Healing Hope

Chapter Six

Hebo Estel – Have Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.
--Emily Dickenson

Elrond and Glorfindel were talking together in the first floor library when Elladan’s panicked shout pierced the quiet.  For one breathtaking moment their eyes met and then the two elves bounded from their chairs and ran for the hallway.  Elladan met them half way to the library, his feet sliding on the polished tiles as he halted his forward momentum.

“Ada, come quickly!  Celos is badly injured,” cried Elladan. 

“Celos?”  Elrond’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept his voice soothing for his excited son.  “Where is Estel?” 

“I do not know. We were searching for him when Celos and Celon emerged from the forest.  Ada, do you think that they were with Estel?” asked Elladan, dreading the answer, yet already knowing the truth of it in his heart.

Erestor, who had hurried from the second floor when he heard Elladan’s cry, joined the trio in the hallway.

Elrond turned to him.  “Erestor, Celos has been injured.” 

“Estel…” breathed Erestor, before he could stop himself.  The last thing he wanted to do was to add to the anxiety he could read in Elrond’s face, despite the calm veneer he presented. 

“Organize a search of the house as quickly as possible to see if Estel is inside.  I will be in the stables.  Notify me immediately with your findings.”

“I will gather the warriors,” said Glorfindel.  “Should the boy not be in the house we will be ready to search.  Elladan, show me where the stallions emerged.  It should be easy enough to follow their trail.”

O-o-O-o-O

Elladan’s cry had also roused Thranduil from his peaceful reverie on the terrace.  He quickly made his was back through the room.  Before he reached the door, Falathar burst in, his dagger drawn.

“Sire, are you well?” he questioned.

“Yes, Falathar.  The commotion is coming from the front of the house.”

“Stay here, sire.  Do not leave this room until I have I have ascertained the threat.”  If he noticed the slight intake of breath by his monarch, he gave no sign of it.

“I am perfectly capable of protecting myself, young one.” chastised the king.

“Please sire,” Falathar almost begged, “Let me do my job.”

“Very well,” agreed Thrandul reluctantly, a smile tugging on his lip.  Was he ever that serious? The young ones were always so earnest in the beginning, treating him as though he were made of egg shells. 

Falathar glanced around the room one last time and then exited to sprint down the hallway.  As he reached the front door, the royal guard began shrilling whistling the alert for the Mirkwood warriors. He would position two at the king’s doorway and two on the terrace.  Aye, what was it about this place? He was seriously considering never again allowing his king or the prince to visit Imladris!  “Ha,” he snorted to himself, “as though he could stop either one of those hard-headed elves from doing whatever they wanted.  And now I’m talking crazily to myself,” thought Falathar.

Thranduil frowned and walked back out onto the balcony to see if he could garner any information that way.  There was definitely no attack underway, for the trees were calm and bore him no warning.  The yards and hillsides were quiet as well, except for the scrambling of elven warriors to answer the whistled alert signals of Mirkwood and Imladris.  Of course, Thranduil found Mirkwood’s to be much more pleasing to the ear.  No doubt the Golden One has fashioned the Imladris call.

The king frowned as he thought about Falathar’s reaction again.  Perhaps it was time for him to show these young warriors just what mettle their king was made of.   Such was once his prowess in battle that he had been a legend during the war of the last alliance, but that was before his father and two thirds of Greenwood’s warriors fell.  After that his subjects, the warriors in particular, had begged him not to go into battle, a wish that was easily granted as it took all of his time just to lead the wood elves in rebuilding their shattered psyche and homeland.

Greenwood the Great was no more.  In its place was Mirkwood, a kingdom beset on every side by an evil which would give no quarter.  If it had not been for Thranduil’s force of will, most if not all of the wood elves might have chosen to sail after the disastrous losses.  But at great cost to himself, this beautiful being had put aside his own grief, buoyed his subjects, organized trade deal with humans – even though he distrusted and disliked them for good reason – and led Mirkwood back to being a formidable force in Middle Earth.

His warriors were the finest archers in all the world, the best at what they did, and they were always proud to prove it.  His own son was the best of the best.  Aye, his little Greenleaf!  How he wished that he could have given him a secure and happy kingdom in which to live as an elfling.  But it was not to be and he would waste no more time on wishes.  The best he could do was to insulate Mirkwood as much as he could from the outside world, praying that Legolas would not be drawn into the same alliances which had cost him his father.

Mirkwood became a world unto itself, drawn away from the elves of Lothlórien, Imladris, and even the Gray Havens.  The wood elves prided themselves on their independence and even on the fierceness with which they defended their kingdom from evil and outsiders alike.  None crossed into the realm without it being noted by the numerous and highly proficient scouts of Thranduil.

O-o-O-o-O

Elrond and Elladan entered the stables to find Aradol and Elrohir working over Celos.  The bloodied stallion was lying on a soft bed of hay near the front entrance of the stables.  His sides quivered as Aradol placed a warm woolen blanket over him to ward off shock.  Elrohir was cleaning the wounds and attempting to ascertain the extent of Celos’ injuries.  Two of the stable hands were holding lanterns close to illuminate the site.

“Let me see, Elrohir,” said Elrond as he kneeled beside his son.  He did not fail to notice the slight shaking of Elrohir’s hands, and paused to give him an encouraging smile, reaching out to surrounding his son’s fëa with his own to soothe and strengthen him.

The sounds of the gathering warriors could be heard outside as Glorfindel and Falathar organized their warriors, but inside the stables only the sound of the softly spoken voices and the panting of Celos were evident.  So quiet was it that the stable mouser could be heard meowing softly to her brood of kittens safely ensconced in their box inside Celos’ stall.

“You have done well, Ion nín.  Now, prepare a poultice of blackwort and honey, please.  We will apply that to the injuries on his legs.”  His very presence and the calmness of his voice eased all of the elves.

“What about the breast, Ada?” asked Elrohir, his voice steady as he drew strength from his father.

The gash to Celos’ breast was jagged, ugly and deep, but had not damaged any of his vital organs. The musculature of his breast was think and true. Had the boar been able to inflict the same damage to his soft underbelly, Celos would not have survived.  

Elrond felt gingerly around the gaping wound as he examined it for debris.  “It will need to be stitched.  Mix a mild poppy extract as well.  I will apply it to him before we begin.”  Elrond forced his mind to concentrate on the job in front of him.  As a healer he had learned to compartmentalize, and he utilized that skill now to close off the nagging worry for Estel.   Until he knew there was need for worry, it was a wasted exercise. 

Elladan had sunk down onto the hay beside Celos and was soothing his horse with long soft strokes to his neck as he listened to and watched his father work.  “My great beauty,” he crooned as he blinked back tears.  “What a fight you put up.”

Celos’ ear twitched as he heard his master’s voice.  He tried to lift his head to better see Elladan, only to have it gently pushed back down by the twin.  “Rest easy, old friend, you are in good hands.”

Erestor entered the stables at a dead run, his robes flapping around his ankles.  Had the circumstances not been so dire, Elladan would have found the sight to be amusing. 

“My lord, Estel is not in the house.  Glorfindel is preparing to lead out our warriors to search for him now.  Prince Legolas and a number of the Mirkwood warriors are making ready as well.”

His worst fears confirmed, Elladan’s eyes met his father’s, and the warrior in him took command.  “I am going as well.  Avo osto, Ada, I will find him.  Tell Elrohir….tell him hebo estel. I will find him.”  Rising gracefully, Elladan walked over to Celon’s stall.  The horse was still agitated, angrily shaking his head as he whinnied his displeasure. He had been kept back from his brother and it was not setting well with him at all.  He bucked and fought the stable hand attempting to hold him.

Elladan took hold of the stallion and led him - with some difficulty – past where Celos was being cared for and out into the yard.  “Come Celon.  You worry for your brother, as do I, but I need your help now.”

The horse reared his head in an attempt to go back to the stables.

“Daro, Celon,” commanded the twin.  “Lasto anim!”  Elladan pulled the horse’s head down to where they stood head to head and began to speak softly, almost prayerfully, to the stallion as he stroked his neck.  The stallion stilled, only the escaping breath from his flared nostrils giving testimony to his state of anxiety.  He nickered softly.

“Shhh, Sidh,” crooned Elladan.  “Ada will care for Celos, my friend.  Lead me to Estel.  Estel, Celon, take me to Estel,” he urged, as he jumped onto Elrohir’s mount.

Celon seemed poised for a moment as worry for his twin warred with his affection for the tiny human.  Then the great elven mount turned and began to lope off in the woods.  He would take Elladan to where they had done battle, to where they had last seen Estel.   

O-o-O-o-O

The moss covered log to which Estel had been clinging was still moving rapidly though the river.  It was difficult for the boy to hang on with just one arm, and several times he slipped under the muddy water as he lost his grip on the slippery surface. Each time he fought his way to the surface, coughing and gagging as he gasped for breath.  Finally, in desperation, his hand latched onto a twig protruding from the log.  One small green leaf clung tenaciously to the shoot as though life still might be possible in its future, and Estel hung just as tenaciously as well.

The child nearly lost his frantic grip when the log jerked almost to a stop as it was jammed momentarily against a small tree that had been snapped off by the raging water.  The sharp shards of its trunk stuck out of the swirling waters like twisted fingers reaching for the sunlight.  As it was, the sapling saved the boy’s life by snagging the log and diverting its momentum towards a pool of still water protected by a dam of flotsam caught in the trees.

It was just the break that Estel needed as he bit his lip against the pain and used the last vestiges of his energy to kick and maneuver the log towards the shore line.   Panting, Estel reached the land and let go of the log which had been his salvation.  He watched as it was snatched away as the dam of debris broke loose under the ongoing torrent.

Terrified he’d be pulled back into the waters he used his good arm gain a better hold on land.  He grabbed his broken arm and held it to his chest, groaning softly as he rolled over onto his back.  His legs were still partially submerged as he looked up at the sunlight filtering through the thick canopy of trees lining the shoreline.  Nothing looked familiar and he was sure he’d never been this far from home.

Estel lay that way for some minutes as he struggled to regain his breath and come to terms with what had happened to him.  Taking a deep shuddering breath, Estel began using his legs to push himself up the steep bank, tears of pain and frustration streaming down his scratched and bleeding cheeks.  The task seemed almost impossible as over and over his heels dug into the muddy ground and he moved upwards only to slip back again.  Each time he would slip almost as far back as he had managed to go forwards.  Slowly, painfully, the push upward-slide back motion began to pay off and the child was fully out of the water.

Estel glanced down at his arm and was horrified to see the shattered bone sticking through his skin. The horrific sight shocked him deeply and he could only turn his head quickly as he retched again and again.  Finally he lay panting, trying to fight off his pain and fear.  “U-awartha nín si erui, Ada.” 

Estel could feel his throat begin to spasm again and forced himself to take several deep, calming breaths as Elrohir had taught him to do when he was afraid. He closed his eyes tightly as he told himself over and over not to look at his arm.  Slowly the nausea, which threatened to overtake him once more, subsided.  But that small victory did not come without cost as his tiny body finally succumbed to the forces of shock and cold that his strength of will could not overcome.  As the sunlight above him narrowed to blackness, his last conscious thought was of hope…hope that his Ada and his gwadors would find him, and it was as though he could hear Elladan’s voice, “hebo estel.”

Translations:

Avo Osto: Fear not

Daro: Stop

Lasto anim:  Listen to me

Ion nín:  My son

Sidh: Peace

U-awartha nín si erui: Do not leave me here alone, Daddy