, reaching out a hand to rest against the cheek of the younger of the twins. His face had suffered the least damage, safe for the marks of one or two errand embers that had burned the skin but whose traces were already fading. But even though healing had begun, the smell of smoke and fire still clung to him, a harsh reminder of the horrors of this day - and of his own past so very long ago. Glorfindel's hand moved up to run along Elrohir's scalp, combing through his hair, and found the reason. The ends of the silken tresses were burned, some strands shortened haphazardly, others untouched, but all steeped in the smell of smoke and fire and burning.

The Balrog's hand, wreathed in flames, grabbed for his head, tangled in his hair, setting it alight even as he was jerked backward, falling from the mountain side into a sea of fire.

Disentangling his hand from Elrohir's burned hair, Glorfindel stepped to the side table holding the healing supplies. He grabbed the small pair of scissors lying there, used for cutting bandages, and returned to Elrohir's side. For now the younger twin was well beyond the reach of pain and memories of flame, but when he awoke he would not need a reminder of his close escape from a fiery death.

And with unending care and a soft song of the beauty of Gondolin before its fall, Glorfindel set to remove the memories of shadow and flame, both of today and of a time long past. When his song finished there was a soft rustle of a blanket being drawn back, of someone moving.

"Will you cut mine as well?" Elladan asked silently, "to match?"

"Of course."

The End