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Elf, Interrupted: Book One: Glorfindel Redux  by Fiondil

52: Nightmare In Broad Daylight

When Finrod woke the next morning, he found a tabard draped over a chair. It was similar to the ones worn by the Lóriennildi, but where theirs were white with a rainbow embroidered over the left breast, his was a pale blue with a white stripe between two black ones along the hem. There was no insignia embroidered on it. Obviously, he was meant to wear it and he was donning it over his tunic when Eärnur appeared at the entrance. His eyes widened at the sight of the tabard.

"I have never seen that particular tabard worn by any here," he said. "Apprentices normally wear a plain light blue tabard with no stripes and all are students of both Lord Irmo and Lady Estë. When you reach Journeyman stage, you are chosen by one Vala or the other and continue your studies under them. Those chosen by Lady Estë wear light blue tabards with a single purple stripe along the hem and are known as Estenduri. When they have achieved Master status they wear a purple tabard with the Lady’s insignia of the harp. Those chosen by Lord Irmo have a single white stripe along the hem, like the one I am wearing." He pointed to his own tabard. "Eventually, I will win my Mastership and be allowed to wear the white tabard with my Lord’s insignia of the rainbow."

"What then is the significance of these stripes?" Finrod asked, pointing to the black and white stripes on his own tabard.

"I do not know," Eärnur answered. "I do not recall ever seeing anyone wearing such a tabard."

Finrod looked confused. "But I thought I was to be Lord Irmo’s apprentice."

"I have no explanation," the Teler said. "No doubt Lord Irmo will explain it to you in time. Come. Let us go find some breakfast and then I will tell you your duties."

So the two left Finrod’s pavilion and walked to a larger grove where a dining pavilion was set up for the elves who either served in Lórien or were guests. Those who were considered patients usually ate their meals at their pavilions. Finrod did not see either Manwen or Laurendil there.

"Lord Irmo may have decided that Lord Laurendil will be a patient first before becoming an apprentice," Eärnur suggested as he led Finrod to a sideboard. "Your friend seems very... reluctant to be here," he added diffidently.

Finrod grinned. "That’s putting it mildly." He paused, his expression sobering. "I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do for him."

"Mainly just listen," Eärnur said. "That’s usually the most important thing you can do, listen without judgment. As an apprentice, you would normally follow one of us Journeymen around as we perform our duties, but you would not actually do anything but observe." They found a place to sit and began eating. "I do not know exactly what Lord Irmo has in mind for you."

"It all sounds so..."

"Confusing?" the Teler grinned sympathetically, then froze as a horrendous scream ripped the air.

Finrod was out of his seat before anyone else had time to react and was already running towards the grove where the screams originated before Eärnur and a few other Lóriennildi had gotten outside. Finrod saw Laurendil running towards him from the opposite direction, his face white. Finrod noticed dimly that the other Noldo was not wearing a tabard.

"Aranya!" Laurendil shouted. "What was that?"

"Trouble. Come," Finrod ordered and led the way to a grove not far from where they stood. There was only a single pavilion in the grove and when they reached it they found nothing but pandemonium. Two elves wearing the white-striped blue tabards of Journeymen were attempting to pull an ellon with silver-white hair — Sinda by the look of his braids, Finrod noticed — off of another elf with the golden locks of a Vanya who wore the white tabard of a Master. The Sinda was doing a good job of choking him to death, screaming in a language none understood — none, that is, but Finrod and Laurendil.

Finrod never hesitated. He launched himself at the Lóriennildi and tried to pull them off the Sinda, shouting at the same time to Laurendil. "Laurendil, find a knife!"

"At once, aranya," Laurendil said with a nod and ran from the pavilion.

By now, Eärnur and the others had entered the pavilion. Eärnur grabbed Finrod by the arm. "What are you about, Findaráto? Leave this for those who know what they’re doing."

"Do any of you know what he’s saying?" he shouted above the screams of the Sinda. "Do any of you know what terrors he sees? Well, I do. Laurendil does. In this, I’m the only one who knows what he’s doing." He pulled his arm out of Eärnur’s grip and grabbed one of the Journeymen and pulled him off the Sinda, taking his place, pushing the other ellon out of his way. He did not try to release the Sinda’s death grip on the Vanya. Instead, he started to croon in Sindarin.

"Sîdh, sîdh, mellon nîn. Pen hen, ú-goth ho."

The two elves that Finrod had pulled off the Sinda started to pull him away as well. Finrod shrugged them off. "Stay back!" he shouted, his expression imperious. "Do not interfere in this."

One of the Journeymen sneered. "Who are you to issue any orders to us?"

"The King of Nargothrond," answered Laurendil firmly as he entered the pavilion carrying a sharp knife. He fell to his knees at the struggling Vanya’s head and showed the knife to Finrod. "Here, aran meletyalda. It is the sharpest one I could find."

"It’ll do, thanks," Finrod said. "The right shoulder. Make this quick." Laurendil grabbed the Vanya’s clothes at the shoulder and slit them with the knife, exposing his skin. All this time Finrod had kept one arm around the Sinda, pulling him back enough so that his hold on the Vanya was loosened somewhat. The Vanya had managed to hold the Sinda’s hands so that the pressure on his throat was not as great as it might be, but he was still gasping for air and would be passing out soon enough. Finrod spoke to the Sinda again. "Tiro, mellon nîn! iHereg dîn caran, ú-vorn." Then he spoke to the Vanyarin elf. "Forgive us, but this needs to be done."

With those words he nodded to Laurendil who forced the Vanya’s right arm down far enough to make a quick cut on the elf’s shoulder starting from just above the breastbone and moving back towards the shoulder itself. It was shallow enough that it would not require stitches later, but it was no mere scratch. The Vanya made a strangled sound of pain and went white. Red blood flowed quickly out.

Eärnur yelled and tried to take the knife from Laurendil. "Are you insane? What are you doing?"

"Saving a life!" Laurendil yelled back, shrugging the Teler away. "Now leave off!"

Then Finrod pushed the Sinda’s head down so he could see the blood welling from the cut, all the while continuing his crooning.

"Tiro, tiro, maethor veren nîn. iHereg dîn caran... caran!... ú-vorn. Ho edhel... edhel!... ú-orch."

Almost at once the Sinda calmed and released his stranglehold on the Vanya, shuddering and staring at the blood in wonder. Finrod gently pulled the now quiescent elf back into his embrace and moved off the Vanya to sit on the floor of the pavilion, the Sinda sitting in front of him.

"There now," he continued to croon softly. "That’s better. You had a bit of a scare, didn’t you? But it’s over with and you’re safe. See. No orcs. Only friends."

The Sinda looked around dazedly, taking in the shocked and angry faces of the Vanyar and Noldor surrounding him and cowered into Finrod’s embrace.

"Hush now," Finrod said. "No one will harm you. I give you my word."

"Y-you cut me!" croaked the Vanya in disbelief, attempting to sit up. Laurendil helped him.

"Oh, don’t whine," the former ranger said in disgust. "It’s barely a flesh wound. Here, let me look at it." He proceeded to pull the tabard, tunic and shirt off the elf who hissed in pain and then took the knife and cut a strip from the now ruined shirt to tie up the wound until it could be properly treated. "Honestly, I received worse falling out of a tree."

Finrod looked at his friend in amusement as he continued to hold the now quiet Sinda, stroking his hair. "When did you ever fall out of a tree?"

"You don’t want to know," Laurendil quipped. "The Wood Elves still laugh about it."

Finrod laughed lightly at that and was pleased to see a small smile on Laurendil’s face. He turned his attention to the Sinda. "Man eneth gîn, mellon nîn, hmm?"

The Sinda turned to look at Finrod, his eyes still haunted by the nightmare that had gripped him. "Mi-mithlas, hîr nîn. Im estannen Mithlas ed Lindon."

"Mithlas of Lindon. I am Finrod. This is Glorendil. Do you remember where you are?"

"L-lórien, my lord," Mithlas stammered, his eyes widening at Finrod’s name. "In Aman."

"Very good. Would you like to get up now?" Mithlas nodded and Laurendil stood up and gave the Sinda a hand, while Finrod managed on his own. The Vanya was still lying on the ground, now tended by his anxious Journeymen. His expression was grim as he looked up at Finrod.

"You have much to answer for, whoever you are," he said, his voice harsh and raspy.

"Oh, indeed he does, but not to you, Meneldil," came a calm voice from the entrance to the pavilion. All turned to see Irmo standing there and bowed, giving the Vala room as he came to the center. Irmo wore a knee-length light blue watered silk tunic trimmed with embroidered flowers and vines with breeches and shirt of palest green underneath.

As the Vala made his way past the crowd of elves, many had to look away, for Irmo’s eyes were dark with an unreadable expression. Only Finrod and Laurendil did not flinch when Irmo’s glance fell on them. Meneldil was helped to his feet by the two Journeymen. Irmo took in the scene, pausing to smile gently at the now embarrassed Sinda who could only stare at the ground while Finrod continued to offer him the support of an arm around his shoulders.

"A rather unorthodox method, to say the least," commented the Vala as he looked at Finrod, humor now glinting in his eyes.

"Unorthodox by the standards of Aman, no doubt," conceded Finrod with a nod. "All too common in Endórë, I’m afraid. Sometimes the nightmares would become so horrific only the sight and smell of red blood would bring the person out of it, and for some reason only the blood of the person attacked would do. Otherwise I or Laurendil could have cut ourselves instead."

"Did you ever experience..." Eärnur started to ask but could not continue, his expression still one of horror and dismay at what he had witnessed.

"Once," Finrod said grimly, his eyes dark and cold with memory, and no one ventured to ask him for the details.

"Well, the crisis seems to be over for now," Irmo said, nodding in satisfaction. "Meneldil, go to the healers and see to your wound. You, my young friend," the Vala said, turning to Mithlas with a gentle smile, "should clean up this mess you’ve made."

Mithlas just nodded, his eyes still on the ground and Finrod gave him a squeeze of encouragement. Irmo turned to the others. "The rest of you are dismissed. Findaráto, please come with me."

Finrod hesitated. "Mithlas shouldn’t be alone..."

"I will stay with him, aranya," Laurendil said. "We can talk about Lindon. Manwen and I lived there for several decades before deciding to travel east. We might even know the same people."

"That would be fine, Laurendil," Irmo said, his expression thoughtful. "Just don’t forget that you too are a patient for the moment. You still have your own healing to accomplish, but perhaps it can begin here with Mithlas. Eärnur, why don’t you remain here as well?"

"Yes, lord," Eärnur said quietly, giving the Vala a respectful bow.

With that, Irmo turned to leave. Eärnur gave Finrod a strange look and the Noldorin prince just shrugged, a wry smile on his face, as he followed the Vala out.

****

Estenduri: (Quenya) Servants of Estë. They perform a role similar to that of the Lóriennildi, who are charged with the healing of fëar and helping the Reborn, but they tend to deal with the hurts of the hröar. The singular would be Estendur (male) and Estenduriën (female).

Sîdh, sîdh, mellon nîn. Pen hen, ú-goth ho: (Sindarin) "Peace, peace, my friend. This one, no enemy (is) he."

Tiro, tiro, maethor veren nîn. iHereg dîn caran... caran!... ú-vorn. Ho edhel... edhel!... ú-orch: (Sindarin) "Look, look, my bold warrior. His blood (is) red... red!... not black. He (is) an elf... an elf!... not an orc". [Since caran is used here as a predicate adjective, it does not suffer mutation.]

Man eneth gîn, mellon nîn?: (Sindarin) "What is your name, my friend?"

Mithlas, hîr nîn. Im estannen Mithlas ed Lindon: (Sindarin) "Mithlas, my lord. I am called Mithlas of Lindon".





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