DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em, drat it. Many thanks to Professor Tolkien for creating these wonderful souls to populate my imagination.
BETA: The incomparable and generous Cairistiona, who turned on a dime to help me out here. Thanks, dear one!

I hurriedly rip off my tunic, tearing strips as rapidly as I can. Elladan has done the same, using a longer strip and slipping it rapidly around your thigh while Elrohir grips your gory hands, ready at his twin’s order to wrench them away from your wound.

“Now!” Elladan commands, not even acknowledging the gore spraying him as he wrenches tight the knot. Your strangled, bit-back scream all but rips out my heart. Anyone looking at your brothers would think they were unmoved by it, their faces are so stony and concentrated. I know better.

I am grateful; you have lost consciousness. Your face is white, though. Far too white. “So much,” I whisper.

Elrohir glances at me, questioning.

“So much blood.”

“As long as it spurts, his heart beats,” Elladan growls, checking the rest of you.

“Our father has aided wounded elves and men with this injury before,” Elrohir reassures, as much for himself as for me. “Come. While Elladan finishes, help me fashion a litter.”

Reluctantly, I nod, gripping your hand gently. “Hang on, Estel. We shall bring you to your father,” I whisper, not even caring how my hands are now covered in your blood as well. Valar! It was a simple hunting trip! There were no orcs, no trolls. Naught but a maddened boar! Surely three elves and a human should have faced that down without injury?!

~-oo0oo-~

Unfortunately you awaken on the way back to Imladris. Elrohir does his best to soothe you as Elladan and I carry the litter, and you bite your lip trying as hard as you can to stifle your groans of pain. “Sorry… such a … weakling…”

“Do not feel a need to show bravery among us, brother,” Elrohir chides you grimly. “If it hurts, yell.”

“I… cannot,” you pant. “Once I … start… I fear... I shall not… stop…”

Elrohir grips your shoulder in comfort. “You may scare away all the game you wish now, Estel.”

A gurgled laugh-cum-sob can be heard from you.

~-oo0oo-~

Word of your plight has reached Elrond. At the steps of the Last Homely House, he stands like a coiled spring, his outer robes stripped, outwardly showing naught but a healer’s concern. Those who understand him know it is all he can do not to run to the litter. He calls back to the attendants to get the doors open and clear the path, listening as Elladan pants out your condition. Elrond nods and clasps your hand, walking beside the litter. “All will be well, child, relax.”

“…Ada,” you murmur weakly.

Elrond doesn’t take his eyes from you as he dictates ingredients for a tisane. I recognize some of the herbs; he wants you asleep for the work he needs to do. One healer melts away from the group, heading toward the apothecary.

The others seamlessly transfer you from the litter to the table, and we step back.

Now, three elves who love you stand helpless, watching, while a fourth strives to save your life.

- to be continued

This house is so quiet.  Many beings visiting this riven dell have called it peaceful.  I suppose if one has naught to cause anxiety or guilt, it could be called peaceful…

Ever have I hated this time, when  I am forced to live with the noise in my mind, when I cannot find solace in sleep and the quiet offers nothing to distract me.  After Naneth sailed, I found myself on the training grounds at this time of night when unable to find my rest, practicing form after form after form; my long blade slicing and rippling through the air was the only sound heard through the silence of Imladris.  Sometimes, especially early on, Elrohir would join me; eventually he gave up, realizing he could not help me.   

Valar!  I rest my head wearily in my hands.  It was my responsibility for choosing the route when Naneth was captured, and the orcs… I clench my eyes shut, trying to close out the image of her battered broken body in that vile, disgusting den.  It was my responsibility this time, as well.  Oh, Estel!  Why?  You know the doom that rests upon you!  How could you endanger yourself?  You know what is at stake!  How could you be so reckless?  So thoughtless?  So utterly –”

  “...not… your fault…”

My eyes are blinded with scalding tears as I reach a shaking hand to clasp yours.  Your pulse is weak, but there.  You had a hard time through the surgery, but when all was said and done, and Ada had repaired your leg, your valiant heart still beat.   Your face is chalk-white with pain and weariness, your eyes not entirely focused as you struggle to speak to me.  “Estel…”

“… so thirsty….”

I pour a small glass of water and slip my arm behind your shoulders, easing you up enough to sip some.  “Slowly, tithen gwador,” I murmur gruffly as the liquid eases your parched throat. 

“…’Dan… listen….”

“Hush, now.  No talking, young one,” I say firmly.  “Adar said you must rest.”

I am appalled to see frustrated tears gather in the corners of your eyes.   Then you gasp, your body tensing, your breath hissing as you are washed in a wave of awful pain.  Immediately, I am beside you in the bed, trying to avoid jarring the heavy, large bandages around your thigh, attempting to send you healing energy.

“Shhh…” I soothe.   “Easy… breathe through it….”

Finally you relax again as the wave passes, and you sag, exhausted, in my arms.

“… Estel… why?” I whisper, rocking you gently.  “With so much at stake… Sauron… the throne… Arwen!  Why did you do it?  Why did you step between me and the boar?”

Trying to smile, and failing miserably, you weakly clasp my hand.  “… No choice… others… too far…. away…   You’re m’big… brother…”

I gather you close and gently support you, my cheek on your hair, letting you rest against me.  You doze off again, thankfully unaware of my tears.

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em, drat it. Many thanks to Professor Tolkien for creating these wonderful souls to populate my imagination.
BETA:  The lovely and incomparable Cairistiona.  Thanks for the catch, madame!  Well done.

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This week, I’ve watched you from Ada’s window across the courtyard.  You rest, healing slowly, on the couch on your balcony, gazing in silence at the way the sunlight through the trees dapples a pattern on the walls.  It is peaceful; there are noises of warriors training out on the field, the telltale clang! of sword meeting sword… the  thwack! of an arrow sinking into a target.  These sounds offer counterpoint to the silence, but you pay them no heed.  Not at this time of day.  No, at this time of day, your ear is attuned to steps in the hallway, stopping before your door …

It is a different look in your eyes than when you’re waiting for one of the kitchen staff or even one of us, if we’re available, to bring you a meal.  Your appetite is much improved, and Metharad works hard to create wonderful things to tempt you to eat at the break of fast, and lighter, easier-on-the-stomach delicacies for evening.

It is a different look in your eyes than when Legolas or Elladan come in the evening to read to you or just chat, when you’re able to smile a little and perhaps play a game of chess, though your weariness begins to show before a game is halfway through.

It is a different look even than when Ada comes in with his harp.  You love those times!  Your weary eyes shut and you smile in pleasure as the music helps transport you away from your sickbed, at least for a little while…

There it is.  There is the look.  You have heard the steps stop before your door and the look has settled in your eyes.  Ada has arrived to work with you on the exercises necessary to stretch and condition your torn muscles.  The wound from the boar was close to the knee joint, and your body, in trying to heal itself, created connective adhesions, protecting the leg from moving.  Your body did its job well…too well. 

Now, Ada, Glorfindel and others must work with you each day for an agonizing fifteen to twenty minutes, putting you through sharp misery as the adhesions are stretched and broken to allow free movement once again in the joint. 

Oh, my poor little brother!  You face your “helpers” with such courage as they come in, but from my perch I see that look in your eyes when they knock upon the door, the look that is hidden and covered by the time they reach you. 

You know what is coming.  You know the fiery agony you will feel during treatment, the soul-sapping ache for hours afterward.  That is my time… holding you -- shaking, sweat-soaked -- sometimes supporting your head and holding back your hair for you when you are overwhelmed with nausea from the pain … sometimes gently massaging the muscles to ease the cramping… sometimes just cradling you while you weep with weariness and exhaustion. 

The look in your eyes?  It is dread. 

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em, drat it. Many thanks to Professor Tolkien for creating these wonderful souls to populate my imagination.

________________________________________

At your door, I observe you painfully struggle to force your injured leg to do more than it can at this moment.  You are a healer; you know that you cannot force flesh, bone and sinew to work before they are ready.  In my position, you would have chided your patient, counseled patience.

But I am both your healer and your father.  I know you very well.  I know it is more than impatience that drives you.

“Estel, the leg is not responding because the nerves have not yet healed.  You know this,” I say calmly as I walk in.  You sink back into your overstuffed chair, slapping its arm in frustration.  “Why should your body be any different than any other Dúnadan’s on the mend?”

“It’s taking too long!” you growl.  Your lips form an angry line and you will not meet my eyes.  Patiently, I wait.  You have been glowering and growling and snapping at everyone all day, and it is only a matter of time before one of us manages to anger you enough to lash out at us with what is truly bothering you.

“Nay, child,” I answer, with just the right amount of annoying parental condescension, “it is taking exactly as long as it supposed to.”

“It wasn’t ‘supposed to’ happen at all!” you thunder.  “My people need their leader to be whole and healthy!  And he is not!  Why?  Because he chose to play a fool!  To forget his responsibilities!  To put aside everything at stake!  To play at … at… “  You sputter, frustrated, unable to put into words the shame that has tormented you these long weeks of recuperation.

“At being a human being who suffered an injury in a hunting accident,” I finish for him gently.  “Who allowed himself to be a beloved brother and cherished friend, as in his youth.”  I tilt my head as you breathe heavily, struggling to come to terms with what happened to you.

Finally, you sag in surrender, covering your eyes with a shaking hand.  I gingerly perch on the arm of your chair and stroke your hair.  I think for a moment, then I speak, softly, rubbing light, soothing circles on your back… they way I did when you were too old to take in my lap yet too young not to show soothing and love.  “Estel, ion nîn… here, at this moment… with me… you need not be Chieftain of the Dúnedain.  You need not be Isildur’s Heir.  Here, you are Estel Elrondion.  And you are free to show your frustration and anger in any way that comforts you.”

I watch the fragile balance tip… You draw in a great shuddering breath, and I deliberately weight those scales in favor of a loving father who knows his child.  I lean forward, kissing your head.

A strangled sob chokes from your throat and you turn blindly toward me, and allow me to gather you in my arms, sobbing as if your heart will break.

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em, drat it. Many thanks to Professor Tolkien for creating these wonderful souls to populate my imagination.

________________________________________

Iridescent sunlight bathes Imladris in a relaxing glow. You are so grateful to be able to hobble along on your own, gently exercising your leg on the soft, supple grasses of your childhood home. How I wish you had enough ties to your Sindarin blood to hear the trees welcome you! The little one is up again! they call to each other.

“You needn’t waylay yourself any longer for me, my friend,” you say quietly, as you carefully navigate the path. “I know you to be needed in Mirkwood, and …. pleasanter places await you.” A brief sadness touches your eyes, but you quickly offer me a wry smile. “Others can … ‘exercise’ me.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Your bloodlines are good, Dúnadan, but I’m not sure Glorfindel would put them on a par with Asfaloth’s,” I note dryly.

You laugh; it is good to hear a real laugh. You’ve had so few in these last months! Though your strength and fortitude are formidable, your wound became infected, and your recovery delayed. Your frustration with yourself was painful to watch… and to experience! One afternoon the pressure seemed to ease, almost as quickly as the infection that bubbled from the lanced wound a few days earlier. Elrond would never say what had transpired between you two that day; his enigmatic smile was all your brothers, Glorfindel, Erestor and I were granted, and with that we had to be content.

I think I know what is on your mind today. There has been much talk in the Hall of Fire these last nights of the Shadow enveloping Arda. The sometimes light-sometimes serious debate among Elves about sailing before war comes. I see in your eyes the sadness of knowing you might be left behind if the Elves choose Valinor’s peace over Arda’s conflict.

I turn to you, my hand gently stopping your advance, and you guiltily look away. “Aragorn.”

Swallowing hard, you master your emotions and look at me.

“Hear me, Mortal.” I rest both my hands your shoulders, looking deeply into your eyes. “I will not leave you. I will not leave until you are healed and safely with your people in the North. I will not leave you until you have conquered your enemies, claimed your beloved and fulfilled your destiny. I will not leave before your sorry buttocks sit on the throne of Gondor and Arnor.” I rest my right hand on my heart and gently bow toward him. “I will not leave you, Elvellon. I will not sail until your feet no longer walk upon Arda, and your heart no longer beats. This is the promise of Legolas Thranduilion.”

Your silver eyes become glassy and you reach out a hand, gripping my shoulder. “Le hannon,” you whisper. One tear escapes. You draw in a shaky breath, wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, and draw in a deep breath.

Slowly, carefully, we begin the journey, starting with the return to the Last Homely House.

THE END